In 2017, I found a twenty-ish foot short school bus at a Northern Kentucky junkyard. $2,500 and it was mine. It was faded yellow, with the words 'Licking Valley Head Start' in cracked white vinyl letters down the sides. It seemed perfect for my Pan-American dream, but it immediately broke down on the way home. I spent $500 to tow it to my driveway and a year bringing the bus back to life. New tires, new brakes, new headlights, new fuel tank, new injectors, new glow plugs, fixed transmission leaks, and welded all the exhaust leaks.
I learned the term “skoolie” along the way—what fellow travelers had named their repurposed school buses—which when paired with my questions, would result in dozens of videos of DIYers explaining how to make a school bus into a living space. After another year of Googling, Amazoning, Home Depoting and learning from mistakes, I had the interior buttoned up. Insulation, flooring, a bed, sink, fridge. The bus was drivable and livable. My depature date had arrived. Sun faded and still wrapped in its original yellow paint, I ran out of time to do anything with the exterior. Function over form is fine with me. I chose to take on the northern portion of the Pan-American Highway first. Before setting off for Alaska I mentioned that I felt nervous to a handful of friends. I wanted to see if that was the right word for what I was feeling. Maybe it was excitment.
Twelve hours of driving west from Kentucky puts you in nowhere Nebraska. I went to bed. I woke up. I made a cup of coffee. I checked my email. Artifacts of an old routine. I'm not a desk jockey, I’m a rubber tramp now. Hopefully, my junkyard chariot is up to the challenge ahead. I spotted my first armadillo. Twelve more hours of driving. That night, I found myself in rest area outside Sheridan, Wyoming.
The bus gets a modest 10 miles per gallon, so the stops were frequent. Fortunately, gas stations are frequent across America. Curious strangers would approach me while I was filling up and ask where I was headed. They were being polite, but I didn’t want to say anything too ambitious. I felt embarrassed about how it might sound out loud. I didn’t dare say "Alaska," let alone "Argentina." In the quiet debates I have in my head, I remind myself that talking to locals has benefits. Details about road conditions, recommendations for great places to stay, and warnings about overrated places to never visit. Still, I was often hesitant to engage. But whenever I did, people were supportive and gave good advice.
A stiff side wind helped push me across the border from Montana into Canada. Despite my anxiety, the border crossing was easy. The border guard asked where I was headed, I said "Alaska." They asked if anyone else was with me. "No," I replied. "I’m all alone."
The sky turned orange as the sun was setting. I drove through Canmore, Alberta as the mountains in the distance turned dark purple. I stopped just as darkness set in. The red glow from the Petro Canada sign illuminated my parking lot bedroom for the night. I locked the doors, hung up the black out curtains, and got ready for bed. Laying in bed I could hear the semi trucks around me, their engines idling like a white noise machine. I fell right to sleep.
For the next 2,000 kilometers, I didn’t need a navigator, just keep driving straight.
I woke up to the sound of semi-truck doors shutting and air brakes hissing. It was early, but I got up and joined the morning shift truckers on the highway. I soon found myself on the Icefields Parkway, a stunning stretch of road from Banff, Alberta, through the mountains, past turquoise lakes, glaciers, and waterfalls. I drove on to Jasper and then Prince George, where the road flattened out. After four days of driving through Canada, I reached the Alaska Highway’s starting point. In a roundabout in the middle of town stands a massive sign reading "World Famous Alaska Highway." A red arrow dangles beneath the lettering, pointing the way. Built during World War II, the Alaska Highway is a two-lane blacktop connecting Dawson Creek, British Columbia to Alaska. For the next 2,000 kilometers, I didn’t need a navigator, just keep driving straight.
There is always a sense of nervousness when going somewhere for the first time. Nothing feels familiar. Your mind tries to keep up and process all the new sights and sounds, but this makes time seem like it is slowing down.
All the road signs felt meant for me, the outsider. Dangerous curve ahead. Check your fuel level. Beware of moose. Driving long distances on empty roads allowed pessimistic thoughts to drift in. What happens if I get a flat tire? What's that noise, is that new? Will this thing make it? Will I make it? I pulled off the road into a picnic area. The road was wearing me down, and I needed a moment to stretch my legs and collect my thoughts. As I stood outside the bus, another vehicle pulled up in front of me. It was an old beige Winnebago with orange and brown stripes. A gentleman with a bushy white beard and a fisherman’s bucket hat hopped out. I intentionally tried not to make eye contact, but he walked directly over to me and asked where I was headed. I told him, “If all goes well, I’m headed for Alaska.” He looked past me at the bus and said, "You'll make it just fine." The gift of optimism from a stranger was the fuel I didn't know I needed.
