Rivers, Roads, and Wildlife in Bolivia’s Most Remote National Park.
For decades, Noel Kempff Mercado National Park had lived in the background of my imagination. The name surfaced now and then in conversations about remote places—usually spoken with a mixture of excitement and logistical caution. Few people I knew had actually been there. The park sits in Bolivia’s far northeast corner, pressed against the Brazilian border and reached only after long days of travel by rough road and river.
That remoteness was part of the appeal. Eventually the idea stopped being something to talk about and became something to do.
Three months after the first serious conversations began, we were on our way.
A quick note of thanks to Ramiro, Ulises, Dario and the park’s current and former guardaparques, whose experience and generosity made this journey both possible and memorable.
Allow me to first introduce our team...
No expedition like this happens alone. The journey to Noel Kempff Mercado National Park began with companions whose paths had crossed mine long before the park itself entered the picture. Each brings a different set of experiences to the field—deep knowledge of Bolivia’s landscapes, practical problem-solving in remote places, and a shared sense of curiosity about the natural world.
Together we set out to explore a route into one of the most remote corners of the country, not only to understand its landscapes and wildlife, but to evaluate how future expeditions might responsibly reach and experience it. What follows is a brief introduction to the people who made that journey possible.
Michael Moretti – Expedition Co-Lead
My connection to Bolivia began early in life. I grew up in a U.S. Air Force family and spent part of my childhood in Spain, where I first learned Spanish. In 1967, when I was ten years old, my family moved to La Paz after my father joined the American military mission supporting the Bolivian armed forces.
Those two years left a deep impression on me. We made real camping trips down the old road to Los Yungas, visited Lake Titicaca and the ruins of Tiwanaku, and hiked into the mountains rising behind our house in Calacoto. Those experiences sparked an early fascination with exploration, landscapes, and distant places.
Later I studied anthropology with a focus on Middle Eastern studies, but Bolivia never really left me. In 2001 I returned after many years away, traveling to Rurrenabaque and Madidi, revisiting Tiwanaku and Lake Titicaca, and making my first trip to Machu Picchu. That journey rekindled a connection that would bring me back repeatedly over the following years.
Soon after, I began spending extended periods in La Paz, where I eventually met my wife. We married there in 2005. During those years I made many trips into Bolivia’s forests and river systems with friends who came to visit.
It was also around that time that I first heard about Noel Kempff Mercado National Park. The idea of one day exploring it stayed quietly in the back of my mind for years. After returning to Bolivia regularly over the decades, a journey to the Salar de Uyuni in 2020 revived that old dream. This expedition is, in many ways, the continuation of that story.
William Phillip – Expedition Co-Lead
I first met William just weeks before the Covid pandemic began. My wife and I had traveled to Uyuni in January of 2020, shortly after our wedding in Concepción. By chance we ran into our wedding photographer at the La Paz airport and invited him to join us for a few more photographs on the Salar. It was there that he introduced us to William, who would be our driver for the sessions.
We became fast friends almost immediately. It didn’t take long to discover that we shared a similar sense of humor, a taste for adventure, and a certain entrepreneurial spirit. William had grown up between Tupiza and Santa Cruz before eventually relocating to Uyuni, where over the last twenty years he has established himself as one of Bolivia’s most sought-after adventure guides.
Near fluent in English and a natural problem-solver, he also runs an auto repair shop on the edge of town—an especially useful skill given some of the places our travels tend to take us. Calm, capable, and deeply resourceful, William brings the kind of steady field judgment that remote expeditions depend on.
Since that first meeting I’ve returned to Uyuni and the surrounding high desert another six times with William. During the planning stages for a second photography tour collaboration, we discovered something else we had in common: both of us had dreamed for decades of visiting Noel Kempff Mercado National Park. Before long we were deep into planning the scouting expedition that finally brought us there.
Eduardo Ibañez – Field Support & Logistics
Eduardo is my wife’s nephew, from her mother’s hometown of Santa Ana de Yacuma in the Beni. I had come to know him a little better two summers earlier, when he joined my wife, our two teenage sons, and me on a Cessna flight into some of Bolivia’s largest and most remote lakes—country he knew well, having grown up in the surrounding monte.
By the time of this expedition, Eduardo had recently completed his studies as an aviation mechanic and was glad for the chance to take a little vacation time. We were equally glad to have him along for his upbeat energy—and, if I’m being honest, for a little extra strength when the situation required it.
An unexpected surprise came on the first day of the river journey when I handed him my RX100 VII with a simple instruction: “Whatever you do, just don’t drop it in the river.” From that moment on he hardly put it down. Each day he came back with images that surprised even him, discovering along the way what may well become a new passion.
Eduardo brought a combination of local familiarity, practical ability, and good humor that helped hold the team together in the field. By the time we turned our attention northeast toward the forests, rivers, and long dirt roads leading to Noel Kempff Mercado, he had already become an essential part of the expedition.
Last minute preparations and a strong start
It took a little scrambling before departure. Last-minute purchases in Santa Cruz for things I’d either forgotten or assumed I’d pick up easily—reminders of the convenience of Amazon (we’ll just let that reference slide by unnoticed…) back in the U.S. I exchanged the last of my dollars for bolivianos in the Mutualista market, a chaotic assembly of shops selling everything from shoes to soap.
That afternoon we picked up a Hilux double cab that would carry us north to Piso Firme, gateway to the rivers and forests of Noel Kempff Mercado National Park.
We had also spent some time in Santa Cruz with Ramiro Claros, director of Bolivia’s national park authority, SERNAP. Director Claros is a serious man in his forties, thoughtful and measured in the way he speaks, though there’s an evident warmth behind the professional demeanor. It quickly became clear that he knows Noel Kempff Mercado well—not just from reports or brief visits, but from real familiarity with the park and the challenges of managing it.
He was generous with the information he shared and candid about both the park’s strengths and the obstacles it faces. What came through most clearly was his desire to see tourism return to what is unquestionably one of the crown jewels of Bolivia’s national park system.
During our time in the park we would come to appreciate just how much effort he has already invested into maintaining and improving the ranger stations and camps. And, we were happy to offer a small contribution of our own—beginning with an offer to purchase mattresses for the bed frames at the Ahlfeld camp so that future visitors might rest a little more comfortably.
More on that later…
Director Claros, over lunch the day before, had further offered (and we’d gratefully accepted!) to send one of his guardaparques (literally park guards, or guardas, for short), Nelio, along with us to help navigate the route—something that sounded wise given the rainy season and the reputation of the road ahead. (Guardas, we would learn, typically do 3-week shifts in the remote park, returning to their families after each for nine days.)
The plan was simple: drive north through the Chiquitanía, reach Piso Firme, then continue by boat along the Paragua and Iténez rivers and eventually into the Paucerna.
Simple plans meet Bolivian roads…
East and North Through the Chiquitanía
We left Santa Cruz around 10 a.m., after swinging by the SERNAP office for a quick, final debrief by Director Claros, to pick up our guarda passenger and to load three large plastic containers of gasoline that HQ wanted to send to the station in Piso Firme. (We were given permission to tap into it as needed — and we did — along the way, with the condition simply that we would replace it on arrival.)
Soon we were out of the city, along a well-maintained paved highway that took us through soy fields, small, bustling towns and eventually would give way to the picturesque rolling landscapes of Chiquitania and its famed, UNESCO Jesuit missions.
We paused briefly for lunch in Concepción, one of the Jesuit mission towns of eastern Bolivia—a favorite place where my wife and I had regularly visited previously and, eventually, church-married in 2019.
An hour beyond Concepción the pavement gave way to dirt, as we turned off the highway shortly beyond Santa Rosa de la Roca, onto the road stretching 300 km north through cattle ranch country through the Bajo Paraguá — named for the river that flowed northward through it, forming the west boundary of Noel Kempff — toward our destination of Piso Firme. Dry Chiquitania forest transitioned to Amazon basin lands.
We had been alerted that gas stations were either non-existent or unreliable in the small settlements along the way. Sure enough, more than once we pulled in only to find pumps empty. Fortunately, we had brought that extra fuel for the park service, a decision that would prove its worth for us more than once.
By late afternoon the landscape had changed yet again. Gone were the open expanses as forest pressed in on the road to our west, while an occasional break in the forests revealed distant hills to our east. A small gray fox crossed the road ahead of us just as the sun dropped behind cloud layers… and I felt the ‘real’ thrill of what awaited us for perhaps the first time.
That night we hunted down a simple hotel we’d been told of in the small village of San Martín, perhaps the largest along this route—clean, friendly, and exactly what we needed (if a bit warm and humid!) before our final push north in the morning.
Into the gap
Morning began over empanadas and coffee, and then on the road again about 8 am, after topping off our tank with one of our gas bidones. The local station displayed a non-unexpected ‘no gasolina’ sign at its entrance; we took down the attendant‘s WhatsApp number in case we need to check ahead of time on our return a week or so later.
Five or six hours later, about halfway between San Martín and Piso Firme, the day’s “adventure” arrived…
We had already crossed a number of small bridges—essentially dimensional timbers laid across gullies of varying widths, some better maintained than others—when William misjudged a line on one of them. In the middle of the crossing the right side of the truck suddenly dropped into a wide gap between the timbers.
A collective “wt-” moment.
The truck sat wedged in the middle of the bridge with three wheels hanging in space, only the driver’s side front wheel remained on solid timber. My nephew and I quickly clambered out of our windows since the doors were blocked. William and our guarda simply opened their doors on the left, and carefully stepped out.
Our first thought was that the trip had ended before it began. (Nelio, a veteran of this route, was unfazed.)
Then we remembered the two trufis—shared transport vans—we had passed earlier with about ten men each resting beside the road. Twenty people ought to be enough to lift a Hilux back onto a bridge.
Sure enough they arrived about ten minutes later.
What followed looked like committee work, with two subcommittees forming immediately—one working from the front, another from the back, with defectors moving between them depending on who thought they had the winning idea.
Somehow it worked.
After an hour of levering, pushing, towing, and general chaos, we managed to get the front wheels back onto the tracks and pull the truck forward onto solid ground.
Victory was celebrated by slicing open two watermelons we’d bought earlier and sharing them with everyone.
Bolivia solved another problem.
Piso Firme and the River
We reached Piso Firme after dark and found dinner along the Paragua River—simple home cooking and a couple of cold beers. Rooms cost about three dollars each.
The next morning the truck gave way to a boat.
Our route followed the Paragua through backwaters and eventually into the larger Iténez River, which forms part of the border between Bolivia and Brazil. Shortly after entering the river we were hit by a tropical downpour that soaked everything in minutes.
By the time we reached Bella Vista for lunch the storm had passed.
From there we continued east toward Pimenteiras, seeing increasing bird life along the riverbanks—egrets standing solitary along the water every kilometer or so and occasional monkeys moving through the canopy. Overcast skies made exposures tricky for the 600 PF, but the light softened the river beautifully.
The forest grew thick along the water’s edge, broken occasionally by open grasslands.
One of the rangers mentioned that most visitors here come only to fish. Very few venture deeper into the park.
It seemed remarkable given the scale of the landscape.
Flor de Oro and Los Torres
Up around 6:30. Coffee first, then a late breakfast overlooking the river. A bit more charging before loading the boat. Plan for the day: Flor de Oro, then upriver to Los Torres — probably the most remote ranger station in this part of the park — before returning to Flor de Oro for the night.
Good start: found my camera bag rain cover buried deep in a pocket. I can relax a little if the weather turns. Quick walk a few blocks into Pimenteiras to pick up supplies for the rangers and finally pushed off around 9:45 — after I nearly forgot to pay the hotel bill…
Not long underway I caught a shot of a crested bird perched high against the sky — mostly a silhouette, but workable.
At Flor de Oro, rangers Guillermo and Roger showed us around. The original building is still standing but heavily weathered; a newer structure with a green roof should replace it once it’s furnished.
After a quick hike behind the camp, we continued to Los Torres, delivering supplies — eggs, rice, soap — to the ranger stationed there, Juan Carlos. After tea and a short walk, we jumped back in the boats with Juan Carlos and pushed farther upriver to attempt a hike to the stone formation.
Just before landing, the rain came hard. We tucked the boat under branches and cut our way into the forest with machetes — the trail hadn’t been used in some time.
By the time we reached the base, everything was soaked (including my Nikon). After all the effort, we discovered that the rocks were just too slick to climb, so we turned back to the boat.
Returning to Los Torres, heading into the wind, the rain stung our faces like needles. Back at the station we took shelter, made coffee, put on some music, and watched William entertain us with an impromptu broom dance.
The rain eased and we headed back toward Flor de Oro.
More monkeys along the way.
Dry clothes, tents up, and a simple but excellent dinner of chicken and rice to close out the day.
Noel Kempff Wildlife
A glimpse into the river corridors and forest edges of northern Noel Kempff Mercado National Park — where wildlife reveals itself slowly, often at the margins. Macaws crossing overhead, egrets tracing the shoreline, monkeys moving through the canopy, and quiet moments between storms. These images reflect the pace and unpredictability of the system we’ll be working, where patience and repetition often reward with something unexpected.
Into the Park
The following morning we headed toward the Paucerna River and officially entered Noel Kempff Mercado National Park.
The river wound through dense forest corridors where branches sometimes reached out across the water as if trying to slow our progress. At other points the river widened into calm pools reflecting the jungle.
Bird life was surprisingly sparse visually, though the forest was full of sound. Macaws crossed overhead occasionally, most appearing as silhouettes against gray sky.
After several hours we reached camp near Ahlfeld Falls. The facilities had been renovated recently with new roofs and screening, but I had carried my tent all this way and decided to use it anyway.
That afternoon we hiked to the falls and swam beneath them before returning to camp for dinner.
A Quiet Day at Camp
The next day most of the group set out for a long hike to another waterfall several hours away. I stayed behind.
The humidity alone made the decision easy.
Instead, I spent the morning talking with Ulysses, a retired ranger in his seventies whose grandfather had emigrated from Greece and settled in the region during the rubber era. The conversation wandered through family histories, ranching, and the early days of the park.
Later I washed clothes in the river and nearly tested the local legend of electric eels before deciding discretion was the better option.
At one point a bee sting reminded me that the forest had its own ways of keeping visitors attentive.
Bella Vista
Eventually we returned downriver toward Bella Vista, where the lodge sits just steps from the Iténez.
The following morning I carried the 600 PF down to the river before sunrise and waited. At first there was nothing but mosquitoes and gray light.
Then slowly the river woke up. Macaws passed overhead toward a nearby palm, kingfishers worked the shoreline, and a pod of river dolphins surfaced about fifteen meters offshore.
At one point a river turtle lifted its head from the water just two meters away—too close even for the big lens.
After two hours the rest of the group returned from fishing with breakfast.
The Road South
Eventually the boat gave way once again to the truck and the long road south. The main adventure behind us now, we began the slow process of unwinding the expedition and retracing our route through the Chiquitanía toward Santa Cruz.
The park service had one more favor to ask before we left. A ranger named Emilio needed a ride home to San Ignacio de Velasco. His three-year-old son—also named Emilio—had a brain scan scheduled in Santa Cruz in a few days, and getting out of the park quickly would make that much easier. We were happy to oblige, and grateful as well for his company and guidance along the way.
The road north had been an adventure. The road south proved it wasn’t finished with us yet.
Before sunrise we set out from Piso Firme. Not far along the route we found a trufi—one of the shared passenger vans that run these roads—stuck deep in a muddy stretch and blocking the entire track. The passengers and driver had already spent hours trying to free it. With a tow strap and a little collective improvisation we managed to pull it loose and clear the way.
From there the day settled into what would become a long haul. Dusty roads alternated with rough stretches of mud and standing water as we passed once again through places like Picaflor and the turnoff toward Florida. Gradually the forest gave way to ranchland and the familiar settlements of eastern Bolivia.
By the time we reached San Ignacio de Velasco we had already been on the road most of the day. We dropped Emilio off there, wishing him well and hoping the scan in Santa Cruz would bring good news for his son.
But the day wasn’t over.
We pressed on southward into the night, finally reaching asphalt again after days of dirt roads. Nearly fifteen hours after leaving Piso Firme we arrived in San José de Chiquitos, exhausted but grateful for a proper bed and the knowledge that the wildest part of the journey was now behind us.
El Portón and the Torre
The next morning brought blue skies and the kind of light that makes it hard to hurry. After coffee and a light breakfast we set out toward Chochis, about two hours away, planning to find a hotel there and spend the evening near the towering sandstone formations that dominate the valley.
Not long before reaching Chochis we noticed a small roadside sign pointing toward a place called El Portón.
Curiosity won.
We turned off the highway and began climbing a narrow dirt road that quickly deteriorated into something not far removed from the road to Piso Firme at its worst—rocky, winding, and slow going, though thankfully without the water pits that had plagued us earlier in the trip.
About half an hour later the road delivered us into a small clearing beneath towering sandstone cliffs.
There we met Enrique.
Barefoot and wearing shorts, he stepped out of an old building and introduced himself as if he had been expecting visitors all along. For the next hour he showed us around what had once been a railway stop but now sat on the edge of becoming a ghost town.
The old station still stood, along with a church, a schoolhouse, and a few scattered buildings slowly surrendering to time. A single rail line cut through the property. In a nearby pasture a horse grazed alongside a handful of sheep and goats.
All of it was surrounded by dramatic cliffs rising almost vertically above the village, their sheer faces giving the place a feeling of quiet protection.
With Enrique’s permission I photographed the buildings and the landscape while he talked about the history of the place. At the end of our visit he disappeared briefly into the old station and returned carrying a handful of fruit, which he shared with us before we left.
We thanked him, promised to return someday, and started back down the same rough road toward the highway.
Soon afterward we reached Chochis, instantly recognizable by its towering sandstone monument that rises above the village like a natural cathedral. After checking into a small hotel we drove out to explore nearby Aguas Calientes and Roboré before returning to Chochis for dinner at a small place along one of the town’s dirt streets.
Homeward
After breakfast we drove the short distance to the sanctuary at the base of the towering sandstone formation known locally as La Torre de David. The church and surrounding complex sit quietly beneath the cliffs, a place that seems designed for reflection as much as worship.
It was a Sunday morning, yet we had the entire sanctuary to ourselves.
We wandered slowly through the grounds, taking photographs and—perhaps more than anything—decompressing after the intensity of the previous days. The elaborate wood carvings throughout the complex caught our attention immediately, each beam and doorway marked by careful craftsmanship that felt both rustic and deeply expressive.
Behind the church, steep steps climb toward the base of the cliffs. From there the valley opens wide, revealing the surrounding Chiquitanía in soft layers of forest and pasture stretching toward the horizon.
Eventually we made our way back down, reluctant to leave the quiet of the place. Waiting below was the Hilux and the long road west. By mid-morning we were underway, beginning the six-hour drive back toward Santa Cruz
Earlier that morning, before leaving the hotel, I had taken a short walk toward the hills outside Roboré. From a higher overlook the valley opened wide beneath me.
There I photographed a massive spider suspended in its web and, farther off in the distance, a pair of toucans that the 600 PF managed to resolve surprisingly well.
And then, gradually, it was time to return to ordinary life.
Almost.
If this journey speaks to you, I’ll be returning to northern Noel Kempff with a small group in late April–May. Details for this year’s and next year’s departures can be found here:
