Grant and I have a long-standing love affair with Belize—well, probably better to say Ian Anderson’s Caves Branch, an eco-lodge tucked deep into the jungle where the food is great, the adventures are wild, and there are more stairs than anywhere else in the world. We first stayed there back in September 2015, and it sparked our love for travel. It was the kind of place that permanently resets your standards for vacations.
So, when Grant’s 40th birthday came up, the plan was obvious: go back to Belize, relive the magic, celebrate properly. Except… Grant already took a birthday trip to New York. Without us. So instead, the Belize trip quietly pivoted into something even bigger: Ripley’s first international trip (Mexico doesn’t count—it’s basically an extension of San Diego).
Grant was unconvinced. For weeks, he warned me—repeatedly—that this was a terrible idea. Jungle + toddler = chaos. I assured him it would be fine. I assured him many times.
Spoiler: IT WAS FINE. Exceptional, even.
Because the flight was out of LAX, we were up early Thursday morning for the drive north. There was traffic—because of course there was—but once we arrived, LAX completely redeemed itself. Parking was abundant, affordable, and so close to the terminal that it felt suspicious. San Diego airport could never.
Security was shockingly easy. We were through in minutes. We even had enough time to order pizza from Wolfgang Puck… and then noticed a California Pizza Kitchen nearby. A tragic oversight. A lesson learned.
The flight itself was scheduled for 4 hours and 15 minutes, but the plane taxied like it had nowhere to be, stretching the journey to a solid 5 hours. We were nervous—this was Ripley’s longest flight since he could start talking fully—but he absolutely crushed it. Toys, flashcards, Paw Patrol, and chatting with nearby passengers. Grant watched in disbelief as his nightmare scenario simply didn’t happen.
Belize customs operate old-school, handwritten forms, minimal urgency. Mildly annoying but manageable. Ripley did not waiting in line and made sure that everyone around new about it. Once through, we spotted our driver holding a sign and headed off toward the jungle. Unlike our first trip, we weren’t alone—other guests from our flight joined the ride. We worried Ripley might melt down. Instead, he became a social butterfly, chatting with strangers and getting thrilled every time we hit a police checkpoint. Flashing lights. Big buses. Absolute toddler paradise.
When we arrived at the lodge, we checked in and were immediately fed—which is always the correct order of operations. The food was just as good as we remembered. First dinner included chicken alfredo, ribs, and cake, which hit the spot. We coordinated our first tour—a cave tubing expedition, and we were pumped.
By the time we were shown to our room, it was dark. What we didn’t realize—until we were committed—was that our room was at the very top of the resort. Twelve sets of stairs. No lights. No visibility beyond our phone flashlights. Just darkness, jungle noises, and regret eating as much as we did. But then we arrived—and instantly forgave everything.
The room was a full-on treehouse: open-air windows, total privacy, king bed, bunk beds, couch. It felt like our first stay, but upgraded with air conditioning, electrical outlets, and—miracle of miracles—cell service. We were deep in the Belizean jungle and still fully reachable by the outside world. Luxury. I had mentioned it was Grant’s birthday, so the bed was decorated with towel swans and flower petals spelling out “Happy Birthday.”
Less perfect: no crib.
After a call downstairs, they admitted they couldn’t figure out the crib situation and that Ripley was too young for the cave tubing tour we’d planned. They swapped us to the zoo and ziplining instead. Somehow, this felt more dangerous, but okay—we rolled with it.
Ripley slept with me that night. New hotels make him feral. His favorite activity was yelling “SHABU!” and body-slamming me repeatedly. We still don’t know what SHABU means. It was cute. Until it wasn’t. Eventually, he passed out. We think that it may have started as SHAMU…as in the whale, but we aren’t even sure if that makes sense.
The next morning, we grabbed breakfast and hopped into our private tour, which immediately made us feel like VIP travelers. First stop: the zoo. Now, coming from San Diego—with its world-famous zoo—this one didn’t exactly impress us. But what it lacked in scale, it made up for in Tapirs. Tapirs, for the record, are gentle, odd-looking mammals with flexible snouts, like a pig-elephant hybrid that forgot to evolve further. For $1, we got to feed Indy, a 9-month-old tapir. Ripley initially threw carrots at him, then figured out where the mouth was. I think he believed Indy was an elephant. Honestly? Reasonable assumption.
Grant hates zoos, so we didn’t linger long. Onward to ziplining.
At the zipline site, Ripley became obsessed with a cat. We wouldn’t let him touch it due to disease concerns—which is hilarious considering we’d just let him pet a tapir. Harnesses and helmets followed. He despised the helmet. The guides cleverly told him it was “for the monkeys,” which somehow worked. After climbing what felt like the equivalent of the Empire State Building (Belize loves stairs), we zipped. Ripley was clipped to me, we launched, and he immediately yelled “WEEE!” in pure joy.
Six ziplines later, he was still thrilled. Total champ. Helmet off, ready for more.
On the way back to the tree house, we stopped at a shop called Art Box. It was along the main road and was a really cool gift shop and coffee shop. We grabbed all the souvenirs we could since we hadn’t picked up any last time. Belize souvenirs aren’t that cheap, which surprised me. I guess with their economy based on tourism, it makes sense to charge tourists more, especially since locals probably don’t want items they can easily make themselves.
Back at the lodge, Ripley crashed on the bed while we ate orange chicken that was shockingly good. Our treehouse featured an indoor rain shower, an outdoor bucket shower, and a rooftop bathtub overlooking the jungle. Yes, it was ridiculous. Yes, we used all of it. I used the bucket shower, Grant used the bathtub, and when Ripley woke up he took the indoor rain shower and refused to get out until dinner.
Dinner introduced us to Marie Sharp’s Habanero Sauce, which I’m now obsessed with. It’s spicy, addictive, and made with carrots—so basically a health food.
That night, we pushed again for the cave tubing tour. Not recommended for kids under four? Fine. We made it private. If it failed, that was on us. I’d talked to the people we’d commuted with to the hotel, and they shared what the experience was like. It seemed easy and they all agreed that Ripley could do it without any issue.
After dinner, we headed to the lodge’s hot tub and pool. It was a bit chilly, so the hot tub was the only real option. Ripley was not a fan. We laughed, because we’d just convinced the tour manager to let us go river tubing in freezing water, and Ripley refused to get into a hot tub. We crossed our fingers this wasn’t a sign.
The hot tub test was… concerning. Ripley hated it.
Suddenly, cold cave water felt like a gamble.
Exhausted from a long day, we watched a few things on our iPad, endured a few more “SHABU” bodyslams on top of me, and made it to bed by 11 p.m.
The next day, we loaded into a military-style truck and headed to the cave. The cave river tubing tour was much closer this time. We bumped along to an orange grove where the entrance to the cave was. Life jackets and helmets were handed out. The helmets were rough again, but the oranges helped.
We had two tour guides with us, both super patient and friendly. They led us to the tubes and explained a little bit about the area. The tubes were oddly shaped and required intense core engagement. Ripley sat on my lap as we floated through the cave—helmet lights on, bats overhead, fish below. It was stunning.
Then came the history lesson.
The cave was a Mayan fertility cave, where couples would conceive and later sacrifice their firstborn child to ensure future fertility. The guide casually mentioned children’s bones scattered throughout. We laughed nervously and noted that Ripley—our first and only—was probably the youngest child to ever survive this tour.
We started talking to our tour guide, and she asked his age. We said, “Two.” She asked, “When is his birthday?” We said, “In March.” She replied, “Oh, so he’s turning three.” We said, “No, he’s turning two.” Haha.
On the way out, Ripley fell asleep on me, blissed out by the water. We tipped the guides generously. They earned it.
While Ripley napped later, I attended the lodge’s cheese tour. Six cheeses. Five tasted identical. One feta was aggressively salty. Still—free. Dinner that night was packed. Buffet style. We missed the appetizers but made it for the entrée and dessert. We sat with lovely Canadians. So many Canadians. If Palm Springs or Las Vegas ever feels empty, now you know why—they are all in Belize.
The trip home was smooth. Ripley crushed the flight again. Global Entry took under a minute.
Making sure we knew he was still a toddler—right when we were about to get outside. Ripley sprinted toward a restricted area near Homeland Security. I chased him, my backpack caught a post, and I took out a barrier like a slapstick comedy scene. We escaped unseen. Grant laughed a lot.
At the car, I noticed the driver’s window was down. Panic. No break-in. I’d just left it open for four days in LA. Incredible luck. Strong finish.
Final Verdict:
Ripley’s first international trip: a huge success.
Grant admitted—begrudgingly—that I was right.
The door is now wide open for future international family adventures.
Belize with a toddler?
Highly recommend.
(Grant still owes me an apology.)