I grew up at the edge of an ocean. In our living room, a plate glass picture window framed the harbor that oriented our little house. When, decades later, I awoke in my tent anchored to the peat and tussock of Tierra del Fuego, that sense-memory returned. Framed by the tent flaps, my view stretched out towards the hills and the early sunrise. Horses grazed on my front lawn, and the wind — gentle, now — carried the scent of fresh coffee.
Next came the voices — familiar, each identifiable, with the quiet, unhurried rhythm of people who aren’t all that eager to leave.
I rose, brushed my teeth while standing in the grass, talking to the horses as the sky brightened overhead. Gradually, I left my tent and made my way over to the simple hut where we had gathered for dinner the night before, where the plaque asked something of us: Take care here, it says. Tend it, for those who come after.
The ride that day was to return to where we started, at Estancia San José. By nightfall, we were gathered again in the shearing shed turned home — a place that transforms wanderers into community, strangers into kin.
We would scatter soon enough, of course, absorbed back into worlds far afield from here. But not quite yet. So that night, our last night, a celebration emerged, with singing and dancing, a toast here and there, food cooked on the open fire, laughter, and stories of the adventure we’d shared.