Take a trek back in time on Panama’s Las Cruces Trail

We were like kids on a backyard campout. But instead of dragging mom's fabric-softened blankets onto a green grass lawn populated with garter snakes and lightning bugs, three of us trekked the 50-mile distance of the Las Cruces treasure trail. We trekked this 50-mile 16th-century route of the Spanish Conquistadores from the Pacific Ocean, through a rain forest, across the Continental Divide, and finally to Pinas Beach on the shores of the Caribbean Sea.

The Camino Real de Cruces trail was a 15th-century caravan route for mules lugging Inca gold, silver, and pearls to the king's galleons awaiting them at Nombre de Dios, Panama. Built around 1527, the cobblestone trail linked Panama Viejo to the Port of Venta de Cruces on the banks of the Rio Chagres River. From this port, South America's textiles, spices, gold, and silver were loaded onto ships sailing out the Chagres River, into the Atlantic waters, and onward to Sevilla, Spain.

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When the Spaniards imported African slaves to lay the cobblestone trail, they made one critical mistake: Enslaving African warrior stock, many of whom escaped into the jungle. One of them, the infamous Bayano and his band of renegades, delighted in capturing stragglers from the mule train, dragging the man yelling and screaming deep into a clearing in the rain forest, spread-eagling him on the ground. Finally, they poured molten gold down his throat. Some historians assert this cruelty was meant to cure the Conquistador’s thirst for gold.

Surprisingly intact after 500 years, the cobblestone trail begins on the outskirts of Panama City, on the Pacific side. Along certain stretches, you can run down the path. But more typically, it's rough-going through the triple canopy rain forest. Calf muscles grow weary from lifting the knees high enough to step over fallen tree trunks speckled with rubber trees' shiny, white sap. Then duck down low onto your haunches so the top of the pack frame clears the grabbing branches.

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Strung across the trail are wait-a-minute vines with their nasty reputation of looping around an ankle. You either wait a minute, shake off the vine, or rather unwisely yank your way through. Make that mistake, and you'll trip and fall on your face. To break your fall, the natural reaction is to reach out and grab the nearest tree. Invariably, a black palm. One of God's nasty creations, its trunk is porcupined with long, black needles that jab deep into fingers and palms and then break off flush with the skin. The next day, the sliver festers ugly and hurts. The jungle is very good at defending itself from mere humans.

In the stretch of trail where 170 inches of yearly rainfall has washed out the cobblestones, the going gets even rougher. You'll climb straight up and down the sides of the mountains, thick with trees, brambles, bushes, vines, and slippery rocks. It can take an hour to cover 100 yards on the map. Appetite fades. Sweating gallons, thirst becomes all-consuming. Our most precious commodities were water and quart cartons of pink lemonade we had backpacked in. We measured progress in gallons per hour.

Some stream beds crisscrossing the trail were as dry as a desert rock. Others flowed slow-moving, crystal-clear water with leaves floating lazily on the surface. Even though it looked pure, we boiled the water. Contrary to what you'd expect in the middle of a rain forest, nary a single mosquito buzzed our ears. This is because we trekked during February, which was smack in the middle of the dry season. That meant no big or small puddles of water for bug larvae to grow in. Another product of the dry season: The jungle was tinged brown instead of lush green.

We slept the first night on the side of a mountain, perched at a 45-degree angle. Bare feet braced against the tent floor, we fell asleep to the sound of coatimundi and peccary scurrying outside the tent. Every couple of hours, we'd groggily come to with our knees jammed against our chest, gravity having pulled us to the bottom of the tent.

During daylight hours, when taking numerous water breaks, we sat down with our backs against sky-tall trees and listened. Besides wildly colorfully feathered birds scolding our intrusion, we could hear the outside world. An unseen helicopter whop-whopped overhead. We could hear but not see it because of the triple canopy rain forest. Another aural landmark: The faraway whine of tires on a highway, the squeal of brakes followed by silence, then a big engine slowly running up through the gears. Perhaps a bus stopping to let off passengers? The highway traffic sounded deceptively close. After consulting our topographical map, we figured it to be the Boyd Roosevelt highway, some 10 miles to the north.

The jungle trail ends near the little town of Gamboa. At the convenience store, we filled our canteens and laid out a handful of Balboas for canned spam, bacon, cheese and fruit juices. The exchange rate is one U.S. dollar per one Panamanian Balboa. One remarkable refrigerator find was a flavorful and refreshing fruit juice known as maracuja. The manager, Alfredo, said maracuja was like a watermelon, only smaller, like lemons. Further north, in Canada and the United States, it’s known as passion fruit.

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Once provisioned, it was down to the water's edge to launch a prepositioned pair of six-foot inflatable boats and their two horse outboards. Our plan was as simple as salt. We lashed the two inflatables together for stability and comfort. We alternated turns at the helm. One steered, and the others applied a thorough coat of sunscreen, or wet a fishing line. Peacock bass bit shreds of fabric, beans, store-bought jigs, and sometimes a bare hook.

Transiting the middle of the Panama Canal, we shared the first few miles in a narrow cut with oil tankers, containerized freight ships, and tugboats. Some tugs slowed. Others didn't, throwing the throttle wide-open to throw a more significant wave. No problem. Just before the wake would have otherwise swamped us, we steered head-on into it. Once the turbulent waters calmed, we pointed the bow back on course.

When we turned the corner out of the Panama Canal into Gatun Lake, we bumped into a 20-mile-an-hour North wind. Big waves soaked our gear and filled the boats with buckets of water. We bailed with water bottles and baseball caps. Wind and waves slowed our progress to a crawl, two to three knots per hour. But the sky was clear and the sun warm. It was a good day to be out on the water.

Having burned daylight, we pitched camp on Barbacoa Island. The lake would be quiet for a long spell during the night, at least until the occasional tanker transiting the Canal rumbled past. Waves smacked the shore a few minutes later, perilously close to the campfire. At false dawn, we unzipped the tent, and I tiptoed to the water's edge. I stuck a wiggly foot in. The water felt comfortably warm. After a few moments, I ventured in deeper, up to my armpits. Gatun Lake holds some of the purest water in the world. I wiggled my toes, watching the sand cloud whirling at my feet.

After transiting the lake, we portaged a half-mile wide, well-manicured lawn down short, sandy bluffs and into the turbulent Chagres River. We drifted eight miles downstream to the Caribbean and Piñas beach. From the confluence of the mouth of the Chagras River and Piñas beach, we looked across the bay, viewing Fort San Lorenzo at the top of the 100-foot cliffs. Some of Sir Francis Drake's cannons still stand guard behind the remarkably well-preserved castle walls.

Come nightfall, we pitched our tent on the beach beyond the high water mark at the former site of Cruces City. During the California gold rush (1848-1855), 2,000 hookers populated Cruces, elbow to elbow with legions of would-be miners, sailors, criminals, saloon keepers, rum merchants, and cocoa-skinned natives, and yellow fever.

California 49ers used the Las Cruces trail as a shortcut to the gold fields. Despite the risks, the route was many weeks faster than sailing around Cape Horn. They made passage about a ship from New Orleans to Cruces City, then canoed up the mouth of the Chagres River near Panama City. There, they booked passage on a four-masted schooner bound for San Francisco.

Since then, Cruces City has fallen to dust. All we are is dust in the wind. Visit the place today, and you'll find a jungle, a magnificent beach, and sand fleas. Good to know if you're a swimmer, bull sharks and schools of big, fat tarpon lurk at the river's mouth. And finally, somewhere in the sand, you might find my Swiss Army knife. Should you find it, oil the hinges and think of those who have gone before you.