A sane person would turn back.
He’d heard the phrase before, whispered by a gaucho in a dusty bar in El Chaltén. “It’s not a place,” the old man had said, chewing on a piece of dried lamb. “It’s a decision.” Hacia Rutas Salvajes
No map marks them. No app finds them. But those who turn, who choose the unmapped way, sometimes find a flat stone by a lagoon with these words carved into it: A sane person would turn back
“You were never off course. You were just off the map.” ” the old man had said
Not out of anger. Out of release.