Crossing the Americas Without Flying: Measuring A Travelers Carbon Footprint on a Transamerican, and Around-the-World Journey in 2025

 Over 46,000 kilometers across three continents, almost entirely without flying — and what the carbon footprint data actually says

1. A Transamerican journey Inside a travel once around the world without flying

2025 was the most intense year of my around-the-world, zero-impact expedition — and its geographical core was a full transamerican crossing from Antarctica to Alaska.

Arriving by sailing boat in Brazil, I moved south through Argentina, reached Ushuaia, joined a citizen-science expedition to Antarctica, and later traveled all the way north to Alaska — avoiding flights all the way up.

Over the course of the year, I covered 46.5 kilometers across South, Central, and North America, mostly by hitchhiking, public transport, sailing, biking, night buses, and shared vehicles.
The resulting total footprint for 2025 was 8 t CO₂e.

That number matters — but so does context. Despite the distance, extreme logistics, and multiple ocean crossings, this footprint still sits below the average annual carbon footprint of many residents in industrialized countries, where flying alone often exceeds this amount.

This year wasn’t about perfection.
It was about testing how far low-carbon travel can realistically go before systems push back.

 

2.From the Atlantic to Brazil: Starting 2025 at Sea

The year began on a sailing boat, crossing the Atlantic from Cape Verde to mainland Brazil. Wind-powered travel set the tone early — partly by choice, partly by necessity, as the engine broke right at the start.

Slow, unpredictable, and extremely low on emissions, the crossing embodied the core logic of the expedition.

From Brazil’s coast, I moved south toward Rio de Janeiro using public transport, where I stayed for about six weeks. Carnival, friendships, and a rare pause in movement made this one of the few stable phases of the year.

Then things shifted. I was robbed, lost my credit cards and money, and for reasons I can’t share yet, had to leave Brazil abruptly. The expedition continued — just under very different conditions.

 

3. Hitchhiking South: Patagonia, Ruta 3, and Survival travel Mode

With almost no money left, I headed to Buenos Aires and immediately started hitchhiking south along Ruta 3 toward Ushuaia. The journey took about two weeks.

I traveled with truck drivers, families, fellow Brazilian hitchhikers who quickly became friends — and for a short stretch in Patagonia, even with a horse, which remains undefeated in terms of carbon efficiency.

Accommodation was mostly couchsurfing, sleeping outside, or wherever people offered help.
Food often came from shared meals, leftovers from restaurants, or gas stations.

Emissions were low during this phase not because of planning, but because survival tends to be resource-efficient by default.

 

4. Travel from Antarctica and the Long Way North to Alaska

In Ushuaia, I was unexpectedly offered a place on a citizen-science expedition ship to Antarctica, focused on whale watching, education, and research, including continental landings. I joined as a videographer and collaborator, documenting parts of the journey.

With Sea Shepherd operating in the region at the same time, I supported their efforts against industrial krill supertrawlers threatening one of the planet’s most fragile ecosystems. I celebrated my birthday in Antarctica — not planned, but unforgettable.

After returning to the southernmost city in the world, I paused alone in a cabin and in a tent in the mountains for about one month to recalibrate after more than 15 months of continuous movement.

Then I went north again:
hitchhiking to Bolivia, biking across the Salar de Uyuni, entering the Amazon on a survival-style trip with a friend and indigenous companions, and eventually pushing toward the Darién Gap, using a series of night buses to cover distance efficiently when time and energy were running low.

5. Alaska, System Limits, and the Flight That Put Things in Perspective

From Panama, I continued north mostly by hitchhiking and night buses. I skipped some countries along the way — not out of disinterest, but because people were waiting for me in the US. I will be back.

I hitchhiked from Cancún to Tijuana, entered the United States, and was picked up by friends in an RV to attend Burning Man. After the festival, I couchsurfed in Lake Tahoe and San Francisco, climbed in Yosemite (a lifelong dream), and traveled north by Amtrak.

A road trip through the US and Canada to Alaska followed, sleeping in the car, roadside pullouts, and open campsites. In Alaska, I volunteered at a non-profit husky kennel, living off grid in my own cabin without electricity.

The plan was to cross the Pacific by sailboat in early 2026 and, before that, to film a once-in-a-lifetime documentary with the Rarámuri indigenous communities of northern Mexico.

But reality intervened.
Ferries were canceled due to broken generators (ironically not meeting emission standards themselves) and subsidy cuts under the Trump administration. Re-entry into Canada was impossible after earlier deportation and flagging. Winter closed in.

For the first time since the expedition began, there was no low-carbon exit left.

So yes — at the end of 2025, I took one unavoidable flight.

From a carbon accounting perspective, that single decision outweighed months of hitchhiking, biking, night buses, and sleeping outside.
The data shows this clearly — and without judgment.