I made my way to Tok, Alaska, and then on to the Canadian border. I spent the night in Beaver Creek, Yukon. When I woke up, I could see my breath outside the covers. The inside of the windows had frosted over. I got up and tried starting the diesel engine. At temperatures below freezing, diesel fuel can gel up, causing all kinds of mechanical problems. I turned the key to warm up the glow plugs, then cranked the engine. Luckily the bus started right up.
After refueling in Beaver Creek, I continued on to Whitehorse. After a few hours of driving south, I turned off the ALCAN (Alaska Highway) at an old, abandoned gas station onto the Stewart-Cassiar Highway. This road was built to transport asbestos, back when that was still a construction material. Miles of wilderness were interrupted by a collection of bright green painted stores. The green sign out front read Jade City. I pulled in and parked next to a bolder which I assume was raw jade. Inside they sold every kind of object that could be made from jade: combs, necklaces, earrings, paperweights, and animal sculptures of all sizes. I only ended up using the bathroom. It felt rude not buying anything.
I continued on to Prince George, British Columbia, a city surrounded by trees, sawmills, and train tracks. A day later, I had climbed up and down the mountains outside Vancouver. In reverse, the towns seemed much closer to one another. By this point, I had driven far enough from home that it was time for an oil change. I stopped at a place called Bansal & Sons, a diesel mechanic who were kind enough to fit me in with no appointment. I sat in their waiting room, watching Judge Judy until the job was done.
I crossed back into the United States, into Washington. I made my way to Oregon and then California. It’s hard to park a bus in Oakland. Even harder in Los Angeles. Uphill, downhill, with the wind, or against it, the bus averaged 10 miles per gallon. Its diesel habit was expensive, and I was running out of money. So, I started heading east. Flagstaff, Albuquerque, Austin, Shreveport, Nashville. When I left home, I felt like I had all the time in the world, but while the days felt long, my time off from work was quickly coming to an end. If I were a true adventurer, I would have quit my job before I left and let the road take me wherever. Maybe it was pragmatism, maybe cowardice, I knew I was expected back at work in a week. After three months and over 15,000 miles, I pulled into my driveway. The dream of completing the Pan-American Highway would have to wait for now.
Life on the road had its highs and lows. Each day brought new sights and sounds, but every night was spent hunting for a new place to park the bus. I was ready to be home, done with this part of the trip. To me, it felt like an eternity on the road, to others, it seemed as if I hadn't even left.
