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I was sitting on the back of a horse, staring down into a deep, muddy ravine. Soaked to the bone in a cold Patagonian rain, I was afraid to move. My gaucho guide leaned over to me, “Loosen the reins and let him slide.” Lately my whole life seemed like a big muddy slide. I was in the midst of a divorce that was turning my life upside down. At the same time, a buyer unexpectantly made an offer for the business I had grown over the past 12 years and I was trapped with lawyers and accountants. I needed a break. I wanted adventure. So, I signed up for a 9-day horse riding trip around Torres del Paine National Park in Chilean Patagonia, hoping to improve my riding skills, while getting away. A few weeks later, I stepped off a plane in Punta Arenas, Chile, where you can look up at the departure board and see Antarctica as a destination. Outside the terminal, I boarded a bus for the 3 ½ hour ride to Puerto Natales, the meetup spot for outdoor enthusiasts heading to Torres del Paine. We turned onto Route 9, which parallels the Straits of Magellan for awhile and I read the sign: “Ruta del Fin del Mundo,” road at the end of the world. In Puerto Natales I met up with our guide and the other two riders. Except for that first night, we would stay in working estancias (ranches) eating home-cooked meals. Our horses were Criollo mixes whose bloodlines dated back to the Spanish Conquistadors. The saddles were Chilean with a wood frame covered in felt, leather and sheepskins designed to provide comfort on long rides. The first day’s ride was deceptively easy. Five hours of riding with a long lunch break of homemade sandwiches, wine in traditional wineskins and Bailey’s for the thermos of coffee. Day two was exhausting. It began with a three-hour boat ride up Last Hope Sound in 40 mph winds and six to eight-foot waves where we met that day’s horses. For nine hours we rode over the Chacabuco range with vistas of glaciers across the valley, through swampy lowlands and pine forested glens. Most of the time we followed an established path, but occasionally we broke trail, pushing brambles and tree limbs aside as we made our way. On day three we galloped across the Patagonian steppe on the way to Glacier Grey, a good day that began to give me my confidence back. In all, we rode for nine days. Each day was different from the one before, but almost always we could see the Paine massif in the distance, dominating the landscape as the wind howled, clouds scudded by in strange saucer formations and the faint sunlight reminded me of how far south we were. One day we rode through a narrow chute that led higher into the mountains and found ourselves eerily picking our way through a boneyard where herds of guanacos passed through, despite frequent attacks by pumas. Our final day began with a mix of sun and clouds and we left our rain gear behind. We rode out for a couple of hours before it started to rain and found shelter for our lunch in a gaucho’s hut. When it was clear that the rain wasn’t going to stop, we headed back, switching between a canter and trot as the rain slashed down, running down our backs and into our boots. Then we reached the ravine. That morning it was dry dirt and uneventful. Now it was 4-6 inches of deep, sticky mud. I loosened the reins and let the horse go. He squatted down, back legs folded underneath, front legs locked stiff and firmly planted in the mud. Gravity took over. We slid down the hundred feet or so to the bottom where a stream ran swiftly in the exposed bedrock. The horse raised up, and in one continuous movement, leaped across the stream and onto a narrow shelf of rock. We scrambled up the hillside and raced for the barn. It was time to head home but I knew I would soon be saddling up again.