In 2017, I found a twenty-foot-long school bus in a Northern Kentucky junkyard. The words 'Licking Valley Head Start' in cracked white vinyl letters went down both sides. $2,500 and it was mine. My faded yellow chariot seemed perfect for the Pan-American trip, 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 the transmission leak, and welded all the exhaust cracks.
I discovered the term “skoolie” along the way. It's what fellow travelers had named their repurposed school buses and when paired with my search questions, would result in videos of DIYers explaining how to make a school bus into a living space. After another year of Googling, Amazoning, and learning from mistakes, I had the interior built out. Insulation, flooring, a bed, sink, fridge. The bus was drivable and livable.
My departure date arrived. I ran out of time to do anything with the yellow wrapped exterior. Function over form was 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 excitement.
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 anymore, I’m a rubber tramp now. Twelve more hours of driving. I spotted my first armadillo. That night, I found myself in a rest area outside Sheridan, Wyoming.
The bus only gets 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 reminded myself that talking to locals has benefits. Details about weather conditions, recommendations for places to stay, and warnings about the road ahead. Still, I was 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 guard asked where I was headed, I said "Alaska." They asked if anyone else was with me. "No," I replied. "I’m all alone."
As I drove through Canmore, Alberta, the sun set. The sky turned a bright orange and the mountains in the distance became a beautiful dark purple. I stopped at a Petro Canada station and parked in the back corner of their lot. I locked my doors, hung the curtains over the windows, and got ready for bed. Laying there I could hear all 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, I just needed to keep driving straight.
I woke up to the sound of doors slamming and air brakes hissing. It was early, but I joined the morning shift truckers. We were on a gorgeous stretch of road from Banff, Alberta, through the mountains, past turquoise lakes, glaciers, and waterfalls, all the way to Jasper, then on to Prince George. After four days of traversing Canada, I reached a massive sign reading 'World Famous Alaska Highway.' It had a red arrow dangling beneath it, pointing the way. Built during World War II, the Alaska Highway is a two-lane blacktop connecting Dawson Creek, British Columbia to Tok, Alaska. For the next 2,000 kilometers, I didn’t need a navigator, I just needed to keep driving straight.
When driving somewhere for the first time, your mind works overtime processing the unfamiliar sights and sounds. For me, all the newness brings a sense of nervousness. The distances feel longer, and time seems slower. Traffic signs feel like they're speaking directly to me, the outsider. Dangerous curve ahead. Beware of moose. Check your fuel level.
Pessimistic thoughts crept in. What if I get a flat tire? What was that noise, is that new? Will this thing make it? Will I make it? I saw a picnic area up ahead, so I pulled off. The road was wearing me down, and I needed a moment to stretch my legs. As I stood outside the bus, another vehicle pulled in. It was a beige Winnebago with classic, orange and brown stripes. A bushy white bearded gentleman hopped out. I intentionally did not make eye contact, but he walked directly over to me and asked where I was headed. I said, “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 was the fuel I didn't know I needed.
