Andrea and I left El Calafate, Argentina, and crossed into Chile. The road signs said we were on Ruta del Fin de Mundo, the End of the World Route. We reached the entrance to Torres del Paine National Park, and I could already see the massive granite towers in the distance. The wind was sharp and biting, but the sun was welcoming.
We came across a mother puma playing with her two cubs in the tall, dry grass. As we watched them, a van pulled up next to us. An older, heavyset man wearing flip-flops and shorts hopped out. "Hi, my name’s Tom," his southern accent sounded like it was from Alabama. "This is my wife and two daughters. That’s Olivia, and that’s Emily.” Andrea and I both said “Hi” in unison. Tom walked toward me, then looked down and noticed my license plate. "You drove that thing here?" he asked. “Yeah, all the way from Kentucky,” I replied, sheepishly grinning. "Is that right? Cool," he said. His response made me realize, for the first time, how far from home I really was.
Andrea and I explored the park over the next few days, but our time was short. Andrea’s return flight was booked out of Ushuaia, Argentina. Again, we were on the road and heading south. It was raining as we rolled into Punta Arenas, a town made of concrete and metal, built to survive the wind and the cold. We opted to spend some money on a warm room and a hot shower for the night. Andrea found a French-inspired stone and glass palace called Palacio Sara Braun, with twenty-foot-tall ceilings, ornate moldings, and a massive bed. It was quite a change from sleeping in the truck.
It was a cold, foggy morning as we boarded the ferry across the famously unpredictable Strait of Magellan. The waters were choppy enough that I had to steady myself against the wall while moving around the boat. Andrea sat outside and fought the wind, hoping for a glimpse of a whale or dolphin, but saw nothing. We drove off the ferry in Porvenir and took the sandy, less-traveled coastal route toward Argentina. Before long, we reached the border crossing at San Sebastián, a small village nestled along the Atlantic Ocean. From there, we climbed up and over the slushy Paso Garibaldi before dropping down into our destination, Ushuaia. We had reached the “End of the World.” But in reality, it was just the end of the road, the end of the Pan-American Highway, and the end of Andrea’s journey. Her flight home was the next day.
I dropped Andrea off at the Ushuaia airport and became a solo traveler once again.
The following afternoon, I dropped Andrea off at the Ushuaia airport and became a solo traveler once again. Now, I had to figure out how to get both my truck and myself back to Kentucky. Based on recommendations from other travelers, I reached out to a shipping company in Montevideo, Uruguay. At first, the idea of heading all the way to Uruguay seemed like a ridiculous detour, but it was by far my best option. I was adding 2,000 miles and a new country to my trip.
The drive to the Port of Montevideo took five very long days. The landscape blurred as I focused solely on getting there safely. By the time I arrived, I felt a mix of relief and unease. The truck would be strapped into a container and shipped off to Houston, Texas, where I would eventually be reunited with it. But for now, I had to trust the process. I handed over my keys, packed everything I thought I needed into a backpack, and walked into town to find a hotel for the night. I flew back to Kentucky that same week. It would take three months before the truck arrived in the United States.
I returned to the familiarity of life back home. People asked me how the trip went, they’d ask 'Was it worth it?' To be honest, I felt incomplete. I couldn’t shake the fact that I hadn’t finished the entire Pan-American Highway. Back in 2019, when I was in Alaska in the bus, I turned around just after crossing the Arctic Circle. I hadn’t completed the stretch of the highway that ends in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. It bothered me, like a puzzle missing a piece. After only a few weeks at home, I began planning my return to Alaska.
