I had just walked by a cave, alongside a rushing glacial river, while I sloppily made my way up landslides of scree for basically 679 miles. I was in my own head when I saw a fluffy little cat curled up in a ball in the cave. “How cute!” I thought...immediately followed by a WAIT I GONNA PROBS DIE. When I realized it was a puma, close enough that I could poke it with my picket, it was only ten feet away and a single fat tear dripped down my cheek. I contemplated later how I could’ve snapped the rare and elusive creature and got the million dollar wildlife shot photographers everywhere hope for in the wild. Alas, I was too busy pooping my pants, crying inside and shuffling up blocky loose boulders like a big fat idiot. Visions of mountain lions eating my neck and stalking me from behind for miles on end in the Patagonian great beyond became all too creative and real. I opted for the classic panic and run which looked a lot like a baby giraffe walloping around for the first time with tiny shoes on. It was all in all pathetic, and when I got out of what I self-deemed the danger zone, I wrote my family a goodbye love letter in my head. Jk. Mostly.