When I was seven years old, I traveled through Central and South America in a homemade camper as fragile as our family. We made it as far as Bolivia before our truck collapsed, our money ran out and we had to sell our camper and everything in it. Thirty years later, the man I had just married retraced the trip with me. We were determined to find the camper and make it past Bolivia to the end of the road: Tierra del Fuego, Argentina. I was shadowing my parents, but the context had evolved. Their journey was an escape — from the paralyzing loss of my three-year-old brother. Mine was a discovery.  -