The notoriously inhospitable route between Chile’s Atacama Desert and Bolivia’s Uyuni salt flats has recently seen significant improvements. New lodges and guiding options are reimagining this rugged Andean journey. In the high-altitude Altiplano, Indigenous communities maintain a remote existence, and rare wildlife roams the barren mountain plateaus.
We left behind the trees as we ascended to Bolivia’s Altiplano—an environment too dry and windy for them to survive. Here, life has adapted to extract water and nutrition from over 4,250 meters above sea level, a feat trees have yet to achieve.
The landscape is strikingly surreal, with mountains appearing tie-dyed, psychedelic, and rainbow-colored. When we stop in our 4×4—its rear-view mirror finally still with a swaying cross and rosary beads—my Chilean guide Micaela Díaz points out that the valley we’re in is called the Salvador Dalí Desert. “It looks pretty strange, doesn’t it?” she says.
This is one of the initial stops on Explora’s newly redesigned route, La Travesía, which connects two of South America’s most extraordinary landscapes: Chile’s Atacama, the driest nonpolar desert in the world, and Bolivia’s Salar de Uyuni, the largest salt flat globally. The journey covers approximately 325 miles across what are essentially suggested routes in this high desert. We’re traveling by 4×4, with plans to stop at three new lodges built by Explora to break up the trip. The vehicle is equipped with spare fuel and tires, highlighting our off-road adventure.
The journey began a few days earlier in San Pedro de Atacama, a hub of desert tourism with an upscale Explora hotel on its outskirts. Each evening, the setting sun casts its rays across Licancabour volcano, creating stunning views as it turns the mountain a fiery red. The first time I witnessed this spectacle was in the summer of 2011, as a seasoned backpacker. At that time, my crossing from Chile to Bolivia was a budget affair; Explora’s route is vastly more comfortable and expensive, yet the harsh realities of this environment remain unchanged.
I’m traveling with Micaela—Mika for short—and Bolivian driver Silvio Huayca Ricaldi. Mika, part of the team that revamped the route, recounts our shared experience of the old backpacker journey. “It felt precarious, and there were no showers,” she recalls. “I remember how the soup saved my life one night at a cold refugio.”
Our adventure began with the intimidating El Tatio Geysers in Atacama. At lower altitudes, I had seen pampas grass swaying near a rare river, but here, the ground seemed to burn with heat from underground, creating columns of steam. Mika shared a chilling story of a Belgian tourist who fell into a boiling pit and was rescued with severe burns, reinforcing the need to stay at a safe distance.
After a few days, we crossed into Bolivia. The border was chaotic, with barking dogs, smoking guards, and a crowd of tourists. At Laguna Blanca, the first Bolivian stop, a lone Chilean flamingo initially regarded the tourists with curiosity before fleeing as they approached. I wondered if our journey would be marked by such tourist convoys, but Mika expertly ensured we avoided the crowds. As we drove through the Salvador Dalí Desert, we watched the other 4x4s disappear, leaving only their dust trails in the sky.
Remote roaming
Each evening, we plan the next day’s detours and activities, selecting the best picnic spots and strategizing how to capture the vast, dramatic landscapes on camera. The route is so remote that there are no significant towns along the way.
The lodges blend seamlessly into the grand scenery. Elevated on stilts to minimize environmental impact and staffed by local Indigenous workers, they offer a surprising level of comfort and luxury despite their rugged appearance from afar. After a full day of bumpy driving, we find that these lodges are far superior to any alternatives, providing excellent views across the Altiplano while leaving us only time for meals and rest.
One of the highlights of our journey is Laguna Colorada, a vast basin that dazzles with its vivid colors. The accumulation of minerals has given the lake an artist’s palette of reds, whites, and blues. Hundreds of James’s flamingos feed in its shallows, their pink feathers contrasting against the lake’s vibrant hues. Nearby, vicuñas—relatives of llamas and alpacas—add touches of orange and gold to the scene.
Since the 1960s, Bolivia’s vicuña population has rebounded remarkably due to successful conservation efforts. Once severely reduced due to hunting, their numbers now number in the hundreds of thousands across Bolivia, Chile, Ecuador, and Peru. Seeing these hardy animals thriving in the Altiplano seems almost miraculous, given the harsh conditions they face, from severe weather to predatory pumas. The water is often toxic, and the salty shrubs provide little nourishment. “They look cute, but they’re pretty tough,” Mika tells us. “We’ll see plenty of them as we go.”
Other wildlife have also adapted to the harsh environment. A few days later, our walk around Laguna Negra proves to be one of the trip’s highlights. The hike, which ends with Silvio waiting for us with a windswept lunch, showcases stunning scenery and diverse wildlife. We navigate spongy islands, spotting giant coots, Orinoco geese, and Puna teals. A prominent rocky outcrop ahead resembles Pride Rock from *The Lion King*.
“I heard they spotted an Andean mountain cat up here,” Mika says, her gaze fixed on the promontory. This elusive, thick-furred feline is one of the most endangered cats in the Americas, with declining populations in its native High Andes. “It’s a perfect spot for them—lots of hiding places and plenty of viscachas for them to hunt.” Mika has never seen one herself, but the trek continues with high hopes and keen eyes.
A blank space
From above, the Salar de Uyuni appears as a mist shrouding a valley, with the occasional peak piercing the blue sky. In reality, it’s a surreal expanse of thick salt crust covering a massive, briny sea of lithium. The mountaintops, which look like islands amidst the vast white sea, add to the eerie beauty of this remote landscape. The endless whiteness won’t dissolve like a gentle mist but remains a striking void.
As Mika sets up a picnic at the Pukara Chillima viewpoint, which overlooks the salt flats from a mountainside, I find myself at a loss for words. How does one describe such an otherworldly place? South America boasts many famous landmarks—Christ the Redeemer in Rio de Janeiro, Machu Picchu’s ancient ruins, and Torres del Paine’s dramatic spires—but the world’s largest salt flat is defined by its emptiness, a stark and profound void.
The salt crust is almost indescribably odd: it resembles old snow but is harsher and more unforgiving. The salt’s grip on my hiking boots is remarkable yet harsh. Millennia of evaporation have left behind hexagonal ridges on the surface, creating an otherworldly pattern like paving stones in an alien garden.
Sunsets on the salt flat are dramatic spectacles. Shadows stretch impossibly long across the white surface, casting an otherworldly feel. The last light of day catches the ridges, enhancing the polygons and giving them a kaleidoscopic effect. Explora has established its final lodge just outside the salt flat, on a peninsula with magnificent views over the ivory expanse. The far shore of the dry lake is nearly 80 miles away.
From the lodge, activities focus on immersing oneself in the void, following paths marked by black streaks—traces of rubber left by touring vehicles. On the southern shore, there are cultural experiences as well. One morning, we visit the Grotto of the Galaxies, a cave network discovered by corn farmers whose crops had struggled in the harsh soil. Doña Martha Lopez, the widow of one of the discoverers, now oversees the caves.
The first cave we explore contains chulpas—pre-Incan graves, sheltered from the wind but open-topped. “Most were empty except for some bones,” Doña Martha explains. “We started looking for offerings like necklaces but instead found peculiar shapes on the walls.” They dug deeper and discovered a second cave, revealing a labyrinth of petrified algae and porous rock that resembled tunnels dug by worms. Standing inside, the space feels both majestic and eerie.
Emerging back into the blinding expanse of the salt flat is almost a relief. For our final excursion, Mika has planned a hike up one of the 30 islands scattered across the ancient sea. Isla del Pescado is popular with tourists on budget tours from Uyuni town, but we venture to a less frequented island, where only massive cacti accompany us.
The climb is brief but challenging at an altitude of over 3,650 meters. At the summit, we rest and enjoy refreshments, with Silvio’s Lexus appearing as a tiny speck in the vast whiteness below. As I take a photograph, I momentarily lose focus, unsure if it’s the camera or my own eyes struggling with the dazzling environment.