The afternoon of Thursday, February 21st, 2008 found me alone, running along a sinuous trail in Torres del Paine National Park, Chile. Snow-covered peaks shot up towards the sky on my left, a gray lake sloshed its waters on the shore to my right. I was soaking wet with blistery feet and torn up shoes, wondering whether I would make it to Campamento Pehoe in time to catch a 6 o'clock catamarran that would take me to the buses en route to Puerto Natales. A light rain fell steadily and the all-too-familiar Patagonia wind blew sheets of it haphazardly through the air. Missing the boat meant another night in the park, setting up a wet tent, salvaging any dry clothes left to keep me warm, and crawling into a damp sleeping bag to wait for a new day.

I'd had enough. My knee was aching from all the hiking, but the heavy dose of ibuprofen, caffeine and sugar I'd dumped into my body at the last trailhead was carrying me through it. Having no watch, I had no choice but to keep moving as fast as possible. "I'm gonna make it," I kept thinking, and focused on carefully planting one sneaker in front of the other, my backpack bouncing on my shoulders. Once again, I'd discovered that familiar meditative state I'd come to love over the last eight months, a force propelling me along effortlessly. As I listened to the deliberate rhythmic thuds of my footsteps and the forceful hissing of the wind's voice, I thought of my bicycle, the machine that had carried me to the bottom of the world. It felt strange to be without it.

It was my fifth day on the 80 plus kilometer route, wrapping around the backside of the jaw-dropping park. Jeremiah and Andrea, friends from Tahoe and now part-time residents of Natales, had convinced me to join them for the trek. I had been hesitant to commit to a lot of hiking, especially less than a week after arriving in Ushuaia. Eight months I'd spent doing nothing but beating down my body on the bike. It seemed crazy to go for a hike. But when they described the trail, and told me they planned to do it after sending me off, I began to realize it was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. "It's just walking," I thought. "It will give me time to think. Time to reflect. It will help me make my transition into this new, ambiguous phase of my life I am about to begin." I convinced myself it was a good idea. So I borrowed a backpack, filled it, and headed out to test my legs.

On the morning of the third day, I was having my doubts about the decision. The wind had invaded our camp with a vengeance at 5 am, snapping one of my tent poles, tearing a hole in my fly, and forcing me out into the rain in the morning. My shoulders and lower back were sore from the pack, my toes were worn raw, and my feet and legs were screaming at me. But, much like the emotions I'd felt while pedaling for all those months, I knew I had to finish what I'd begun. At some point it would end, and as I awaited that, I would also be an eye-witness to one of the most special places on Earth. It was always worth it in the end. If I'd learned anything on our journey from Prudhoe Bay to Ushuaia, it was this, and when we came over the summit on the fourth day, and caught our first glimpse of Glacier Grey, an immense mass of bluish-gray ice dumping out of the mountains and flowing through the valley like a river stopped in time, I took a deep breath. My eyes feasted on the scene, soaking it all up. I just stood there. It was quiet. I was decidely at peace. Everything was right. It all made sense.

"Here I am," I thought, and I began to philosophize. Life just is. It just goes. Time ticks on and on. We live. It all works out because it has to. We try to figure it all out---make sense of all that encompasses us, all that has made us who we are, all that has brought us down the path to the present. I'm not sure I understand my life, but one thing I do know is that there is a higher force that does. Alaska to Argentina changed me in so many ways. It