This road would have been dirt when Gio rode here, alone, on his small Honda. He would be coming home after days, or weeks, out visiting other remote parishes, unsupported, on his small red dirt bike. My heart is racing now, and my senses are on overload at the colors, the views, and the challenging ride. The sight of Christian and Will ahead brings us to a halt to check in with each other, and the smell from my brakes reveals the steep descent. I have no idea how many churches there might be in Carumas, if anyone will remember Father Gio, or how we might be received. Clearly, a troupe of Gringos in modern adventure gear on BMW motorcycles is not something that shows up regularly in these parts.