Selected passages from To the End of the World
60 days alone through South America
At seventy-five, I traveled alone through South America. Some people saw it as a crisis. For me, it was the opposite: proof that I was still hungry for life.
From the glaciers of Patagonia to the Galapagos Islands, I encountered vast landscapes, unexpected kindness, exhaustion, uncertainty and moments of pure joy. I did not leave to escape my life. I left to feel it more directly.
The journey into French Valley
The extreme hiking day. Long anticipated for days. And at the same time slightly feared. Preparations begin at 5:30. Prepare the feet. Put on the knee support stocking. Morning routine. Meditation.
The ride across the glacier lake glittering in the morning sun is spectacular though. Mountains. Glaciers. Light. This unbelievable Patagonian vastness. Even the loudest mountain fanatics suddenly become quiet.
On the opposite shore the actual trek into French Valley finally begins. My guide immediately sets a surprisingly brisk pace. Eight to nine hours of hiking. And it is better not to miss the boat at five o’clock. Otherwise another four hours on foot are waiting. Better not.
I pant along behind him and catch brief glimpses of this overwhelming landscape between climbs, rocks, and bridges. The trail is filled with obstacles: missing planks on bridges, rocky passages, streams, scree, small climbing sections. After about one and a half hours the first break. Deep pulls from the water bottle. A few nuts. Continue.
Then it becomes truly exhausting. Steep hills. Slippery paths. Again and again new lakes. Beautiful. But there is hardly time to truly look at them for long. On top of that, extremely motivated hiking groups constantly overtake us at turbo speed. At times I feel more as if I am participating in an international mountain race than a nature hike.
Knowing when to turn back
After more sweat-inducing ascents we finally reach Campo Italia. My knee, however, is meanwhile protesting with very clear messages. STOP. What exactly are we doing here? For a brief moment I think about the descent – and internally say goodbye to the idea of going all the way to the top.
Another hour farther – and suddenly a clearing opens with an enormous panorama. That is completely enough. Together we decide to rest here and unpack the generous lunch package. And suddenly something interesting happens:
The earlier one turns around, the closer one feels to the landscape. The crowds slowly disappear. The noises become fewer. Nature regains space.
While we eat, naturally we also talk about the tourist rush at the end of the world. During high season, my guide explains, the line of hikers stretches far up through the valley. Honestly, the late-season version is already more than enough for me.
So we begin the descent early enough. And the decision is rewarded immediately. Suddenly it becomes quieter. The large hiking groups are now either ahead of us or behind us. The wind becomes audible again. The crashing avalanches. The water. Patagonia regains its dignity.
The descent lasts another four hours and slowly pushes my knee toward the limit of its functionality. My guide silently observes my growing misery for a while and finally takes my backpack from me without a word. Thank you. Exactly such gestures remain in memory.
When we finally return to the boat after a total of eight hours, even simply standing up already hurts. But at the same time I feel this strange happiness that only physical borderline experiences can create. Not self-torture. Not obsession with performance. Rather this deep feeling: I am alive.
The return trip across the glacier lake feels almost surreal in its calmness. Most of the hikers sit there silently, simply staring into the landscape. Even the toughest mountain fanatics now look slightly destroyed.
Conversations after the trail
After another thirty-five minutes of rattling gravel road we finally arrive back at the KAU Hotel. And suddenly the room becomes something entirely different than merely a hotel room. A small paradise. Shower. Fresh clothes. Silence.
At seven o’clock I sit once again at my panoramic table while casually taking care of important messages and emails on the iPad. Then suddenly an American couple around sixty invites me to join their table. Later I bring my dessert over and we immediately begin talking.
We talk about travel, work, relationships, aging, freedom, and why some people eventually stop being curious. An astonishingly good conversation. After half an hour, however, I say goodbye. The bed is calling very clearly by now.
What came home with me
This journey taught me how to wonder again. Not only about the world but also about how much of the world can still fit inside myself. I set out to see landscapes, experience cities, search for adventure. What I found was something else: a new openness. To people. To encounters. To contradictions. To beauty. To exhaustion. To everything unfinished. It was not only the human encounters that made this journey so special – although many of them will stay with me: the guides, the drivers, the random conversations in bars, boats, and airports, the laughter of strangers, the spontaneous closeness without suspicion.
It was also the encounter with a world that kept revealing itself to me again and again. With landscapes larger than my imagination. With cities full of contradictions. With a nature that can be both indifferent and overwhelming. With cultures that often live life more directly, more sensually, more courageously than we do in Europe. This journey exhausted me at times. Overwhelmed me at times. Pushed me to my limits. And perhaps that is exactly why it mattered.
Because perhaps aliveness begins when comfort no longer dulls our senses. I am not returning as a different person. But perhaps as someone who looks more carefully again. Who feels again how precious curiosity is. How precious movement is. How precious wonder is. In the end, one thing above all remains for me: gratitude. For these weeks. For this intensity. For all the people who accompanied me. And for a world that is still large enough to surprise me.
Today, months after my return, people sometimes ask me what this journey did to me. The most honest answer is probably this: It reminded me how alive the world still is. Not only Patagonia. Not only the Galápagos Islands. Not only the Andes. But people. Conversations. Smells. Cities. Encounters. Coincidences. That unexpected sense of wonder that suddenly returns once you step outside the familiar.
Maybe that is the real secret. Not staying young. But staying curious. Because as long as something can still surprise us, life has not become smaller. Maybe aging does not begin with the years. Maybe it begins when we decide we have already seen everything. Today, I believe that less than ever.
The world is still full of wonders. We only have to set out and meet them.
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