Into the Spirit World: Patagonia, Arizona

There's something that resonates deeply about the San Rafael Valley and Patagonia, Arizona. It's best seen and experienced by bicycle.

As we drove west on Interstate 10 through the Sonoran Desert, my wife and I couldn’t help but think about what was in store for us. We had driven nearly four hours from Las Cruces, New Mexico, where we had tasted the local fare, ridden the backcountry near Hatch, explored the Rio Grande trails, and attempted to traverse the rocky ascent of Prehistoric Pathways National Monument. But even the vistas of southern New Mexico couldn’t prepare us for what was to come in the mountains of southern Arizona in the small village of Patagonia. 

With Gravel Adventure Field Guides in tow and preparation by way of GCN’s video poignantly titled “Is this America’s Best Gravel Ride?”, we felt like we knew what was in store for us–punchy gravel routes, a cool small-town vibe highlighted by the Patagonia Lumber Company and endeavors by local entrepreneurs Heidi and Zander Ault–but the total experience encapsulated so much more than simple bike rides. It was punctuated by immersion in a community, not predicated on gravel bikes, rides, or vibes, but on a faithful, loving, and welcoming environment not only for Patagonia’s 850 full-time residents, but for anyone who entered the small village at just over 4,000 feet of elevation. 

As we drove the twelve hours home to north-central Texas, we ruminated on how welcoming the environment and community of Patagonia were, but, in the end, anyone who goes to Patagonia goes for a reason.

We planned this trip in October. Looking at our calendar, we knew, as employees of a state institution, that we’d have ample time off during the holidays. We planned to head north into the cold of Wisconsin. Still, upon further review and consultation with Juan De La Roca of Gravel Adventure Field Guide, we decided that a trip to the American Southwest was a better use of our time. We wanted to visit Patagonia, and a glance at the map showed that it was doable–in fact, more feasible than we expected. At a little over 800 miles and 12 hours of drive time, Patagonia is a long day of travel, but an easy one by way of Interstates 20 and 10. After seeking Juan’s advice, we decided to make a stopover in Las Cruces, NM, to explore some of the gravel routes in the region before heading to Arizona. 

Las Cruces: A Pleasant Surprise

Las Cruces was a pleasant surprise. I had only ever driven through on my way to California years ago, en route to an internship in Palm Desert, and my wife, Ashley, had never been. All those years ago, all I could think about was how ugly the terrain was–brown, dead, with little to show except some hills, mountains, cacti, and yucca plants–but my perceptions have changed over the years. As a college student, I didn't particularly care for the stark contrast between the East Texas Piney Woods and the high desert. As an adult, I long for any experience in dry climates. Las Cruces and Patagonia are exactly that (well, so we thought–more on that later). 

At Juan’s recommendation, we spent two full days in Las Cruces, tackling a version of the Hatch - Sierra Alta GAFG route, handling an edited version of the Visit Las Cruces - Prehistoric Trackways route by starting and finishing at our campsite location at Leasburg Dam State Park, and dining (not once, but twice) at Andele’s Dog House in old town Mesilla–the historic center of early Las Cruces’ colonization. And while the views, vistas, and food were everything you would want from a brief stopover in New Mexico’s second-largest city, what awaited us ahead in Patagonia was an experience we won’t soon forget.

Four Thousand Weeks

Recently, I had the idea to convert some of my blog posts and experiences into a podcast in the style of Michael Easter’s 2% Substack series and podcast. In doing so, I looked into how I could monetize the podcast through sponsorships–not to make a fortune, mind you, but to make it worth my while–a side hustle to help make ends meet and turn my passion into some sort of passive income. In doing so, I connected with Jim Santos, owner of Outer Shell, a company specializing in creating thoughtful, waterproof bike gear. Jim and I spoke on the phone for an hour or so. He wasn’t necessarily interested in sponsoring my podcast in the traditional sense, but he gave me something far more valuable that I wouldn’t fully internalize until we landed in Patagonia. It was a book called Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman. 

At Jim’s recommendation, I started listening to the audio version of the book in fits and starts. After all, the premise of the book is that you’re a mortal, you will die, and you don’t have time for everything you think you do. In fact, you’ll likely end up prioritizing things that seemingly matter (work, jobs, degrees, promotions, and finances) in favor of things that really matter and make you happy. It’s not a self-help book in the traditional sense that you’ll feel all warm and fuzzy about your life and what you’ll do with it. Instead, it’s a book that will make you realize that your own mortality and the time you have on this planet are more finite and precious than you ever thought. 

Somewhere east of Midland-Odessa, I decided to restart (for no less than the third time) Burkeman’s book. This time, Ashley was involved and listened to most of the book with me, pausing only for one of her occasional road-trip naps. Four Thousand Weeks started to hit home. The world had become heavy with work priorities, schoolwork (I’m a doctoral student now), and a seemingly never-ending loop of social media and other attention-sucking digital distractions. I needed a fresh start. Not the kind of fresh start that comes with a New Year’s Resolution, but the sort of start that comes with a new perspective on life–something that doesn’t come by simply reading self-help books, meditation, or getting away from it all. No, I needed a reset. Little did I know, a combination of Burkeman’s work and the eye-opening realization that the world had gotten too big was exactly what I needed to reset. Patagonia helped me see that.

Westward to Patagonia

As we drove west on Interstate 10 through what we could only describe as the real-world set of the HBO drama Westworld (a show that we were deeply invested in before they “left” Westworld for the real world and things got weird), I couldn’t help but think, why Patagonia? Sure, the gravel was supposed to be some of the best in the country, but why would anyone settle in a little mountain village perched 2,000 feet above the lower desert below? Why would 850-or-so people call this place home? As we drove through Westworld, that answer seemed less and less clear as we saw less and less vegetation and more bare desert mountains on the horizon. As we turned south onto Arizona Highway 90 and our GMC Canyon's RPMs began to climb as we headed relentlessly uphill, the answers were even less clear. Somewhere, though, as we turned west-southwest on Highway 82 toward Patagonia, something started to change. All of a sudden, larger shrubs, then mesquite trees, surrounded us, then small trees, before finally landing in Patagonia. 

I should have done more research on our destination, outside of just the gravel scene. Patagonia, much like the area surrounding Fort Davis, Texas, in the Chihuahuan desert, is a sky island characterized by increased vegetation, slightly more rainfall, and a diverse population of flora and fauna, far more varied than the surrounding desert. The answers to my questions became almost immediately apparent as we navigated through the tiny village, surrounded by conifers, sycamores, oaks, and some of the largest mesquite trees you’ll ever see. Patagonia was a haven, a settler’s dream in the American Wild West, and a place where anyone who would be so brave to venture off the beaten path would realize could easily become more than a mere stopover–it could become a home, and has for generations of Patagonians. But even as the reality of why someone would settle in Patagonia, Arizona, became clearer, we still could never have expected what we would see or experience in the days to come.

We arrived in Patagonia two days before Christmas Day (Christmas Eve Eve, if you will). We set up camp at our Hipcamp, the Sanctuary at Sonoita Creek, a charming, small campground built on what seemed to be the last corner of Patagonia, just a few hundred yards from the Paton Center for Hummingbirds. Aside from a gravel haven, Patagonia is a migratory haven for hundreds of species of birds passing through on their earthly journeys, just as we were passing through on our own.

Patagonia is a town where things aren’t open 24/7/365. In fact, much of the village is quiet and closed for the first few days of the week. The village knows it's essentially a weekend pilgrimage for many from the Tucson area and surrounding small towns, so, understandably, there isn’t much to do on the Tuesday before Christmas for travelers. We spent our time setting up our Runaway Range Runner, ARB tent room, and getting our campsite in order. We tidied up from a morning spent chucking our belongings in the back of our truck and inside the camper in an effort to get out of Las Cruces and hit the road. It was a hasty exit. Our camp host, Joni or perhaps Joanie, gave us the “tour” of the Sanctuary while offering fresh-baked cookies. There was a community Christmas Eve gathering, with a cookie exchange the next night, at Patagonia Lumber Company, so she was busy baking ginger snaps and chocolate-chip cookies for the event. Joni invited us to come.

After fueling with Joni’s amazing cookies, we strolled through town. We walked past The Wagon Wheel, noted by Joni that it was where you’d find many of the locals and a burger made with local beef–a claim, she said, that the Wagon Wheel wasn’t presumptuous about. Just across Highway 82, affectionately known as Naugle Avenue by locals, we found the town’s charming center, highlighted by a quarter-mile or more park with a meandering trail lined with pages from a storybook placed there by the Patagonia Public Library. Further on, the historic railroad depot turned municipal court building punctuated the eastern end of the park pathway, but it didn’t stop there. The Patagonia Train Track Trail continues east, making a loop before returning to the town’s park–a relic and a reminder of the New Mexico and Arizona Railroad that carried people, manufactured goods, and mining essentials until the early 1960s. There’s a fascinating history behind both the rail depot and its signal, both of which locals saved in separate efforts seeking to preserve pieces of Patagonia’s history.

The Patagonia Rail Depot, saved by Patagonia locals when Arizona Highway 82 was constructed.

Just across the street from the depot is the Patagonia Lumber Company, a former field office of the Arizona Timber Company and now the town’s regular gathering place on Wednesday through Sunday afternoons and evenings. Just next door is Patagonia Bikes, possibly one of the most efficient uses of space I’ve ever seen–a complete bike shop housed in approximately 400 or fewer square feet, complete with hip merch, a friendly owner named Noe, and a fully functioning espresso bar in the back with street access. East on McKeown is Quail Covey, a quaint coffee bar with light breakfasts; west and back toward town, Gathering Grounds for wholesome breakfasts, the Velvet Elvis Pizza Company, a hotel, and several boutiques and thrift stores line the street. Notably, the offices for South32 Hermosa–a mining project situated in the Patagonia Mountains just south of town–offers a presence and information about the “only advanced mine development project in the United States to date that could produce two federally designated critical minerals—manganese and zinc—both of which are essential minerals for powering the nation’s energy future,” according to the company’s website.

A walk through Patagonia is a walk through time–one characterized by the settlement of the western frontier of the nation, mining, and European exploration dating back to the 1500s. What is noticeably absent from Patagonia is the weight of the world. The heaviness we all feel in our 9-to-5, Monday-through-Friday lives doesn’t seem to exist at 4,000 feet in southern Arizona. In fact, many people who live in the area do so humbly, quietly, making enough to live their lives and little more. Some live in tents and campers in the nearby Coronado National Forest and travel around from time to time to see different parts of the area. No doubt, those nomadic types understand the value of their four thousand weeks and optimize it in a way many of us likely never will and will never understand.

Wheels Down: Rainy Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve came–our first opportunity to ride the routes of Patagonia. Unfortunately, what also came was rain–a welcome reprieve to the otherwise dry conditions conventional with a high desert climate. Just a sprinkle of precipitation fell throughout the day, which (we figured anyway) was hardly enough to dampen the roads or our spirit for adventure. After all, just about every piece of ground underneath every tree, our truck, or an awning was bone dry. The truth, though, was that in the desert, it doesn’t take much rain to make roads wetter than they should be. We set out to ride The Spirit World 30–one of the routes of the annual Spirit World gravel race held each November in Patagonia. The route called for a trip out of town up Harshaw Road, where, a few miles in, the road turns to gravel past a low water crossing that transitions into a stream before turning into a gravel climb past the South32 Hermosa project, then back down through the gorgeous San Rafael Valley, meandering in and out of Coronado National Forest land. 

This ride, though, was doomed from the beginning. Enough rain had fallen on the paved roads that by the time we reached the gravel-and-rushing-stream crossing, we were soaked from head to toe. We turned around, headed back to camp, and sought to warm our bones before the Christmas Eve gathering at PLC.

This is where the story takes a turn. Throughout our first 24 hours in Patagonia, we only scratched the surface of the town. Though beautiful, the lingering questions about what makes the village so unique and so appealing to so many people remained. PLC was hosting the evening’s Christmas festivities, highlighted by live music from 4 PM - 7 PM and food consisting of “Appetizers & Other Nosh with a Cookie Exchange” starting at 4:30. We moseyed, as one does in Patagonia, down to the Lumber Company just in time for the festivities to begin. 

The Patagonia Lumber Company is the village's evening gathering place. Patagonia Bikes is next door (to the right).

As we walked down McKeown Street, the sights and sounds of Holiday Cheer were in the air. Christmas lights lit up PLC, the patio was abuzz with activity, and local musician Mike Hogan was leading a crew of whoever wanted to partake in singing traditional Christmas carols–it was a delightful start to what would be a most memorable evening.

Patagonia Lumber Company, much like its next-door neighbor Patagonia Bikes, is small inside–large enough only to house a few people standing in line at the bar. A menu of on-tap craft beers adorns the wall behind the register while a commercial refrigerator holds dozens of craft beers, wines, and non-alcoholic fare. There’s something for everyone. Along the 90-degree bar, PLC staff set out an extravagant spread of charcuterie, meatballs in an Instant Pot, crackers, spreads, and virtually any snack item you could imagine. Along two walls of the PLC, windows can be opened fully to let in fresh air, enhancing the vibe, making the space feel larger, and opening the entire business up to the community. Outside on the patio, PLC staff set up a table for the community cookie exchange. It didn’t disappoint. Freshly-baked cookies, sweets, and treats were stacked high for consumption by any passerby (I passed by many times). The cookies, too, did not disappoint.

But as the evening went on and the Christmas carols gave way to Mike’s one-person acoustic show, it became clear what makes Patagonia so unique–such a desirable place to be. People of all ages showed up from the community, but there was a notable number of seniors in an otherwise hipster world. According to our host, Joni, Patagonia aligns with much of what makes for a productive Senior Blue Zone–places where community design emphasizes longevity for older adults. Walking, hiking, and cycling trails dominate, but community and (according to Joni) over 80 non-profits help keep people active, involved, and engaged deep into their later years. It’s no surprise. Even we, in our late 30s, found a renewal of mind, body, and soul that neither of us was expecting. It’s the type of environment–the type of community–that welcomes, loves, and cares for one another no matter a person’s background, income, or way of life. Everyone is welcome, and everyone is someone in Patagonia. 

Entering the Spirit World

Christmas Day arrived without much fanfare from our little camper. We didn’t do Christmas gifts this year–an encouragement from my mom and other family members, and something I had long sought to eliminate. After all, we, as people and Americans, spend plenty of money and purchase more than enough goods for ourselves throughout the year. There’s no need to add more, which felt especially fitting in Patagonia, where everything seems limited–water, crops, housing, and space. It only felt right to start our Christmas Day with something that required a minimalist approach–a bike ride through the spirit world.

We departed the campsite, sun shining, and headed back up Harshaw Road. We continued past the stream, crossing into the mud. 

“How could so little rain create such muddy conditions?” I asked myself over and over again–unaware of the truth behind all of the water on the roads. 

We crossed no fewer than two additional low-water crossings. In ordinary times, these water crossings only fill during a rainfall-induced flash flood. 

“But it only sprinkled yesterday,” I said to myself. 

We continued riding uphill through sloppy mud, our bikes caked with dirt and debris from what would generally be a beautiful, smooth gravel road. Finally, past South32 Hermosa, the road miraculously dried up–pristine gravel for the rest of the route. We meandered up the mountain, finally peaking at around 5,400 feet near Guadalupe Flat–the highest point of the route–where we would then begin a gradual descent into the San Rafael Valley. The visuals were stunning. A tree-lined road with ample shade for hot summer days greeted us all the way up, but on the southern side of the mountain, conifers gave way to a forest of oak trees–an unexpected transition as vistas of the San Rafael took our breath away.

The San Rafael Valley is unique. From the impressive beauty of the sky island of Patagonia, the San Rafael is equally and oppositely beautiful. Rolling hills and almost plain-like features with ample native grasses and a backdrop of mountains to the east make this one of the most picturesque rides I’ve ever been on. Heading south in the valley leads to the Mexican border, which locals reminded us has seen an uptick in border wall traffic, even though few attempt to cross or even dare to survive in this otherwise sparse desert region. US Border Patrol vehicles frequent the otherwise lifeless roads.

Routes from The Spirit World race traverse the San Rafael and flirt with the Mexican border.

Routes from The Spirit World race traverse the San Rafael and flirt with the Mexican border near the ghost town of Lochiel–steeped in history of European exploration and Mexican history but guarded by private property where, as one regular Patagonia rider told us, “there’s a guy down there who will shoot you, but he wasn’t there today.” We didn’t take the chance.

On the way back into Patagonia, you traverse Harshaw Creek Road, which is paralleled and crossed by the eponymous creek it’s named after. Trees again line the road, providing ample shade that one could only imagine would be a welcome reprieve in the heat of a Sonoran summer. Harshaw Creek has clearly been running for quite some time. Green foliage lined both sides of the creek–something rarely seen in such a dry climate. 

Remember all of the mud we encountered up Harshaw Road? Water pumped out from South32 Hermosa–over one million gallons daily, with authorization for over six million, as the company dewaters the mountain in order to start operations by 2027. In an area where water is its most precious resource, South32 discharges clean, pure mountain water at an alarming rate into local runoffs, streams, and draws. Water that, I could only think, could be used to nourish the land and its people, but instead will give way to “critical minerals” for “renewable energy”--synonyms often used for things that are far from renewable or green.

In any case, whether the result of mining operations or natural occurrence, Harshaw Creek ran with clean, pure water on the southeastern side of the Patagonia Mountains as the San Rafael Valley yielded to the Coronado Forest. The juxtaposition of The Spirit World routes in terms of flora and fauna is stark. In just a few miles, a rider experiences lush, green forests only to be replaced by brown, hearty grasses. Views range from a curved road carved into the gouge of a mountain to views of mountains a dozen or more miles away–expansive, yet finite. It’s that very finality that makes the spirit world so unique and so mysterious. In our four thousand weeks on this earth, to experience one of them in Patagonia is life-altering.

The San Rafael Valley provides stunning views for miles.

It’s clear why Heidi and Zander Ault named their event The Spirit World–it’s precisely that–a journey into the spirit realm. As you ride, or hike, or walk, or even sit in the Patagonia Mountains or the San Rafael Valley or any of the other surrounding areas, you can’t help but feel both lost and alone and immensely full of an energy you can’t describe. Riding through the San Rafael, as you breathe in thinner-than-normal air, is a breath toward freedom and a breath of the Spirit or spirits that inhabit the land, marked by souls who have roamed these parts for eons. The Spirit World is just that–an entry into the spirit world, and anyone who ventures to give themselves to that realm will understand precisely why. Even today, locals in Patagonia remain deeply connected to the land. They know that Mother Nature gives and takes away quickly, both justly and unjustly. They understand that living in the Patagonia Mountains is an honor, fortune, and fate–it’s not necessarily a choice, it’s a lifestyle built around community, love, and caring for one another. 

Locals we spoke with shared concern about the South32 Hermosa project. Some reluctantly latch onto the lingo about how it will boost the local economy and increase jobs. This is false, and always will be with construction projects. We hear the same in Stephenville, Texas, every time a new major project starts up. “This project will infuse millions of dollars and create hundreds of jobs,” the local pundits will say. It isn’t true. Those “jobs” are construction jobs brought by the companies contracted to complete the work, just as South32 is bringing in hundreds of employees who are staged on the eastern edge of Patagonia and further up the mountain. Those “jobs” don’t spend their money in Patagonia; they take it with them every time they leave. They don’t call Patagonia home; they have homes elsewhere. The spirit world? A fleeting thought from them.

Final Day in Patagonia

Our last day in Patagonia arrived. On Christmas Day, the day before, we traversed the muddy muck of Harshaw Road, were greeted with vistas of the San Rafael Valley, and experienced the meandering creekside descent back into Patagonia. Still, for Boxing Day, we decided to stay in the San Rafael and head toward Lochiel on The Spirit World 50 route in reverse while avoiding the now always-muddy Harshaw Road ascent. Our intended route would have taken us up the same climb from the San Rafael we had descended the day before, then down the back side of Harshaw Road toward Lochiel. To cut about 20 miles off the route, we drove and parked about 9.5 miles from Patagonia in the Coronado National Forest.

We parked the truck, readied our gear, and set off for what was undoubtedly going to be a ride full of big views and the closest we would get to the Mexican border. As we meandered up Harshaw Creek Road, a group of cyclists caught us–a man, his wife, and his father, who overwinter in Tucson but maintain a cabin as a summer residence in Boulder. Digital nomads, and clearly avid cyclists, the group caught us with ease just as we were about to turn west to head up the oak-lined climb out of the San Rafael. They had a different route in mind. Continue to head south, through the San Rafael on predominantly rolling terrain before ascending Harshaw Road and descending back into the valley on Apache Road. It was a serendipitous meeting–our alternate route would have taken us up and down the same climb and, with several days of riding in our legs at altitude, that wasn’t the wisest choice.

It’s hard to tell where the spirit world begins and where the physical world ends. Humans have asked the question since the frontal lobe evolved: What is life, and why are we here? This isn’t to say that the answers lie on the plains of the San Rafael or atop the Patagonia Mountains, but you can tell where the questions may very well have started from the indigenous people of the Sonoran Desert. The San Rafael Valley is open, beautiful, rolling, and surrounded by mountains. While we never ventured out there on a clear night sky, one could only imagine just how stunning the cosmos are, especially to someone so in tune with the land and celestial bodies. Even during broad daylight on a bicycle, you can sense and feel the spirit world calling to you–epochs and eons of spirits roaming, protecting, and speaking from the land.

The rolling hills of The Spirit World 50 route, as you traverse the valley floor, are just as stunning as the mountains across the way. Huge bunches of brown native grass flow like sand on the ocean floor as the wind gently, sometimes violently, blows across the valley. Frequently a fire hazard, wildfires were far from our minds as the unseasonably warm Sonoran sun shone down, warming our bones after a few days of chilly, wet weather and cool evenings. We were at the door of the spirit world, riding a route that surely hundreds, if not thousands, of indigenous people, settlers, and explorers had walked over the centuries. It was a great way to spend a few hours of our four thousand weeks.

Our fellow cyclists continued to head south, well ahead of our pace. We reached crossroads with little to navigate us except lonely brown signs pointing the way and distance (inaccurately, we discovered) toward border towns such as Lochiel and Nogales. Border patrol vehicles monitored the area, a clear sign that we were close to the international boundary. Lochiel was designated by little more than a wooden sign, a Little Free Library box, and the Lochiel Schoolhouse–a historic building dating back to the early 1880s and recently restored over 12 years by the Patagonia Museum. It was all very surreal. Pancho Villa–the Mexican revolutionary and political figure–and his men once rustled cattle in the area of Lochiel. It truly was the wildest of the wild American West.

Past the Lochiel signpost, a large concrete cross honors Fray Marcos de Niza, a Spanish missionary and explorer, best known as the first European to travel west of the Rocky Mountains in the 1500s. However, historians debate some of his roles and impacts. The monument stands on the path he took north, searching for wealthy civilizations beyond Mexico. The day we passed by, several cyclists were taking refuge from the sun in the monument’s shade–a good place to rest. From that point, the climbing began in earnest from the valley floor all the way up Harshaw Road. A few miles of sandy conditions made pedaling and steering a challenge, but soon that sand gave way to hardpack, while the road itself grew increasingly uphill before us. We passed signs for Duquesne–once the headquarters for the Duquesne Mining and Reduction Company, founded by George Westinghouse of Westinghouse Electric Company. Some ruins remain of the old ghost town. 

Lochiel and the valley's warmth felt like a distant memory as we climbed nearly 1,500 feet to the intersection of Harshaw and Apache Roads. Past Washington Camp, location of the reduction plant for Duquesne Mining, the temperatures began to drop as high-level clouds and a cool breeze funneled through the mountains. It was time to finish and get back to camp. A right turn onto Apache Road sent us downward back into the San Rafael, and again into beautiful vistas of the valley and distant mountains. This time, though, the descent seemed rockier, with more washboard and more bumps than the day before. It didn’t matter; we were in the spirit world.

We returned to the truck–battered and rattled from all of the descending–then loaded our bikes to make the nine-ish mile drive back to Patagonia. There was live music on tap at PLC for our final evening. It was to be a celebration for us; we did it. We conquered The Spirit World, rode through the mud and adversity, and looked forward to some relaxation. On the way back to camp, we decided that we would make a cannonball run back to Texas–the 12-hour trip in one fell swoop the next day. But not until we enjoyed our final evening in Patagonia with friends we never knew we had among a community of people who stand ready to help one another, support one another, and foster the uniquely human relationships we all need.

Fading Light into the Spirit World

Patagonia won’t save you; it’s not a quick fix for a restless heart. But it can change you if you open yourself to it. What this place offers is perspective–a rare clarity in a world heavy with obligations and noise. In Patagonia, perched 4,000 feet above sea level, life feels stripped down to its essentials: community, nature, and a timelessness that can’t be seen, only experienced. That’s the gift Patagonia gives; it’s the gift of the spirit world.

As the last light faded over the San Rafael Valley, I understood what The Spirit World truly means. It’s not just a route or a race; it’s a reminder that our four thousand weeks are finite, and how we spend them matters. Patagonia didn’t save me, but it gave me something better–a renewed sense of what’s real.