Oddly, when one arrives at the southernmost point of the continental world where the pan-American highway ends, where Antarctica is just a 50-mile skip across the water, and where the continent begins to break apart into 1,000 tiny islands, there is a post office sitting at the end of a 10-meter pier, a 10-ft. X 10 ft. post office, made of wood with a wood heater inside, one man working and probably between 5 and 7 customers a day. That’s where I am now – at the end of the world in Tierra del Fuego National Park.
Yesterday, 5 friends and I told a taxi driver in Ushuaia to take us as high up as he could, so he left us on the side of the highway as high as he could get. We set out upward and spent all day heading up, until 4 others declared they were going to stop and make a fire, and a friend and I continued up past the tree line to a place with just fungus, snow, and rocks where I could hardly breathe. That was good.
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