Almost every magazine piece I've ever written, I felt like I haven't done it justice, like it was just a gloss.

The only person you are fighting is yourself and your stubbornness to engage in new circumstances.

My reasoning, if one can call it that, was inflamed by the scatter shot passions of youth and a literary diet overly rich in the works of Nietzshe, Kerouac, and John Menlove Edwards.

Antarctica is a very alien environment, and you can't survive here more than minutes if you're not equipped properly and doing the right thing all the time.

The desert sharpened the sweet ache of his longing, amplified it, gave shape to it in sere geology and clean slant of light.

But now that I was finally here, standing on the summit of Mount Everest, I just couldn't summon the energy to care.

I'm intrigued by fanatics - people who are seduced by the promise, or the illusion, of the absolute.