Field experience is tempered by time, and distorted by memory. Things that seemed important in the moment fade into the background. Forgotten details resurface. We squint at it in the distance, struggling to understand it as we did in the moment: The refuge of the tent from the wet-cold of Tierra del Fuego’s wilderness. Losing the trail. Watching months of calculated planning collapse in a nanosecond. Being okay with that. Finding the trail. Peering into the ancient ice of a glacier. Buoyancy in Klein-blue water as it boils and breaks on the rocky shore of a nearby island. The unbearable UV radiation and seared skin in the Atacama Desert. Mistranslations. Flat tires. Packing and unpacking. Packing again. The Milky Way splayed over the inky blackness of desert skies. The hallucinations of altitude sickness. Getting the translation right and finally understanding the story. Volcanic steam escaping from mountainside to clouds. Struggling under the immense weight of our packs. Discovering the intricacies of lichen. Herds of vicuñas loping to edge of our sight. Billowing in and out of coral canyons well under the violence of the waves at the surface. Constant motion. Exhaustion so pure and deep that forming words is not possible. We understood the likelihood of physical discomfort before we set out to study human impact on these environments, but underestimated their impact on ourselves. Most prominent seems to be the physical, emotional, and mental expense involved in endless preparations and adjustments, just to surrender again and again to elements outside of our control. As artists, we are intrigued by systems within and without our control. Our work often deals with human influence on environmental systems, but the constant exposure and adaptation these sites required of us turned the tables.