I began weeping shortly before entering Río Grande, watching the southbound pavement disappear beneath the van, realizing how precious little remained.  I crossed over a bridge and soon pulled up to the Casa Azul de Graciela.  It was indeed a blue house, a welcoming, warm and cozy one with hippie decorations, comfortable old couches, and surprisingly good wifi.  It had a nice kitchen with gas on during the day.  It was a warm, mellow shelter from a wind that I am sure rarely relents down here.

    The bathroom and shower were in a separate building outside.  It was a cold, punishing walk.

    In addition to the three Brazilians in a van with whom I shared the driveway, there were four people on bicycles: a couple from Brazil, a Japanese-Brazilian (crazy to hear him speak Portuguese, English, and then Spanish - his worst), and a fella from Hamburg.  The German and Japanese-Brazilian had met and were sharing a bit of the road together.

    I asked Graciela if there were any restaurants open this late on a Sunday. She promptly piled me into her van and took me to a place for takeout.  On the way, she told me she was worried about the cops cuz she had some pot plants inside.  Um, what?  Where do you have pot plants?  Oh, right where everyone is.  Don't say anything.  Ha ha whoa.

    I ordered a milanesa and a dozen empanadas.  It was the only thing I ate for the next 4-5 meals.

    I spent most of my days there on the couch, plugged in, variously beginning the painful task of selling the van and researching and sending queries about a cruise to Antarctica.  I was just so close.  They both served as partial distractions from the imminent and heartbreaking end of the road, a sad truth I could no longer avoid at night, as the wind blew in off the water, down the tunnel of the driveway between the houses.

    On my last morning there, I headed outside for a shower.  There was no hot water.  Its pilot light had gone out, likely due to the window that wouldn’t close.  Three matches later, it was restarted, and gave me a trickle of warm water, which was no match for the cold blowing through the window.  I had to stand directly beneath the spigot for any warmth, which was gone the instant the water was turned off.

    Back inside, after a few cheek kisses to Graciela, I was on the road to Tolhuín, the last stop before the end of the road.  She had suggested Kau Karskam, a hostel owned by a former art classmate of hers.  Edgardo had a lovely little oasis amidst rough dirt roads, houses with faded paint and battered wood.

    The wifi was terrible, but Edgardo said the bakery down the street had a good signal.  Panadería La Unión was the busiest bakery I have ever seen.  I was in no shape to deal with the stress of taking a number and delivering an exact order as fast as humanly possible.  I don’t know these treats.  I don’t know what I want.  I have questions.  The girl at the counter laughed and told me to relax.  You relax!

    I plugged in and reviewed responses to my Antarctica queries.  The cheapest option was to share a cabin with 2-3 people for an 8–12-day tour at an average daily cost of $850, for a total cost of $6800-$10,200.  In the end – yes, I was close, and I very well might never be this close again – but to spend that kind of money would fly in the unpainted face of my mostly modest sojourn.  A 12-day cruise would cost me roughly what the past six months on the road had cost me.  I let go of Antarctica and stayed my simple course.

    I immediately felt relief and returned to Kau Karskam, where I made a big batch of pasta, lentils, and vegetables.  I ate and chatted with Edgardo, a guy on a motorcycle from Chile, and a young Austrian – an electrician who would work just long enough to afford travel, go until the money was gone, then start over.  And there was another guy there who put my feat into perspective.  As proud as I was to have traveled from Billings, Montana, he had traveled from Homer, Alaska.  On a bicycle.  A fact that equally impressed and diminished me.

    I woke up on February 15, 2018, fourteen months to the day that I had left, and drove the last 105    km (65 mi) of the last road in the world, Argentina Route #3.  I passed rivers and lakes and some sort of South American coyote.  The land ended with a beautiful bang, as the Tierra del Fuego showed itself green and brown with fields and peaks and trees that seemed to have their own stories to tell.  It was grey and there was mist, both of which seemed representative of this part of the dream.  As I had so many times before, I tried to hold onto the moments in these miles, but they too slipped away.  I scrambled for a grip, pulling over to freeze it in photographs.

    And suddenly, I was there.  The end of the road.  I was somewhat surprised that the land did not stop abruptly at the edge, beyond which was nothing.  I had dreamed of ghost-riding the Bestia off a cliff and into the ocean.  Alas, it was simply a rather unimpressive, non-descript port town, where the land simply slipped into the sea.  Tough crowd.

    If there were ever a moment and a place where one picture could not tell the whole story, this was it.  It had never been so obvious that the destination should pale in comparison to the journey.  In this case, 35,261 km (21,910 mi).

    I rented a hotel room for three nights, cooked up some steak, visited Tierra del Fuego National Park, and lingered, lost at the end of the world.