to the ends of the earth

Sometimes it feels like that -- alone in the great no-where. No more compass points. No more handholds. No more kinship or loneliness. And after a while, even the alone-ness loses its meaning.

Sometimes going to the ends of the earth is the only way to become friends with the earth beneath your feet.

In Alaska, Mitch Seavey described his 1,000-mile victory as being "for all the gentlemen of a certain age" when he became, at 53, the oldest man ever to win the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race. One thousand miles with ten dogs ... finishing in nine days, seven hours and 39 minutes.

I too applaud the very-visible accomplishment and yet how could I know what Seavey actually accomplished? The dark nights, the hallucinations, the uncertainty, the yearning, the endlessness that seemed never to end ... how could I possibly know? I applaud as if I knew, but the fact is that I don't know.

And yet too, although it may not be the Iditarod, I think there are those who, in their own lives and without press coverage, take up some similar challenge, a challenge that might well kill them, and yet a challenge that must be met. There is nothing to do but set out and so ... they set out. There is no knowing if the adventure will last nine days or nine years or nine centuries or just fifteen minutes. There is no knowing: To set out is just -- of necessity -- to set out.

The dogs of determination rise up and run and never look back.

They already know the earth beneath their feet.

And they wag their tails.