The Many Faces of Travel: A Journey Through Experience, Emotion, and Meaning By Thom Barrett

by Thom Barrett
 
There I was, trekking in Torres del Paine beneath these massive granite structures on the most beautiful of bluebird days. But I was angry. Angry at myself because I couldn’t keep up with the other trekkers. I kept stopping, struggling to catch my breath. I knew I couldn’t continue, but I didn’t want to hold the others back. So, I decided—I would stay behind while they completed the out-and-back trek.
 
And so, I sat. At first, frustration lingered. But then, something incredible happened—the anger slowly slipped away.
 
Sitting in stillness, I noticed things I hadn’t before. The wind, barely a whisper, would occasionally brush against my skin, carrying the crisp, fragrant scent of alpine meadows. Above me, clouds played hide and seek with the mountain peaks, shifting and reshaping like a slow-moving dance. Every so often, a predator would appear—circling, scanning, its wings stretched wide as it rode the air currents effortlessly. I wondered—was that a condor or an eagle? And then, without warning, it dove, vanishing into the trees below.
 
Farther out, the tall grasses rustled, revealing something moving with the grace of a shadow—silent, calculated, unseen except for the subtle disturbance in the landscape. Could this be an elusive puma—spoken of often but rarely seen?
 
Beyond the grasses, the lake mirrored the sky and mountains so perfectly that it seemed to hold another world within its surface. Steamer and Crested Ducks bobbed along, their silhouettes rippling against the reflection. Then, suddenly, they began paddling furiously, using their wings for propulsion like miniature steamboats! Was it the puma ready to strike. Thankfully, I had my binoculars, allowing me to glimpse their comical but determined movements—their subtle crests adding to their charm.
 
Before I knew it, I heard the laughter of the trekkers on their way back. I sat there, wondering where the time had gone. Only now had I truly begun to see—to listen—to feel. And it was unbelievable.
 
The Why of Travel—Beyond Movement, Toward Meaning
 
That moment in Torres del Paine shifted something in me. I had set out on this trek for adventure—to push my body, to test my limits. But instead, my body forced me to stop. And in stopping, I realized something: travel isn’t just about movement. It’s about presence. About what we notice, what we seek, and what we take away.
 
Some people travel for challenge—to conquer mountains, cross deserts, or dive into the unknown. Others travel for connection—to lose themselves in the hum of a distant city or share stories with strangers who feel like old friends. Some journey for healing, some for escape, and some because they know that time is slipping away and there is still so much to see.
 
There is no single reason why we travel. But every journey—whether by foot, by sea, by road, or by air—holds something deeper than just a destination.
Travel is not just about where we go—it’s about why we go. Maybe if we spent a bit more time on the latter, the event we plan for could end up being an experience we never envisioned.
 
Adventure & Expedition Travel: Testing the Edge of Existence
 
For some, adventure is about conquering landscapes—scaling peaks, crossing deserts, diving into the unknown. There’s an adrenaline rush, a test of endurance, a feeling of defying limits. There was a time earlier in my life where this was my only type of travel (well business trips or family vacations being the exception). I didn’t just want to conquer things - I needed to conquer things. I needed to know what I was made of.
 
“There is a moment in every adventure when your body begs you to stop. It is in that moment that we decide who we truly are.”
 
I remember skiing the Haute Route in the Alps, a grueling traverse from Chamonix to Zermatt. The crisp air burned my lungs, my legs screamed, and every muscle in my body urged me to stop. But something deeper pushed me forward—an innate drive to prove I could do it.
 
Over time I’ve come to see adventure differently. I still adventure travel – being as old and as sick as I am, it is now about capturing that perfect photo - of landscapes, of wildlife, or those intimate moments when you catch someone or something in a very interesting light or activity.
 
Now, as my body has begun to betray me in ways I never anticipated, its not about pushing my limits – it’s about pausing and seeing mother nature in her full glory.  
 
That moment in Torres del Paine taught me that sometimes adventure is not about reaching the summit—but about learning to sit beneath the mountain and take it in.
 
Cultural & Slow Travel: The Urgency to Connect
 
Some people travel not to conquer landscapes, but to understand them. They move slowly, they listen, they immerse themselves—not as tourists, but as witnesses to another way of life. That is why I take long holidays—spanning anywhere from a month to several. It’s odd—by spending more time doing less, I’ve found travel to be far more rewarding.
 
"In a small café in a country where I barely spoke the language, I had a conversation with a stranger that I will never forget. Travel is not about places—it is about people.”
 
I think back to San Pedro de Atacama, Chile. Sitting at a café in the dusty town square, I struck up a conversation with an elderly man who had lived there his whole life. He told me stories of the land—the cycles of drought, the shifting of the dunes, the spirits in the rock formations, and the importance of the night sky to the local people.
 
I understood maybe one-third of his words. But I understood all of his meaning. It’s amazing what the offer of a cup of coffee can lead to.
 
Another time, I was in Santiago, at what was meant to be just a quick stopover hotel before moving on. Dinner was supposed to be simple—just something basic before an early departure the next morning. The restaurant we found was unassuming, with no ambiance to speak of. I thought it was a pizza place.
 
Then came Maria, our server. She greeted us with a smile and, after a brief exchange, told us that we were lucky. That night, a pop-up chef—one of Santiago’s most sought-after—was in the kitchen, preparing a special menu. It wasn’t pizza. It was something else entirely.
I hesitated. I wasn’t in the mood for anything elaborate. My Spanish wasn’t great, and I was impatient—this was supposed to be easy. But then I looked at Maria and said, "How about you choose for us? And do you know your wines?"
 
She hesitated, smiling shyly. "I’ve tried them," she admitted. "Then surprise us," I said. "Pair each course with something local."
 
What followed over the next few hours was nothing short of magical. Each dish—small, delicate, bursting with layers of flavor—was enhanced by the wines Maria selected with quiet confidence. The taste of every bite lingered long after swallowing, each sip deepening the complexity of the meal.
 
We sat. We reflected. We immersed ourselves in the moment.
 
It was, quite simply, one of the best meals of my life.
 
In a world that moves fast, slow travel is an act of defiance. It is saying, I will not rush through this experience. I will stay. I will listen. I will belong—even if only for a moment.
 
Spiritual Travel: Searching for Meaning in Movement

For some, travel is a pilgrimage—not necessarily to a temple, but to something greater than themselves.
 
“Perhaps the afterlife is not a place, but a feeling—one I glimpse when I stand in stillness under an endless sky.”
 
One of my most profound moments came while stargazing in the Atacama Desert. The Milky Way stretched across the sky—so dense, so impossibly vast—that it felt as though I were seeing the fabric of the universe itself. I had never seen so many stars at one time.
 
At first, I only noticed the brightness, the sheer number of them. But the longer I stood there, the more the night came alive. Shooting stars streaked across the void, comets burned through the blackness, and distant galaxies flickered at the edges of sight. It was as if Mother Nature was putting on a private display, just for us.
 
And then, something even more surreal—I could see both the Southern Cross and the Big Dipper in the same sky.Two constellations I had never seen together, now existing in a single moment, defying distance, perspective, expectation.
 
I have never needed temples, mosques, or stained glass to feel something holy.
Standing beneath the Atacama sky, surrounded by the endless hush of the universe, I felt what others might call prayer.
This was my sanctuary, the mountains my cathedral, the stars my stained glass.
Here, I did not need to search for meaning. It was simply there. In that silence, I wondered: If the universe is so vast, do I truly need to leave a mark? Or is it enough to have simply been here?
 
Some travel to find themselves. Others travel to let themselves go.
I have done both.
 
Sustainable & Regenerative Travel: Leaving a Mark That Matters

"I do not know how much time I have left, but I know I want the places I visit to be better because I was there."
 
There was a time when I traveled without much thought to my impact. But now, I see that every footprint I leave behind means something. I try to be intentional about where I stay—choosing places that embrace sustainability, where conservation isn’t just a marketing slogan but a way of life. I look for lodges that respect the land, minimize waste, and give back to the local community.
 
But sustainability isn’t just about where you sleep. It’s about how you engage.
One of the most rewarding experiences I had was on a rock climbing expedition with NOLS in Squamish, British Columbia. For two weeks, I tackled crags and overhangs, pushing myself against the sheer rock faces. But the most meaningful challenge wasn’t physical—it was the day we spent giving back.
 
On National Shoreline Cleanup Day, we joined locals to clear trash from the Squamish Estuary, a delicate ecosystem where rivers meet the sea. I went in expecting to pick up a few bags of garbage. Instead, I walked away with a sense of connection—to the land, to the people, to something bigger than myself.
 
When I’m on my solo road trips, I try to find ways to give back. Habitat for Humanity has become a part of my journey. In Bozeman, Montana, I volunteered at a site that was more than just a construction project—it was a partnership between the local health department and a recovery program. They were building transitional housing for people battling addiction and homelessness—temporary homes where residents could rebuild their lives, just steps away from the treatment center.
 
That day, I wasn’t just hammering nails. I was helping to build second chances.
I’ve done similar work in Anchorage, Alaska, and Marathon, Florida, each time meeting people whose stories remind me that travel isn’t just about seeing new places—it’s about leaving them better than I found them.
 
Travel can take. Or it can give.
I want to be someone who gives.
 
Luxury & Comfort Travel: The Permission to Indulge in Joy

Not every journey needs to be about self-discovery or challenge. Sometimes, joy is reason enough.
 
"If time is short, why deny ourselves the things that bring us happiness?"
 
I once believed that luxury travel was excessive, indulgent—even unnecessary. Then I experienced glamping. At first, I convinced myself it was still “camping.” I was still outside, still sitting by the campfire at night, still out fly-fishing and hiking. But during the day? I had never been more pampered.
Everything was arranged—fly-fishing guides set up my gear, all I had to do was cast. We visited hidden hot springs—not resort-style pools, but beautifully maintained natural thermal baths, surrounded by smooth stone formations and breathtaking views.
 
Dinners were culinary experiences—freshly caught trout, paired with local wines that somehow made the entire evening feel richer, fuller, more memorable. And the nights? No sleeping bags, no cramped tents. Instead, queen-sized beds beneath a canopy of canvas, layered with soft duvets to brace against the crisp morning air.
 
For years, I thought luxury was about excess. But now, I see it differently. It is about allowing yourself comfort, pleasure, and ease.
 
If time is slipping away, why not grasp joy with both hands?
 
Wellness Travel: Finding Restoration in Stillness

Some travel to restore themselves—to find healing, renewal, and balance in both body and mind.
 
"Wellness is not about escape. It is about returning—to yourself, to peace, to presence."
 
Wellness travel isn’t just about spa retreats and yoga classes—it’s about intentional choices that prioritize well-being. Whether it’s soaking in thermal hot springs, practicing meditation in the mountains, or choosing destinations that nourish rather than exhaust, wellness travel is about giving the body and mind what they truly need.
 
I used to think that rest was something to be earned. That slowing down was a sign of weakness. But over time, I’ve come to realize that wellness isn’t a luxury—it’s a necessity.
I remember my first experience at a wellness retreat, nestled in the Berkshires of Massachusetts. Unlike most retreats that focus solely on relaxation, this one hooked me for a different reason—it combined wellness with garden design.
 
The center had partnered with Ellen Ecker Ogden, a renowned expert in kitchen gardens, to offer sessions that blended landscape design with mindful restoration. Mornings began with gentle movement, followed by immersive design sessions with Ellen. Afternoons were spent in quiet reflection or creative expression, and evenings were about deep rest and nourishment.
 
At first, I resisted—where was the challenge, the adventure? But by the end, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time: light, unburdened, whole.
 
(And I had designed a garden that I later brought to life.)
Wellness travel takes many forms—it can be immersing yourself in nature, seeking out healing traditions, or simply allowing yourself to rest.
This retreat had a bit of both.
 
"We are so used to travel being about doing. But sometimes, the most powerful journeys are the ones where we simply allow ourselves to be."
 
Bringing It All Together

Sitting on that ridge in Torres del Paine, I learned something about travel that I had never fully understood before:  Travel is not just about movement. It is about presence.
 
For much of my life, I thought travel was about pushing forward, reaching further, proving something—whether to myself or the world. I chased adventure, sought out challenges, and measured experiences by how much ground I covered. But as time has reshaped my body and my perspective, I have come to realize that travel is not just about the places we go—it is about how we exist within them.
 
Some journeys are about conquering, others about connecting. Some are about seeking meaning, others about surrendering to joy. The beauty of travel is that it doesn’t have to be one thing—it can be all of them at once. It can be about climbing mountains and sitting beneath them, about giving back and indulging, about pushing limits and knowing when to pause.
 
I no longer believe in checking places off a list. Instead, I believe in experiencing them fully. Whether it is standing beneath the endless sky of the Atacama Desert, helping to build a home in Montana, lingering over a meal in Santiago, or sinking into the comfort of a soft bed beneath the canvas of a glamping tent—every journey has its own rhythm, its own lesson, its own reason for mattering.
 
And in the end, isn’t that what we all want? To leave each place, each experience, each moment feeling fuller than when we arrived.
 
“I do not travel to escape death.  I travel to understand life.”
 
Thom Barrett is a traveler, storyteller, and author navigating life with stage IV cancer. Having explored some of the world’s most remote landscapes while confronting the realities of mortality, he writes about the intersection of adventure, resilience, and the search for meaning. His work is a reflection of the idea that we don’t travel to escape life—we travel to embrace it. Through his writing, he hopes to inspire others to live fully, whether on the road or in the quiet moments in between. Follow his journey at www.livinglifewhiledying.com.