We spent 13 hours on a bus to Ushuaia, Argentina. We ferried across the straight of Magallan. We squeezed onto a zodiac and crossed the Beagle Channel. We climbed into the interior of Isla Navarino and looked out towards the Southern Sea. There was no one. We counted ourselves lucky to have gaunaco trails beating through the calafate brush and deadfall sticks from the beavers to guy out the tent.
We waited days for a boat back across the channel. We finally departed late in the day. The sun had set. Dusk had arrived and from the looks of it, night was waiting impatiently. Motoring across the channel, I looked west at the final glimmer of light. Glaciated mountains on Isla Hoste beckoned. Miles of primitive coast on the Isla Grande extended westwards, sentinel to no one but a dark Beagle Channel.
I turned north towards the lights of Ushuaia. There were cars on route 3 heading towards Rio Gallegos and eventually Buenos Aires, illuminated cell phone transmission towers decorating the hillside, all the infernal creations of Mankind.
Then we hit a swell and the wind picked up. I didn't look back west.