Travel/Adventure

Have Stroller, Will Travel

Just a crazy-interesting guy we met on a road trip to Alaska

R (hubby) and I are driving down the Alaska Highway on our road trip from Texas to Alaska. All around us are mountains and deep forests. Ahead to our right is a clearing with the signpost: “Welcome to Yukon.” We’re at the border between the Canadian provinces of British Columbia and Yukon.

R stops the car. We get out and start walking We will take a selfie at the signpost — as we have done each time we enter a state or province. The photos help document the trip.

Stroller guy…

We are almost at the signpost when a man steps out from behind the tree line to our right. He is pushing a stroller.

I stare in disbelief. “What’s this guy doing in the wilderness with a baby?”

The man walks across a narrow patch of grass into the clearing, then veers straight towards us. And what I don’t see inside the stroller freezes the smile on my lips. There is no baby inside, waiting to be fussed over — only a large, dusty backpack.

The man stops about five feet from us. “You guys from Texas?”

It doesn’t take a genius to read our license plate.

“Yeah,” R replies. “And you?”

The man shrugs and smiles. “From everywhere.”

Why so secretive?

Through the stroller’s transparent side flaps, I see bulging white plastic bags crammed behind the backpack. If I’d met him at the corner of a city street, I would have taken him for a homeless man. But here — in the middle of nowhere — I don’t know what to make of him.

He reaches into the stroller and pulls out an empty half-gallon plastic jug. “You got water to spare?”

“Sure,” R says.

I size up the stranger — discreetly, I think. He looks to be in his mid-twenties, and clears six feet. The arms that emerge from his short-sleeved white t-shirt are thin but reveal corded muscles.

By contrast, neither R nor I are fabulously fit. Or in our twenties. Our new acquaintance could take us both on with one hand tied behind his back.

Meanwhile, R is chitchatting with the guy who has garbage bags full of God-only-knows-what in his stroller. “Let’s get the water,” he says.

They walk briskly to our SUV.

Walking is thirsty business…

I hang back and unlock my phone. I might need to call the cops. But what’s 911 in Canada? And could the cops even get here in time?

I re-strategize.

R is a large-ish guy, and although I’m not tall, my contribution towards poundage is not to be discounted. We might be able to hold down stroller-guy with our combined weight if he gets fidgety.

I speed walk to the SUV with these and other scenarios playing in my head. By now, R has filled the stranger’s half-gallon jugs with water. It’s the perfect moment to hop into our vehicle and drive off.

But then the man says, “Thank you. Walking is thirsty business.”

And I pause — because curiosity is one of my chief vices. “Where are you walking to?”

“Alaska.” He takes the two coke cans that R offers him and stashes them in his cargo pants’ side pockets.

“You’re walking to Alaska?” I thought we were brave and all for driving there.

“Yeah. I got done with the lower forty-eight. That leaves Alaska and Hawaii.”

The man’s cheeks and nose are red and peeling with sunburn. Squiggles of blond hair escape his cap and crowd onto a forehead damp with sweat.

Perhaps, I’ve been too quick to judge. Plus, I have to explore this walking-to-Alaska claim.

“Would you like some energy bars?” I ask.

“Thanks.” His face lights up as he accepts two boxes of bars. “I can take your picture at the signpost if you like.”

“Uh… okay.”

The three of us make our way back to the signpost.

Brutal winters…

“When did you start walking?” I ask.

“About four years back.”

“It must be hard being outdoors — in all kinds of weather?”

He exhales noisily. “The winters are brutal!”

I chew on that for a couple of seconds. “And when will you reach Alaska?”

“Umm… early to mid-October.”

Right in time for the start of the “brutal” Alaskan winter.

“Why are you doing this?” I blurt out. “Is it for a cause?”

His grey eyes crinkle at the corners. His smile is friendly but gives nothing away. “Just something I want to do.”

Photo-ops…

At the signpost, R and I strike a pose of sorts.

The man clicks three pictures with R’s phone, then checks the results. “This last one’s okay.” He returns the phone. “Can you take my picture? With my camera?”

“Sure,” says R.

The man dives into his stroller. He comes up with an oversized camera and lens. Neither looks like they came cheap.

He lounges in front of the signpost. R takes three photos and hands back the camera.

Its owner examines each photo for several seconds. “Yeah… okay,” he says.

“Are you writing a book?” I ask, intrigued by his scrutiny of the photos.

He smiles that smile again. “Maybe.”

I’m thinking: if this guy even maybe writes a book, then I will more than maybe read it.

We say our goodbyes. As we drive away, I look out the window. The man is returning his camera to the stroller.

The stroller that will go with him to Alaska.

Thanks for reading! 🌼🌻

Thank you JoAnn Ryan for publishing my piece in your amazing pub.

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