Sitting on a small rocky island miles off shore in the southern Sea of Cortez, waiting for a storm to blow over. There was a little shrine built into the rocks with a few old burnt out candles and a weathered painting of the virgin Mary in there, just deep enough to be sheltered from the elements. Some of the old Mexican fishermen would go there from time to time, but it was barely ever set foot on according to our old panga captain. We pulled into a tiny sandy cove on that island for shelter and to get out of the roaring sea, sat there for a good while waiting for the wind to die down. I was smoking a little cigar, sipping warm Pacifico, taking in the solitude and the Hope of Man that the little shrine represented. I don't think there's a finer place on earth, though certainly there are thousand just like it. Remote, silent but for the sea and the birds. All of your focus is your senses of smell (strong briney sea on warm wet wind, and strong tobacco), the sight of the sighing sea, and the thoughts of the remoteness and the generations of simple souls who sat in that very spot before you.
I've been deep into the rockies on horseback to bowhunt elk, up into Alaska, down into remote Mexico. I've also done some regular old touristy stuff, seeing the cities and the museums and the frenetic clattering about of people. That's interesting enough, but nothing beats the remote, isolated, grand places that make you feel so alone and insignificant that you are forced to face your true disposition on this planet.
Or you could come home wearing some mouse ears sewn to a little hat.
