In 2015, I pushed a cart containing everything I owned, and walked out my front door in New Jersey.
Seven years and 28,000 miles later, I became the tenth person to walk around the world; the first to do it with a dog.
What started as my response to losing two friends in their teens became something far richer: an intimate encounter with humanity at walking pace.
After seven years of walking, I can say with certainty that the world is far less dangerous and far more welcoming than we’re led to believe.
Yes, there are risks, and yes, there are places where you need to watch your step. I was attacked with a primitive home-made knife in Panama City and held up at gunpoint in Turkey.
‘After seven years of walking, I can say with certainty that the world is far less dangerous and far more welcoming than we’re led to believe’
But the overwhelming majority of people, regardless of their politics, religion, or economic status, will go out of their way to help a stranger.
Central America
The first thing you learn when walking across continents is how wrong most of our assumptions are about places we’ve never been.
Take Central America, which my friends and family feared would be my undoing. Yes, El Salvador and Honduras topped global crime statistics, but what I found instead were grandmothers insisting I stay for dinner and farmers sharing their harvest.
The only time I genuinely feared for my safety was in Panama City — when a man with bloodshot eyes and a face drawn like a rat held a shiv to my neck.
But even then, local shopkeepers rushed to my aid and chased the man away.
South America
In South America, I learned what true isolation means.
Crossing the Peruvian coast then the Atacama Desert (the world’s driest) I frequently went days without seeing another soul. Yet even here, the remarkable generosity of humanity bloomed.
Savannah on the high plans of Ecuador – ‘In South America, I learned what true isolation means’
Camping in the Atacama Desert, Chile
In a tiny Peruvian restaurant, I found a note from another world walker, Karl Bushby, written years before: ‘Whatever your plans, go for it! Keep on the road. Drive hard. Live it! Rage on you crazy mothers you!’
Amid those mind-numbingly repetitive days in the desert, Karl’s note was like finding a message in a bottle, exactly when I needed it most.
Upon hearing my story, the owner of the restaurant fed me like a king and put me up for the night – relieving me from another night spent camped in the desert.
Europe
Western Europe, which I assumed would be the easiest part of my journey, brought its own challenges.
While the infrastructure was excellent – think endless cycling paths and public facilities – it was where I felt most acutely alone.
In Europe, ‘people were friendly but less inclined to invite strangers into their homes’
Eye protection for Savannah in the desert, south of Piura, Peru
Tom and Savannah found the perfect campsite in Maiolina, Italy – complete with ocean views and a castle
Kayaking among crabeater seals in the Antarctic was a highlight
I was recovering from a bacterial infection, and a lingering psychological pain haunted me. I felt a separation from the people that was less common in the developing countries I had already walked. People were friendly but seemingly less inclined to invite strangers into their homes.
It was only on the Camino de Santiago that I felt revived. For the first time on my journey, I had people traveling in the same direction at the same pace as myself.
The conversations I shared during that stretch allowed me to get out of my head and rediscover the joy of walking.
Central Asia
While planning my adventure, I didn’t account for the possibility of a once-in-a-century pandemic.
Stranded in Azerbaijan as borders slammed shut, I found myself the subject of an experiment in staying still. It was there I learned that sometimes the most meaningful experiences come when your plans are completely derailed.
‘The most beautiful valley I’ve ever seen’ in Kyrgyzstan
Under the incredible stars while in Kyrgyzstan
The pause offered me a new perspective. After years of living on the move, existing always as the perpetual stranger, I suddenly recognized my profound longing for deep human connection (friends, a romantic partner, and family close by).
That recognition made the remainder of my walking more challenging but it also excited me for the possibility of life after my seven-year walk.
Texas and on
Just five months into my journey, I adopted Savannah, a mangy pup from an Austin shelter.
Initially she proved to be my greatest challenge – I couldn’t get her to walk five minutes on leash – but quickly she revealed herself as my greatest blessing.
Together we crossed jungles, deserts, and countless mountains. She was always stronger than me. Whenever I collapsed at the end of a long day, Savannah would approach with her tail wagging hoping to play – as if 24 miles was just her warm-up!
When I was held at gunpoint by police in Kansas (who apparently found a man pushing a baby stroller suspicious), it was Savannah who helped defuse the situation.
She was my only constant, and our warm introduction wherever we went.
If there’s one thing that Savannah revealed to me about the world, it’s that kindness is universal.
When I started the international portion of my walking in Mexico, I was barely able to order coffee in Spanish. By the time I reached South America, I was discussing politics and philosophy with locals.
But for most of my walk, I only spoke a pidgin version of whatever the local language happened to be. This limitation helped show me that a friendly dog, a smile and genuine curiosity transcend local language.
Some of my most meaningful connections happened through small gestures and broken phrases. Something as simple as a hand to the heart (a gesture I picked up in North Africa) helped me navigate countless cultures.
In Turkey, strangers invited me into their homes so often that I barely needed to camp. In Georgia (the country, not the state), families treated me like a long-lost son.
Even in Algeria, where government-mandated police escorts followed my every move, the officers themselves became friends, sharing their meals and stories.
As the years carried on, the fundamental truth that people are the same everywhere wore into me.
Tom Turcich was only the 10th person on record to walk around the world, while his four-legged companion Savannah was the first dog to do so
‘Savannah was my only constant, and our warm introduction wherever we went’ (photographed in Peru)
‘As I crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge back into New Jersey, I noticed I was no longer walking to escape or to prove something’
Through poring over my journals while writing my memoir, The World Walk, I realized that walking around the world wasn’t really about the walking at all. It was about slowing down enough to see humanity at its most basic level.
When you’re moving at three miles per hour, pushing everything you own in a baby carriage, you become vulnerable. And in that vulnerability, you discover something remarkable: people, almost everywhere, are good.
As I crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge back into New Jersey, accompanied by friends and family for the final miles, I noticed I was no longer walking to escape or to prove something.
I was walking home, carrying with me the certainty that while the world is vast and complex, it is also remarkably small and interconnected. We’re all, in our own way, walking the same path.
The World Walk: 7 Years. 28,000 Miles. 6 Continents. A Grand Meditation, One Step at a Time by Tom Turcich is published by Skyhorse
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