Viana Canyon
October 16-19. Approaching the canyon from the Southeast, we followed a tight sandy track that lead us into the ‘bottom’ of the canyon. Suddenly the land spread out before us with red rock walls towering over us like sentinels guarding the gates. Its the dry season, and the air thick with heat. The dirt beneath our wheels has turned to a fine, flour-like dust that hung in the air long after we passed.
What must be a lush, green corridor in the rainy season is now brittle and bare. The landscape stripped by the sun and grazing cattle. Worn rock walls rose in layered reds and creams, carved over millennia by wind and water. Once part of an uplifted plateau, these cliffs had been slowly sculpted into winding corridors and towering buttresses, edges softened by centuries of erosion. Today it’s a working farm, with canyon floor serving as pastures, but nothing is growing and the cows are skin and bone.
As we rolled through, cowboys on horseback and their dogs moved silently through the haze, gathering cattle. Their movements were unhurried and sure — part of a routine that has likely changed little in generations.
Canyon Camp
Turning down a rough track, we crept into one of the canyon’s narrow branches, looking for an out-of-sight camp for the night. We slipped through a gate that led us away from view. Settling into a small clearing between towering walls, it was only the birds who knew we were there. Still green, with no evidence of cows, it felt like we’d discovered a secret garden.
As the heat softened, parrots began to return home, swooping in small family groups, chattering as they settled into a tall tree across from us. For half an hour, they filled the air with their calls before slipping into their nesting holes tucked into the rock walls.
When darkness fell, the stars came out, twinkling against the deep black sky. The air was utterly still, the silence so complete we could hear our own breath. Best of all — no bugs! Proof they exist only to annoy humans!
Jaxon takes up photography
Jaxon has taken a liking to Tim’s under-used camera. Although the zoom is only a 300mm, he manages to snap some good photos of these gorgeous Jandaya Parakeets.
A different Dawn chorous
Sneaking out at dawn with hot drinks, we sat quietly, watching as the light crept into the canyon. Slowly, the walls began to glow. From the cliffs came the sound of movement — the parrots bursting from their cave nests, full of things to say. Circling above, they called out to others, meeting in the same tree until their flock was gathered, then off for the day — gone in a flash.
We lingered as long as we could, reluctant to leave, finally rolling out around ten. As we drove, the canyon widened until the walls gave way to open plains.
From Viana Canyon we had roughly 40 km of dirt road before we hit pavement — just long enough to fill up on diesel and grab lunch. Not far down the road, our turnoff led us down another washboard road that would shake us to the core over the next three days. Even though we’d aired down the tires to 52 psi softened the vibration, but didn’t save the exhaust from shearing off.
The mysterious ‘Fervedouros’ of Jalapão
We were headed toward fervedouros, a series of natural springs scattered across Jalapão, a vast and sparsely populated region of the Cerrado — Brazil’s central savanna.
These springs are pools of geological magic — pressurized groundwater rising through deep sand, creating bubbling pools where you can float effortlessly, suspended by the upward push of water.
Our first stop was Fervedouro Buriti, reached toward evening in 30-degree heat. The locals welcomed us warmly, and after a little friendly negotiation (as I always do), we got a reduced entry rate. Since we weren’t part of a tour group, they seemed genuinely happy to host us — and even let us camp overnight in their car park.
That night, under the stars, we sank into the clear, cool water. The sensation was surreal — the sand moved beneath us like a living thing, swirling and shifting as we floated, bobbing like corks.
The next morning we tested the water for fun: “1” on the purity scale — 99.9% pure. No wonder our hair felt so clean.
Early wake up
At dawn, roosters started to crow in the dead of night. I could have wrung their necks.
We took it slow that morning — coffee & schoolwork with a side of bird-watching. Green parrots squabbled in the mango trees heavy with fruit, while blue-and-yellow macaws flew overhead.
By mid-morning we bumped another 12 kilometers down the road to the next spring — deeper sand this time, tickling our legs as we waded in. Tim dove under, disappearing completely in a cloud of suspended grains.
The site was beautiful but busy — we only had 25 minutes before the next group arrived, enough to enjoy the magic before moving on.
The Long Road Out
Our route toward pavement stretched on — 110 kilometers of rough red dirt, deep sand, and every kind of washboard imaginable. Some sections we could skim across quickly; others were sharp, bone-shaking, or so uneven we crawled along at walking pace. The views stretched endlessly — horizon after horizon, each one revealing the next in every direction. Out here, the scale of Brazil humbles you; it’s impossible not to feel small.
Riverside camp
We passed several 4×4 tour vehicles ferrying tourists around the park, their drivers thrashing the SUVs through the dust. The road tested us too — the tires we’d deflated earlier now had developed two slow, now increasing leaks.
At last, around 4 p.m., we reached a tiny riverside community. Everywhere we go, there seems to be a fee to access the river. But down a side road, Tim found us a quiet spot instead. As I wandered off bird-watching, an older man on a motorcycle stopped by, clearly unhappy with our presence — until I joined the conversation. A smile, a few kind words, and some compliments on his beautiful land softened him completely. He welcomed us to stay, assuring us it was peaceful here.
And it was. We slid into the river — the cool water delightful, cooling our cores while little fish nibbled at our feet.
diesel and dust
Fuel was another worry. With only 110km to the next town, we weren’t sure we had enough diesel. In the morning, we drained the rear tank into the front, collecting fuel in a 5L water bottle and pouring it in by hand — a messy job, diesel running down Tim’s arms and all over my hands. We guesstimated we’d moved about 26 liters and hoped it would be enough. Before leaving, we reinflated the tires, crossed our fingers, and hoped we’d make it to the next gas station before running dry. I love off-roading, but I’d had enough. It was exhausting for everyone and brutally hot.
please, no more dirt roads!
We passed several 4×4 tour vehicles ferrying tourists around the park, their drivers thrashing the SUVs through the dust.
The road tested our resolve, but really, there was no alternative. The first 65km was a repeat of yesterday’s deep sand and varying ruts with washboard in between.
Cresting a rise, we spotted a road-grading crew ahead — a miracle! For a moment, we wondered if it was a mirage, or maybe we were hallucinating. But no, it was real — and for the last 30 km, we cruised along freshly smoothed, watered track, like gliding on air. We were flying at 70 km/h. When the pavement appeared at last, we all cheered.
We coasted into the gas station just as the needle rested on empty. Running out of fuel out there could have meant being stranded for days. Bruce sounding different, burly, the exhaust pipe hung broken, but we were too tired to care.
Pavement never felt so good — even the rough Brazilian kind.
Ahead lay another river town, where locals were swimming and leaping from the bridge. We joined them; Jaxon, blonde and sun-tanned, took the plunge too, to the surprise and cheers from the other lads.
Rolling through town, we heard before we saw it — the back of a pickup truck filled with speakers, blasting music.
A man riding a cow, that identified as a horse, and a roadside fire that forced us to drive farther that night than we’d planned, just to get clear of the smoke.
Turning down yet another… dirt road, we found a farm where the cows were the only ones around to ask, they assured us it was safe enough to camp for the night. Last photo is of the broken exhaust pipe.
And once again, Brazil had shown us its vastness, hidden beauty, and its big wild heart.