There is a name that has been floating around the campfires of the Yukon, whispered in the hold of a storm-battered schooner off the Patagonian coast, and scribbled in the margins of worn-out maps in a Cairo spice market: Kincaid.
— A chronicler of the Kincaid Expeditions.
The ceiling dropped by three feet.
“Gone to find the source.”
Why one man’s journey into the wild is a blueprint for reclaiming your own soul.
Kincaid wiped ice from his beard and said: “Terror is just excitement without a sense of humor.”
Kincaid’s story doesn’t begin on a mountaintop. It begins in a cubicle. For seventeen years, he was a cartographic analyst for a government agency. He drew the lines that others followed. He named peaks he would never climb and charted rivers he would never drink from.
Kincaid hired a camel named Boris and set off.
Because the adventure of Kincaid isn’t really about Kincaid. It’s about the part of you that knows the cubicle is just a waiting room, and the trail is the real life.
For forty-eight hours, Kincaid lay flat on his stomach, listening to the glacier sing. He melted ice with his body heat. He counted his heartbeats like rosary beads. Rescue teams assumed he was dead.