May 2024: Return to Chiapas
A Birthday Journey into Mexico’s Wildest Jungle Canyons
Chiapas has it all. It’s one of the most diverse and untamed states in all of Mexico—a vast, rugged land where Pacific coastlines crash into misty mountains, cloud forests give way to limestone canyons, and the largest rainforest in North America, the Lacandón, stretches deep into the unknown. It’s also home to 13 indigenous tribes, many of whom are descendants of the ancient Maya, whose ruined temples still lie hidden beneath layers of jungle and time.
Of all the places in Mexico I’ve explored, Chiapas holds a special grip on me. This was my second trip, drawn back by the region’s Mayan mysteries, biodiversity, and sheer raw wilderness. Few places in the Western Hemisphere offer such vast, unspoiled territory—places where jaguars still roam, where rivers carve hidden cathedrals, and where the people who live there have been guardians of the land for centuries.
Then and Now: From the Lacandón to the La Venta River
Back in 2015, I trekked into the Lacandón jungle, camping on an island in a remote lagoon, beside an unexcavated Mayan pyramid, still cloaked by jungle vines. It felt like time travel—a portal into a forgotten world. Ever since, I’ve wanted to return and go deeper.
This time, for my birthday weekend, I booked a last-minute trip with two close friends—Sterling and Jimmie—to explore another of Chiapas’s great wilderness regions: the La Venta River canyon and the jaw-dropping Arco del Tiempo (Arch of Time), one of the largest natural river caves in the world.
The journey would take us deep into the Selva el Ocote, a highland rainforest of sheer cliffs, underground rivers, and hidden wildlife. Like the Lacandón, this region is still protected by indigenous communities, who act as stewards of their ancestral lands. These are some of the last truly wild places left in Mexico, and we were about to step into them.
Location of Arco del Tiempo
About Arco Del Tiempo
The Arco del Tiempo: Where Rivers Disappear into Stone
Arco del Tiempo—The Arch of Time—is a natural marvel unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Though often called an arch, it’s more accurately described as a massive river cave, and by most accounts, it’s the largest natural arch in the world. Hidden deep in Chiapas’s Selva El Ocote, it feels more like a portal to another world than a tourist destination.
The La Venta River, carving its way through the rainforest, disappears beneath a cathedral of limestone, flowing silently through the cave for hundreds of yards before emerging back into the open canyon beyond. Standing at its mouth, you don’t just see the river—you feel time itself. Water has been flowing here for millennia, carving away at stone, slowly creating a natural wonder so vast it swallows light.
A Wilderness Stronghold
Discovered by outsiders only in 1989, Arco del Tiempo is still relatively unknown—but that’s changing. In recent years, it’s begun to attract trekkers, river rafters, and off-the-grid adventurers who are drawn to its remoteness and raw power. Yet it remains protected by its inaccessibility: reaching it requires a multi-day journey through remote mountain trails, dense rainforest, and indigenous lands that have changed little in generations.
The arch sits within the Selva El Ocote, a region of limestone mountains, cloud forests, and underground rivers. This is one of the last strongholds for jaguars in Mexico, a biological refuge where nature still rules and the human footprint remains faint.
Coming here isn’t just about seeing something spectacular—it’s about immersing yourself in one of the wildest corners of North America.
Getting to the Trailhead
Into the Heart of Chiapas: Reaching the Edge of the Unknown
There are two ways to reach Arco del Tiempo, depending on how much time—and nerve—you’ve got.
The first is the most adventurous and immersive: a weeklong rafting expedition down the La Venta River, traveling through deep canyons and pristine rainforest, navigating rapids and camping in the wild. The second, faster (but still rugged) option is to drive to the small indigenous village of Lázaro Cárdenas, perched on the edge of the rainforest, and then hike in with local guides.
For this trip, I chose the second route—trekking in and camping overnight at the arch.
The Road to Lázaro Cárdenas
To begin the journey, I flew from Tijuana to Tuxtla Gutiérrez, Chiapas’s steamy capital city. But I had no interest in staying in the hot, industrial sprawl of Tuxtla, so instead, I based myself in the cooler, high-altitude colonial town of San Cristóbal de las Casas—a city founded in the early 1500s, with charming Spanish architecture, great food, and lively indigenous markets bursting with color and craftsmanship. It was the perfect launching point.
From San Cristóbal, we left in the pre-dawn darkness, winding through the fog-choked mountain highway that connects San Cristóbal and Tuxtla. Even in clear weather, it’s a white-knuckle drive, with steep embankments, hairpin turns, and drivers who barrel through blind curves with terrifying confidence. In the thick morning fog, it felt like driving through a dream—or a warning.
Village Hospitality at the Edge of the Wild
We reached Lázaro Cárdenas by late morning, the fog lifting just as the road gave way to forest and farmland. The village was a cluster of simple dwellings scattered along dirt paths, where chickens roamed freely, and mountains loomed in every direction. There’s no cell service here—just one shared Wi-Fi router, jointly used by a few families, and only recently introduced.
We were welcomed into our guide’s family home, a windowless adobe structure with packed dirt floors, open fire cooking, and the kind of warmth that has nothing to do with electricity. His wife prepared a generous breakfast of fresh eggs and handmade tortillas cooked over an open flame, and we drank coffee brewed from beans grown in their own field.
As we ate, dogs slept under the table, and a newborn baby crawled across the floor, cooed over by her mother and the rest of the extended family. In places like this, people still grow most of what they eat, and life moves with the seasons. It was a humbling reminder of how much knowledge and richness exists in simplicity.
The Hike Begins
From the village, it’s about a five-hour hike to reach the bottom of the canyon, through steamy rainforest, slippery slopes, and thick vegetation. The final descent—a sheer 100-foot drop to the riverbed—can only be done by rappelling with a rope. During the rainy season, the trail becomes too muddy, the rappel too dangerous, and the river too swollen for safe passage. But in the dry months between January and June, it’s possible to reach the bottom and even camp beneath the arch.
This was the plan—and standing at the trailhead, with the jungle ahead and the unknown below, I could already feel the wild pulling me in.
Fresh tortillas made in the kitchen over an open fire stove
Sterling and Jimmie eating eggs with tortillas and frijoles
Into the Jungle: Hiking Through Mayan Ghosts and Rainforest Giants
We began our hike from Lázaro Cárdenas walking through a patchwork landscape of agricultural fields and scattered forest, where corn stalks swayed beside clusters of banana trees and farm dogs barked lazily from distant huts. As we approached the boundary of the forest reserve, the change was instant. The canopy closed in, the air grew heavier, and we were suddenly enveloped in primary rainforest—thick, towering trees dripping with vines, the air alive with the calls of parrots and the occasional screech of unseen birds darting through the green.
Our guide walked confidently ahead, machete slung at his side, and casually mentioned that monkeys are common here—although none crossed our path that day. Then, with a smile and a glance over his shoulder, he added:
“There are jaguars in this forest too. I’ve seen them a few times before.”
His tone was calm, almost proud, like someone talking about neighbors.
Walking Through the Maya
This forest, dense and untamed, was once part of the world of the ancient Maya. Our guide explained that the local people are descended from them, and that ruins are still scattered throughout the jungle, some buried entirely beneath trees and moss, still untouched by archaeologists.
As we hiked, we passed several mounds of limestone, overgrown and half-collapsed. They might have been just natural formations—or perhaps crumbling remnants of temples or ceremonial platforms. In another moment, in another trip, I might have stopped to investigate. But the heat, humidity, and the sheer effort of the hike kept us focused. The jungle held its secrets close, just out of reach.
Heat, Humidity, and the Strain of the Climb
Despite the elevation, the trail was brutally hot and humid, the kind of weather that drains your energy from the inside out. We climbed and descended hill after hill, the path slick from old rains and covered in loose rock. Sweat soaked through our clothes, and every gulp of water from our packs felt like liquid gold. There were no water sources along the trail, so we had to carry every drop from the village—planning carefully to ensure we had enough for the entire trek in and out.
At the trailhead, we’d picked up walking sticks—rough, hand-cut poles of local wood. They turned out to be invaluable, especially when we faced the steeper sections, where the trail tilted sharply downward and the mud threatened to take your legs out from under you.
The jungle was relentless but beautiful—an orchestra of insects, distant birdcalls, and creaking trees, all layered over the rustle of our footsteps. We were sore, sweating, and sun-drenched, but with each step, we were closer to something few people ever get to see.
We were walking deeper into the wild. Toward the river. Toward Arco del Tiempo.
Hike through the forest over old tangled roots and sharp limestone rock
The Jungle is Their Classroom
Growing Up Tough in the Rainforests of Chiapas
One of the most memorable parts of our trek wasn’t just the jungle or the views—it was the company. Our guide had brought along his two sons, ages 11 and 5, to assist him on the journey. In the U.S., kids that age might be at home glued to a tablet, swaddled in the comforts of modern parenting. But out here in the Selva El Ocote, they were already part of the family business—not someday, but now.
The 11-year-old, quiet and composed, was more man than boy. He took the reins of the family horse, walking it along the first stretch of trail as it carried our gear. Later, when the terrain grew steeper and more treacherous, he shouldered the load himself, portering equipment over slippery hills like a seasoned jungle trekker. He never once complained, moving with purpose and pride, already molded by the demands of the environment he was born into.
His 5-year-old brother was just as impressive in his own way—a bundle of energy, curious and quick on his feet, clearly eager to prove himself. He climbed and rappelled on his own, never needing a hand, and even managed the descent to the river with the confidence of someone three times his age. But he was still just a kid, and at one point on the hike out, he began to cry, holding his stomach and lagging behind.
His father didn’t coddle him. There were no soothing words or gentle pats.
“Stop faking,” he said flatly, gesturing for the boy to keep moving. “Walk.”
And the boy did.
Different Worlds, Different Lessons
It was a moment that stood out—not in cruelty, but in contrast. Where I come from, kids are protected, sometimes to the point of fragility. But here in the Chiapas highlands, resilience is taught early, because life demands it. There are no shortcuts in the jungle, and children become capable not by chance, but by necessity.
Watching those boys move through the forest—barefoot at times, guiding animals, climbing ropes, hauling gear—I couldn’t help but feel a quiet respect. These weren’t just helpers. They were the next generation of stewards of this land, learning every turn of the trail and every bend of the river by heart.
Jimmie and our guides 5 year old son
The Rope Section
First Glimpse of the Arch of Time
A Vertical Drop Into the Sublime
After nearly an hour of descending on foot through slippery switchbacks and tangled rainforest, we reached a rocky outcrop—and there it was: Arco del Tiempo, sprawled out beneath us like some ancient, mythical gate. From our perch, about 100 feet above the riverbed, the view was jaw-dropping. The La Venta River shimmered below, winding gently into the dark, yawning mouth of the cave—a limestone cathedral carved by water and time.
The canyon echoed with the sound of rushing water and distant birdsong. Mist rose from the jungle like incense, and for a moment, we just stood there, silent, breathless, staring into the vastness of it all.
The Descent: Ropes, Rock, and Raw Hands
Our guide moved quickly and confidently, setting up the rappel ropes with the kind of ease that comes from doing this a hundred times. The descent itself was straightforward and fun—a vertical drop with spectacular views the entire way down. I found myself grinning the whole way, the adrenaline mixing with awe as I stepped backward over the edge and slowly lowered myself into the canyon.
But of course, what goes down must eventually come back up—and that’s when the fun started to fade.
The ascent was brutal, and I had made a rookie mistake: I forgot gloves. The coarse, dusty rope ripped at my palms, and within minutes my hands were raw, bloodied, and burning. Every pull upward was a test of grit, every pause an opportunity to consider how stupid it was not to pack better. By the time I reached the top again, I was exhilarated and completely wrecked.
It was a humbling lesson in adventure travel: the rainforest doesn’t care if you’re underprepared—but it will make sure you remember.
Video of Jimmie making the ascent up the cliff the next morning
Inside the Arco
A Night Beneath the Arch
Solitude, Stars, and the Last Breath of the Dry Season
While it’s technically possible to hike in and out of Arco del Tiempo in a single day, I knew that doing so would leave me exhausted, sore, and most importantly—robbed of the full experience. There’s a special kind of magic that unfolds only when you sleep under the stars, and I wasn’t about to miss it.
So we brought our gear, made the descent, and set up camp by the river, beneath the towering cliffs and the echoing mouth of the arch. We had the entire place to ourselves.
Timing Is Everything
Despite being “discovered” as recently as 1989, Arco del Tiempo has started to catch fire in the adventure travel world—especially among Mexican trekkers. Instagram has helped fuel the buzz, transforming a once-hidden marvel into a bucket-list destination. Our guide mentioned that just the night before, a large group of hikers had camped in the area—too many to fit comfortably by the river, forcing some to bivouac higher in the canyon.
We, however, had arrived in perfect timing: the last week of the dry season, just before the rains would close off access. He warned us that soon, the river would rise, making rappelling impossible and camping dangerous, and the trail would become slick with mud, sometimes impassable. But then he grinned and shrugged in that familiar Mexican way, adding:
“You could hike down in July if you really wanted. That’s the official rule, but… well, this is Mexico.”
It was classic—regulations on paper, and realities on the ground. Out here, judgment and local knowledge often matter more than posted dates.
A River of Silence
As evening fell, the jungle around us softened into a hum, and the La Venta River flowed gently, like a whisper in the canyon. The cliffs glowed amber with the last rays of sun, and the entrance to the arch darkened into a shadowy cathedral.
There were no crowds, no voices, no cell service—just the river, the rainforest, and us. We boiled water, shared stories, and watched the sky fade from blue to black, stars emerging between the canyon walls, brighter than I’d seen in months.
It was the kind of silence you only find far from roads, far from crowds, and far from your old life. And that night, beneath the arch, it felt like time itself had slowed down—if only for one last, perfect breath before the rains returned.
View of the Arco from the bottom of the canyon
Swimming Into the Arch of Time
A Hidden World Beneath the Jungle
The canyon walls rose so steeply around us that even standing at the river’s edge, I couldn’t see the rim above. The jungle closed in tightly, its vines and trees gripping every available surface, as if trying to reclaim the gorge itself. Down here, everything felt distant—the village, the modern world, even time.
As soon as I unclipped from the rappel rope, my body aching from the hike and descent, I walked straight to the water’s edge and jumped in.
The La Venta River was cool and clean, a perfect relief from the thick heat of the day. I swam into the darkened mouth of Arco del Tiempo, letting the current carry me briefly beneath its massive limestone ceiling, into a place so quiet, it felt like entering a sacred space.
A Privilege Few Will Know
There was no one else around. Just me, my friends, the river, and the walls of the earth rising hundreds of feet above. For a moment, I just floated, staring up into the vast shadowed chamber, letting the cold water numb my tired limbs.
I felt small, and in the best possible way—utterly surrounded by wildness, by a beauty untouched by fences, signs, or crowds.
It felt like a privilege, one that so few people ever get: to stand inside a world this ancient and untouched, and to have it, even briefly, all to ourselves.
Entrance to the Arco
Sterling on top of a boulder insude the Arco
Sterling on top of a boulder inside the Arco
Relaxing in the Arco
La Venta River
Wandering the River’s Edge
Where Time Slows and the Wild Beckons
From our campsite beneath the Arco, I wandered upstream along the La Venta River, letting my feet find their own path along the stone-strewn shore, jungle to one side, water to the other. The air was thick with moisture and birdsong, and every step felt like moving through a forgotten Eden.
Around a bend, the river widened and grew more animated, bubbling over rapids and weaving between massive boulders. The jungle pressed closer again here, vines curling down from the trees like watchful sentinels. This quiet, hidden section—untouched, unspoiled, and entirely mine for the moment—became my turnaround point.
Beyond that bend, I knew there were more caves, more canyons, more secrets of stone and water waiting. The La Venta River continues carving through the wilderness, wrapping its arms around vast stretches of remote terrain that few ever see.
But time was short, and the jungle was patient. I stood there for a while, just taking it all in, knowing I wouldn’t reach the end of the river—but that wasn’t the point.
In places like this, it’s not about how far you go—it’s about how deeply you feel it while you’re there.
La Venta River
La Venta River
Camping
Campfire, Macaroni, and Moonlight Magic
Sleeping Beneath the Arch of Time
We pitched our tents on the soft river sand, which offered a scenic but imperfect campsite. Sand fleas were our main adversary—nipping at our feet anytime we stopped moving—but all things considered, the insect situation was surprisingly manageable for a rainforest canyon in Mexico. The river, clean and cool, quickly became our sanctuary. We spent hours swimming, floating beneath the towering cliffs, while our guides boiled river water for cooking nearby.
One of the unexpected highlights was when I **introduced our guides to that sacred American tradition—macaroni and cheese. They’d never heard of it. Somehow, I ended up doing the cooking, which felt comically out of character, given that I’m the furthest thing from a chef. But when the neon-orange noodles were done and served, they gave it a taste and—to my surprise and theirs—loved it.
No Rain? No Problem.
As night began to fall, I noticed something odd: the tents didn’t have rain tarps. I asked our guide about it, voicing a little concern about the ever-present unpredictability of rainforest weather. He just smiled and shrugged.
“No va a llover,” he said. “Y si llueve, dormimos en la cueva.”
“It’s not going to rain. And if it does, we’ll sleep inside the cave.”
Simple. Practical. Very Chiapas.
No Whiskey, But Plenty of Wonder
We realized too late that we’d forgotten to bring alcohol, a small but noticeable absence. A nip of whiskey would’ve made the perfect companion to this kind of night. Still, the canyon had its own intoxicants.
As the sun slipped below the cliffs, the sounds of the rainforest shifted—crickets, frogs, the flutter of unseen wings. And then came the fireflies. Dozens of them, blinking like tiny lanterns, drifting between the trees and above the sand. Magic, pure and simple.
But the real show came later.
A full moon began to rise over the canyon rim, climbing until it cast a concentrated beam of silver light directly onto the river and our campsite, so sharp and intense it looked like a helicopter spotlight cutting through the darkness. For a brief moment, I had the absurd but convincing feeling that we were about to be abducted by aliens. That’s how surreal it felt.
Then the moon climbed higher, and the light softened, spreading across the sand and water like a dream.
The canyon, already spectacular by day, had transformed into something enchanted. At night, beneath the stars, surrounded by fireflies and moonlight, it became something else entirely—a fairytale land, quiet and vast, like the jungle was whispering its secrets to anyone willing to listen.
We fell asleep with the sound of the river in our ears, under a sky so clear it felt unreal, wrapped in a night we’d never forget.
Campsite
Eating Mac n Cheese
Camping
Camping
The Climb Back to the World
A Birthday Worth the Bruises
The hike out hit hard right from the start.
The rope ascent back up the 100-foot canyon wall was far less forgiving than the descent. My rope tangled mid-climb, and as I fought to untwist it, my legs were scraped raw against the rock face, adding a few more souvenirs to take home. My hands, already battered from the rappel the day before, took another beating. The rope bit into my skin with every pull.
But slowly, steadily, and with more sweat than grace, I hauled myself up. When I finally crested the top, I felt a wave of relief, mixed with exhaustion and just a little pride. I had earned that view back over the canyon.
A Spring, a Village, a Farewell
At the top, we stopped at a small jungle spring, hidden just beyond the cliff edge. Using our filters, we purified the cold water and filled our bottles—a precious stash for the long hike back. Five grueling hours later, footsore and sun-drenched, we walked back into Lázaro Cárdenas, the same indigenous village where it all began just the day before.
We were welcomed like old friends. Our guide’s family served us another home-cooked meal: fresh eggs, handmade tortillas stuffed with frijoles, and lemonade made from the lemons growing just outside their door. No food had ever tasted better.
A Perfect Wild Birthday
From there, we loaded up the car and headed back through the mountains to San Cristóbal, where I spent one final night among its cobblestone streets, colorful markets, and cool highland air before flying home the next day.
The journey had been physically demanding, occasionally painful, and at times a test of will. But it had also been raw, real, and unforgettable—the kind of experience that reminds you what it means to be alive, and to celebrate another year on Earth in the company of good friends and untamed nature.
I couldn’t have asked for a better way to spend my birthday.
Scratched, sunburned, sore—and completely content.