The End of the World

The bus shrinks into the distance. I’m 65 kilometers south of Punta Arenas, and 44 from Cabo Froward at the end of the continent. It’s a marathon in the wrong direction, and I’ll have to get there under my own power. But I’m finally free. Free of relying on others, free of planning and shopping and stress. My task is simple now. I have to run and walk.

The first 11 kilometers are dirt road. Ocean to the left, trees on the right. The air is moist, with a sensualness I’ve come to associate with the sea. It’s cool and cloudy, but not quite raining. Cold for sitting, perfect for running. But I’m not running. I’ve run with a 40-pound pack before, but not for sustained distances. I’ve had my share of injuries, and the extra weight will add risk. I’ll ease into this. There’s plenty of time to train up if I stay healthy. If I get injured, I’ll risk the whole trip.

I jog in short bursts, alternated with long stretches of fast walking. The road passes quickly, and turns to sandy beach. I quit even pretending to run. It’ll take way more energy to go slightly faster.

Four kilometers on, I reach the lighthouse. It’s quaint and beautiful, with lots of Chilean tourists here for the weekend. The next few hours are a mix of beach and forest. Occasionally I miss a trail, and the beach cliffs out. Then I’ll back-track until the short-cut, or else bushwack to the trail. Everyone said this is a five-day round trip, and I’m starting to see why. If you’re crawling through trees, it’s a VERY long way. And these trees are DENSE. I’d thought of Patagonia as mountains and pampas, but this is border-line jungle.

It’s also calmer than I’d thought. I’d heard legends about the wind, but it’s only a rough breeze. But there’s evidence it gets VERY windy. Isolated trees slant 30 degrees or more. They’ve actually grown crooked because the wind is so constantly from one direction.

I reach the first river, but it’s only ankle deep. That could have been worse, it’s waist to chest deep at high tide. A few hours on I reach the second river. There’s no current: the tide has flowed inland, leaving the river a ditch. But it’s over my head. I’m supposed to wait four hours until it’s shallow enough to wade. There has to be a better way. I put my pack in the center of my tarp, and pull up the sides so they’re above water. I test it in shallow water, and it works! The pack floats, and it stays dry! The river’s around 10 degrees, and only a few meters wide. It’s a quick swim, one arm pushing the pack and one arm paddling. Then I’m across, four hours ahead of schedule.

I camp with some nice Chileans from Punta Arenas. I’m way better at making fires; they have whiskey. Perfect trade. I start the next day with more attention to the path, and manage not to miss the trail from the beach. It’s easy walking all the way to the third river. This is less than waist deep, and I cross with my pack on. Then the coastline turns rough, and I’m scrambling over rocks. They’re wet and slippery and covered with seaweed. This would suck at high tide, and I hope I time the return right.

I round the next point, and the wind gets real. It’s strong enough to give real pressure as I walk. But my eye wanders up the ridge, and I gain energy. There’s the cross. It’s a five-story steel structure built on top of the mountain at the end of the continent. I’m almost there.

It’s only a few kilometers, but the rocks are really treacherous. It’s been drizzling on and off all day, and they’re covered with wet seaweed. I’m using my hands a lot, pulling and balancing and going over and under trees. It takes forever, but the distance slowly shrinks.

The trail finally leaves the ocean. It will head inland, up the mountain to the cross. But I’m not done with the beach. Not while it goes further south, not while I can still walk. I go another 200 meters to the end of the point. There’s a channel two meters wide and 30 centimeters deep. Then a tiny island.

It will be part of the mainland at low tide. It counts as part of the continent. I take off my shoes and socks and wade the channel. I put them on and tiptoe another 4 meters. The rock slopes away at my feet, into the sea. I stand into the wind, and close my eyes.

I’m finally starting.

In a way it started when I left Vancouver. In a way it started when the bus left me on the side of a road. But now it’s really started. I’m as far south as you get without leaving the mainland. Land stretches 15 thousand kilometers north to the Arctic Ocean in Alaska. It ends at my feet.

Most the places I’ve lived and loved are on this land. The deserts of Utah, the cliffs of Yosemite, the mountains of British Columbia, my family’s home in Alaska. Memories flood, with a clarity that pierces years and distance. I tear up a little. Not from sadness, or from joy. It’s more the sheer closeness of my past, the speed it surfaced from an ocean of memory. I lie down, kiss the rock. Maybe it’ll be embarrassing to write about later. I don’t care. It feels right. I probably won’t return, and I want to save the force of this moment.

I stand up and gaze at the ocean, remembering my path here. My shoulder tearing two months ago on a cliff in Turkey. Hanging in space, seeing my arm an inch below where it should be. The nagging urge to run now, since I couldn’t climb. The thrill of fear and adrenaline as I bought the tickets. Three zombie days in airports and planes and taxis. Two days walking and scrambling and bush-wacking south.  All to reach the start.

But Magellen sailed through here 500 years ago on frail ships. He saw the same view, felt the same wind. Then he aimed at Asia, and left the safety of the continent.

He had nothing but hope. Hope there were lands with food and water. Hope the sea was gentle. Hope the Earth was round, and he wouldn’t sail off the end of the world. It made sense in theory, but no-one had proved it. He had a harder goal, one that took more faith in himself. If he tried, so can I.

I savor the moment. The steady wind, cutting patterns on the water. The islands across the straight, faint and purple through the clouds. The rock at my feet, black and slimy with seaweed. I close my eyes again, holding in the view. I reach into the water, savor the cold energy in brings me.

Then I turn my back on the end of the world.

I start toward Alaska.