Pause and Wander

Dates: December 24–25, 2025

Places: Phong Nha & Tu Lan, Vietnam 

We woke at 6:00 at Nguyen Shack Retreat in Phong Nha. No grogginess. No dread. Just that quiet, unmistakable feeling that something good was waiting on the other side of the morning. We moved efficiently, bags zipped and loaded, and climbed into a comfortable van for the roughly 90 minute drive to Oxalis’s Tu Lan base of operations.

As the road narrowed and the countryside opened up, limestone mountains began rising more sharply around us. By the time we arrived, we were standing in a wide valley framed by dramatic karst walls, a blue river running just in front of the complex. The water carried a milky glow from calcium carbonate runoff, and the air hovered between 72 and 75 degrees with big, slow clouds drifting overhead. The Oxalis operation itself was far larger and more organized than we expected. Lodging areas. Gear storage. Safety briefing spaces. Equipment washing stations. Dozens of shower stalls. It all felt serious in the best possible way. Reassuring. Thoughtful. Capable.

On the drive in, we introduced ourselves to the rest of the group. There was Bun, a Vietnamese father traveling with his 14 year old son, Brian, from Ho Chi Minh City. Friendly but reserved. Then another family of four from the same city quickly became our closest companions. Vy and her husband Nguyen were traveling with their sons, Be, 9, and Bon, 12. The boys attended an international English school and spoke fluently, which surprised everyone and instantly lowered the barrier between all the kids. After some initial shyness, they soon were chatting and playing like old friends. 

The girls were restless during the safety briefing. They were ready to move, ready to do, and we had to keep reminding them to pay attention. But the moment we finally set off on foot, all of that impatience vanished.

The trail began gently. A flat dirt road through a wide grassy valley dotted with grazing water buffalo. A few muddy patches, nothing difficult. Then came the first river crossing. Finlee and Max opted for a small boat, while Shaina crossed on foot with Arya. The water came to Shaina’s knees, which meant it reached Arya’s waist. When Arya realized she wasn’t going to keep her pants dry, she froze halfway across, then scrambled onto our guide Huy’s back. Without hesitation, he carried her piggyback style to the far shore.

Each day had one steep ascent and one steep descent, and the girls handled both far better than we expected. Finlee, in particular, stood out. Just like on the Camino, she tucked in right behind the lead guide and kept moving, steady and strong, even when the rest of us slowed. Watching her always forces us to recalibrate what we think she is capable of.

The guides stayed close on steeper sections, offering hands and support. Arya and Finlee hated this. They bristled, insisting they weren’t babies. We explained they didn’t have to accept help and could tell Huy directly if they wanted to try on their own. He handled it perfectly. He stepped back when asked, stayed attentive without hovering, and let them find their own footing.

On the second day, we climbed a brutally steep hill gaining about 160 meters in less than a kilometer. In places it felt like low grade rock climbing, up a slippery muddy trail with razor sharp limestone rock. The humidity was crushing. Max was drenched in sweat and breathing hard and made the mistake of commenting on how hot it felt. Huy and Vy laughed. They thought it was cold. Looking around, we realized they weren’t sweating at all. They were wearing jackets. The contrast was humbling, funny, and a little frustrating. We laughed and accepted it.

River crossings became a steady rhythm of the day. Oxalis requires closed toe shoes for hiking, and all the guides wore a flimsy plastic closed toe sandal that resembled “jellies” from the 1980s. We figured our Chaco strapped sandals were far superior to those, despite not having closed toes.  Unfortunately, rules are rules, which meant Shaina and Max were constantly switching out of our tennis shoes into sandals for crossings. The water was always refreshing and never deeper than mid-thigh. The girls loved every crossing. Either they got piggybacks or linked arms and crossed together like a team, emerging on the other bank completely soaked from head to toe.

The caves themselves were revealed with perfect pacing. Each one grew larger and more impressive than the last. Early caves were interesting, but they faded from memory once we entered Rat Cave. That one stopped us cold. The ceiling soared 60 to 70 meters overhead. Massive stalagmite columns stretched from floor to ceiling like natural stone pillars. It felt like stepping into a cathedral that had been forming quietly for millions of years.

The kids were endlessly curious. Sometimes too curious. Occasionally one of the children needed a reminder not to throw rocks or touch delicate formations. The guides managed it patiently, and parents stepped in when needed. There was one short section where we crouched and waddled through a low passage, but nothing truly claustrophobic. When Huy invited us to turn off all our lights, the darkness was absolute. We knew we had backups and spare batteries, but the lizard brain doesn’t care about logic. Every instinct screamed at once. Someone clicked a light back on quickly, but part of us wished the darkness had lasted longer.

Meals were woven seamlessly into the experience. Lunch on the first day was eaten at the mouth of a cave. Banh mi fixings and fresh spring rolls. Not the best versions we’ve ever had, but deeply satisfying in that setting. Christmas Eve dinner was a proper family style feast. Lemongrass chicken. Grilled pork. Mulled wine made specially for the holiday. Christmas morning brought pho and spring rolls and fresh fruit. Our final meal was fried noodles with French toast for dessert, eaten in the grand opening of Rat Cave itself. Sitting beneath towering stalactites, eating dessert on Christmas Day, felt both absurd and wonderful.

One of our favorite small moments came when Arya tried to trick Max into eating what she claimed was a special piece of coconut. There had been no coconut in the meal. It turned out to be a tightly wrapped piece of spring roll wrapper. His confusion as his teeth sank into the gooey rice paper sent her into uncontrollable giggles.

After settling into camp, our kids swam in the river with the Vietnamese boys while we watched from the bank, sipping ginger tea. They skipped stones, panned for imaginary gold, and made elaborate mud pies. The guides set up a steam tent using a pressure cooker filled with water, ginger, and lemongrass. All the kids piled inside to warm up. Darkness fell quickly, the valley closing in beneath the surrounding mountains. No mosquitoes—a small miracle. Too bad we forgot to bring a copy of The Night Before Christmas, which would’ve elevated the moment to perfection. 

Sleep came easily. Rain tapped lightly on the tarp overhead. Frogs in the river started chain reactions of croaks that rose and fell like waves. Crickets filled the gaps. It was soothing.

Christmas morning arrived quietly. The girls crawled into our tent, hugging us and announcing it was Christmas. We exchanged small gifts. Woven bracelets made by local artisans. Socks covered in Camino symbols for Shaina. Wooden earrings from Hanoi for the girls. Simple. Meaningful. Enough.

As we packed up and began walking toward the first of the rat caves, we spotted langur monkeys moving through the treetops. A whole family. Everyone froze. The guides burst into excited chatter, explaining how rare and meaningful it was to see monkeys returning to this particular area after years of protection from poaching. The excitement was contagious. Wildlife on Christmas morning felt like a gift none of us could have planned.

There were moments of pride watching the girls descend into caves clipped into ropes and harnesses. Moments of protectiveness on slick trails. Plenty of laughter. Plenty of sweat. By the end, we were covered in mud and our bodies more tired and sore than expected, especially Max’s lower back. Totally worth it.

It didn’t feel like Christmas in the traditional sense. We missed familiar comforts. We missed our family. But that’s part of travel. You trade the known for the new. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you find yourself standing in a cave deep in the jungles of Vietnam on Christmas Day, watching your kids step confidently into the dark together.

That feels like a pretty good trade.