I wrote this manuscript from memory while recovering at my parents’ house in Upstate New York upon my return. I had not kept a journal while traveling for a number of reasons including bearing the weight of yet another object, lack of writing utensils, and severe weather often soaking my entire backpack. When looking back on the trip there were so many decisions, thousands of decisions and I was just a naive twenty-five year-old guy. My journey became one of doing the impossible, of doing anything necessary to survive. I had been brought up with so much confidence, I never questioned my ambition to take a westerly route all the way back to Alaska. In some ways, that was the beauty of it all. I was so ignorant, I was fearless and open to everything. I had hoped to work my way around the world but quickly learned that wages were so low in undeveloped countries I would never make enough to pay for travel. The truth is I lost over twenty-five pounds and was very weak for most of the time because I would not offend people by refusing their offerings of food, even when it was unsanitary or as unappealing sheep’s blood. It was vital to my survival that I was not perceived as a threat or superior to the people upon whom I relied throughout my journey- but that philosophy also almost killed me.