Chasing The Horizon

Consciousness seeps in. It’s nice to laze, long minutes while sleep oozes from my limbs. And then I cross a motivation threshold, and I’d rather move. Leave tent, eat cous cous, pack up. It’s partly sunny and calm, some of the nicest weather of the trip. I move through the woods, swift and quiet. Past the lighthouse, back to the beach.

Sand is aesthetic, but draining to walk on. Hard surfaces save the energy of each step, rebounding it up my leg into the next stride. Sand swallows energy into the Earth. Every step is hard as the first one, starting from scratch.

I reach the road, and my stride lengthens and quickens. Steps feel almost bouncy after the sand. I jog short stretches between walking, stopping whenever I start to overheat. Awhile later, I reach the river where the bus left me.

I don’t need water. Not yet. There’s another river 6 kilometers on. I’ll fill up there, and not carry an extra kilo. Water will be a limiting factor this trip. It weighs a LOT relative to how often I need it. I don’t want to carry more than I have to, and I can’t run out either.

I start fading before the next river. Physically at first, but it trickles into my mind. I’m on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. By a windy ocean, in some false hills. The scene takes a desolate tone. There’s a loneliness that wasn’t there when I had energy. I try to fight it. Strength can peak and ebb randomly, unrelated to concretes like food or sleep. Sometimes you just have to make the second wind.

Not this time. Either that, or I don’t have the grit. I veer off the road, sit on the beach. There’s a soreness in my legs, a weariness that lingers after they’re stopped bearing weight. I’ve only gone three and a half hours. It’s WAY too early to be exhausted. I layer up with clothes, ingest some cheese and cous cous and olive oil. Then I lie in the sand and the wind.

I don’t HAVE to do this. I could hitch-hike to Punta Arenas. I could fly to Peru and laze on a beach, eating zuviche and drinking. I don’t have to force-march through the most expensive part of the continent, eating cheese and cous-cous. There’s a reason most visitors to South America don’t this.

No!

It’s too early to think this kind of shit. It’s the second day! Well—what is the goal, really? This trip won’t own me. If I spend a lot of days truly not wanting to do it, I’ll quit. But moments of weakness and doubt are just part of life. I eat more cheese, and stand up.

Energy’s back! Maybe it was just lack of food? Somehow this turns into fun. I gain a long, gradual hill and run down it. Pavement! Hard on the joints, but fast for moving. A little further, and there’s a restaurant selling empanadas. Fuck yeah. Now I won’t have to stop and boil cous cous.

It takes awhile. I wouldn’t have ordered if I knew that, but leaving now would be rude. Oh well; it’s a 20 minute rest I don’t have to justify taking. Afterword I re-start with the most energy I’ve had all day. There’s a sign marking 50 kilometers from Punta Arenas. It’s about 4:00, and I have 7 hours of daylight. That’s cutting it fine. Whatever. I have energy for now, and I’ll get as far as I get.

42 kilometers out! Only a marathon now! Fuck it. I’ll try for tonight. I’ll get there in the dark, but whatever. It wouldn’t be an ultra without at least one really long day. But my best days have been like this. Just deciding to do something slightly crazy.

On cue, a car of Chileans offers a ride. I smile apologetically, explain that I want to walk. I add that I’m crazy. They chuckle, and a gorgeous woman hands me a sandwich and a beer.

Wow. I picked the right country after all. But beer is definitely performance reducing. Who am I kidding. There’s no way I’m not drinking this. When I’m done I start running, with more energy than I’ve had most the day. Who knew? Beer is highly ingestible liquid carbs. Maybe it’s not so bad after all.

I glance back as I’m tying my shoe. It’s a simple view. Ridge after ridge reaching into the ocean, purple with distance. But there’s a meaning that could only come from walking. I came from there. TODAY. On my feet. Carrying all my shit.

To the front, layers of peninsulas jut into the ocean. The furthest is barely off the horizon, and nearly as faint. I’m getting there. TODAY. On my feet. Carrying all my shit.

It’s the most empowering feeling I’ve ever had. Using only my body. Needing only my body. Not a plane or a bus or even a bike. Seeing landscapes rise into view, moving up to them, watching them fade into my past. Chasing the horizon.

That’s why I’m doing this. I’d never get this feeling eating zuviche on a beach. The view tingles through my eyes and into my limbs. It’s a pulse that straightens my back, strengthens my legs. It’s amazing how mental energy can be. Three hours in I was lying on a beach questioning the trip. Four hours on and I’m in an endorphin bliss.

My strength holds for hours. I’m nearing the 25 kilometer mark. I’ve drank a lot at the last river and filled my bladder with less than a liter. There’s another river in a few kilometers, and it’s cool weather. I won’t need much water, and I won’t carry extra. The wind softens a bit as I reach the next hill. This is starting to seem doable! Maybe I can beat the darkness!

Chileans are the Nicest People Ever. I’m not even soliciting rides, and people keep stopping for me. Old couples, single women, families with kids. Offering rides to a strong, scruffy man they don’t know. In the US or Canada, it takes forever getting a ride even when I want it. Now I could use a sign saying I don’t need one! But I’m not annoyed, and I thank each person for stopping. I would have stopped for me. Most people walking down a highway 20 kilometers from the city aren’t there by choice.

I reach 15 kilometers out. The bottoms of my feet hurt, and I’m fading. My mouth has a stickiness. There’s a thickness to my spit, a coarseness. One of the rivers on the map was dry, somewhere I’d counted on. It brought the special suffering of dashed hopes. It’s a weariness, a kind of sadness that saps strength like nothing else. I’m rationing my last half-liter. It’ll be enough to make it, but not pleasantly.

14,600 meters left. It’s a drag, having distance markers every hundred meters. Somehow it makes the trip take longer. I’ll run to the 14 kilometer mark. The pack grates my shoulders. The buckle on the chest strap rubs my sternum. It’s nearly numb from hours of this. 14,200 meters. I zone out of the misery, into hope. There’s a crease in the hills, much bigger than what I’ve seen before. Must be the next river. I keep up the jog, locked on the water source.

13,500 meters. I keep running, drawn to the river. Maybe I’ll get used to running with a pack after all. 12,900. It’s dusky, but I think there’s water in the river-bed. I reach the bridge, tiptoe underneath it.

Water. Clear, flowing, glorious. I sigh with gratitude, a higher-pitched sound than I’ve made in months. I fill the bladder with two liters, and drink one. I struggle down some cheese. I’m losing my appetite, but I know I need it. The day has took it’s toll. 67 kilometers on my feet with a pack, in the wind and sun and drizzle. A huge calorie deficit from the last four days. I’ve quickly lost the heat I’d made running to the river. I’m quite cold now, and tense with each gust of wind.

Moving again helps. But I’m mostly walking now. Drinking water gave me less energy than it should have. It’s almost dark as I pass 10 kilometers. The city lights are clear in the distance, drawing me on.

But life is low-level pain now. My feet hurt. My legs hurt. Somehow, my arms manage to hurt. Every hundred meters is a victory. Every hundred meters is a fight. Lots of people are offering rides now. It’s taking real self control not to accept. To sit back, melt into a seat, be done. I reach a roadside store, and it’s open. There’s canned fish, and cartons of juice. They look glorious. I don’t eat sugar. I haven’t in three years, except during my 100-mile run.

It’s not sugar. It’s fruit juice. It’s not like a candy bar. It’s totally fucking sugar. It’s fucking mango-pineapple juice. I buy it and drink the whole liter. I eat a can of sardines, and move on. My feet hurt like hell the first moments. It’s worse after each rest, and I resolve not to stop again. 6 kilometers.

The shoulder morphs into real sidewalks. I’m in the proper outskirts of the city. I’ve lost the kilometer markers, but there’s a tall light building in the distance. The casino. The hostel’s right there. I hope there’s space. It’s three days earlier than I’d planned on returning. But people stay up late, so I’ll be able to get in and ask. If not, I can use their internet and find something open.

The casino looms, and I see the hostel. 200 meters, and my day is over. There’s grimness in my last steps. I thought my body would strengthen at being almost done. It’s not. It’s starting to weaken, anticipating rest. I reach my goal, and ring the bell.

Nothing happens. Again. I fish out my IPad. It’s only midnight; people should be there now. I ring again. Fuck. Civilization is a drag, in a way. I don’t need a hostel for sleeping, or warmth, or anything survival related. I have everything I need for that on my back. It’s just that I can’t throw up a tent wherever I want in a city.

I’m steeling myself to walk more, and the door opens. It’s another guest, not someone who works there. I go upstairs and learn that the hosts are asleep. I sit down and use the Internet. A bunch of places are full. I was over-confident. I’ll try going to the first hostel I stayed in. They’ll probably be open, and they have a lot of space. It’s two kilometers, and I take a taxi. I’ll go back to the first hostel when I start walking again, but for now I’m racing the clock. It’s 1:00am, and things will start closing soon.

They have exactly one spot. The price is what it was last time, so they’re not pretending it’s only one to charge me more. Not that I’d care at this point.

I’m done.

14 hours, 80 kilometers, a 15 kilo pack. My feet hurt to bear weight. My chest is raw. My shoulders are chafed. My calves have feeling, even unweighted. This trip was about finding my limits, and I’ve found them. Today wasn’t sustainable. I couldn’t do this again tomorrow. But that’s a worry for tomorrow. Thinking is for tomorrow. Consciousness is for tomorrow. Time to sleep.