Cape Horn -- the uttermost end of the Americas. Here, Nature seemingly ran short of the "stuff of continents," like a baker with the last bits of icing in a piping bag. Now each stroke and squeeze is measured and considered. A dabble here, a line there, chunky bits of sheer cliffs and ragged granite peaks, where mists are shredded and the wind howls in angry frustration, whipping up the frothy waves that break the rocks with a timeless patience.

We were here today at Cape Horn, a wild land of albatross and giant petrel, dwarf tree and compact cushion plant, their hard, tiny leaves huddled together for warmth and protection. Cape Horn, where every sunrise seems to be a miracle and every sunset a triumph. Cape Horn, where ships lie broken, and their shattered, rotting timbers mark the final peace of too many souls lost at sea.

After lunch we made a landing on a cobble beach, climbed a long stair of weathered wood, and walked across a somber moor to stand beneath the monument that marks land's end, beyond which there is only the untamed sea with its merciless, icy depths. But wait! Did I say somber? I'm wrong! There's a bright flower, and a white flower, and a yellow flower. And there's a delicate clump of tiny red berries, and a bird, a curious rayadito almost in my hand, and a soaring caracara. Above us a bright sun dances among white puffy clouds and a light breeze freshens the sea.

Cape Horn is not an end, but a beginning, a doorway to the beautiful and the wild. Today we have crossed that threshold and we begin to feel the magic that has stirred the souls and imaginations of so many before us. It is sunset and we ache for sunrise, even as we savor today, our soon-to-be memories of tomorrow.