Strangers from the Road
By Teddy Dondanville
In 2022 I purchased a 1998 Ford E-150 with just under 200,000 miles on it. I moved into the van with my fiancé, Whitney, and my dog, Dot. The trip was inspired by Whitney’s reluctance to put her new Ph.D. to work right away. Instead, she wanted to celebrate with a road trip.
My work as a freelance writer afforded me the ability to work remotely, and my guiding work was over for the winter. So, of course, I was game. Therefore, over 12 months we explored the Western United States in search of nothing in particular and with no real goals.
The author’s home on wheels, a 1988 Ford E-150.
Looking back, one of my favorite parts about living on the road was the strangers I met, and in some cases, observed. The passerby on the quiet neighborhood street. The smelly hitchhikers, full-time van lifers, and mattress salesmen.
They all had stories to tell.
These strangers were like pieces to a larger puzzle. How they fit into my travels ranged from minuscule and meaningless to somewhat groundbreaking. Despite the influence each person had on me personally or the trip as a whole, I participated in each interaction with a special amount of intrigue I had never experienced before—an intrigue I attribute to our ability to ramble down the road with no deadlines and no finish lines.
While on the road, you do a lot of looking and staring at “nothing.” You obsess over gas prices, notice the roadkill, and can't help but stare into the windows of passing cars, like mobile museum exhibits.
Subconsciously, you begin to recognize the shapes and colors of certain eateries’ signs and billboards. And if you’re like me, the neon signs and glimmers of the golden arches make you want to stop, not because you’re hungry, but because you’re bored.
An unmistakable establishment, near and dear to many roadtrippers’ hearts (and bellies), is good ‘ole Waffle House. Having bought our van in Texas, we spent some time in Waffle House land on our way out West. One night, we stopped for a boredom-inspired bite to eat.
From inside the diner, I saw a car pull into the parking lot. It was an old Saturn S-series that looked like it was still going strong. Sort of. A woman stepped out, donning a Waffle House uniform, and lit up a cigarette, staring at the massive neon sign above her head.
Between the sign’s buzzing sound and its obtrusive color, she looked like a moth, drawn to it, night after night, despite longing to be elsewhere. I resonated with that because the Waffle House sign had attracted me that night too.
I found out later that Kathy didn’t have a choice. She was battling her second bout of ovarian cancer and had to work to pay for chemotherapy. She paid for it out of her pocket. She made too much money to qualify for state insurance and wasn’t high enough up the corporate Waffle House ladder to receive benefits.
Her cigarette was done now. She stomped it out on the ground next to all the rest of its red lipstick-stained comrades. She adjusted her matching Princess Leia space buns and took one last look into the side mirror out of habit, but in reality, I could tell she’d stopped caring how she looked some years ago. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone—only drunk cowboys and half-asleep road-tripping yuppies like me pass through her Waffle House at night anyway.
According to his name tag, a guy named Sam was on the grill. He looked young enough to be her son, but entitled enough to be an 80-year-old white man boasting about his service in ‘Nam. I sensed that Kathy loathed working with Sam.
A second waitress, Jessica, was also working. She seemed sweet. Kathy told me she was patient with her slower pace and understanding of her health condition. Jessica had covered her table when Kathy got sick from her chemo.
Inside, Kathy shuffled down the hallway, hung up her purse, and clocked in. She pulled on her apron and washed her hands.
A bell rang and startled me. “Order up,” I heard Sam grunt. Kathy made her way out into the kitchen and pasted a smile onto her face. She served me my order. We spent the evening chatting about her sad situation.
———
Our road trip revolved heavily around desert landscapes.
That was primarily because the bulk of the trip took part in the winter, and winter is a wonderful time to be in the desert. The sunny days offer perfect t-shirt weather, and the nights are prime for bonfires.
Plus, the people in the desert are one of a kind—like motorbike Mike, who I met during a week in the desert outside Moab, Utah.
Mike was a professional nomad. Based on his humble living situation—an old Ford Ranger with a topper and converted sleeping space in the bed, coupled with a tow trailer to haul his BMW dual-sport motorcycle, extra gas tanks, and a generator—you might think Mike never had a job in his life.
But actually, I found out he was a highly-educated hydrologist with a government job.
One morning, I saw him standing at his truck bed desk with headphones nestled into his ears, sporting a collared shirt and pajama pants. Other mornings, he disappeared into town on his motorcycle to work at a local coffee shop.
Most of the time, Mike stuck to the desert. He had a particular love for the red sandstone, desert buttes, and wandering trails of southern Utah. But the cacti, warm weather, and freedom of the landscape wasn’t the only thing that drew Mike in—it was the people.
Throughout all his journeys, Mike prioritized community. He was the loyal member of an adopted band of van lifers who traveled together like a close-knit family. Like birds flying in formation, they bounced from place to place, generally in the deserts of Utah, Arizona, and California, and corraled their mobile living spaces into a circle like a modern-day Oregon trail.
But it wasn’t just Mike and his sandy crew of friends who would park together. Mike would consistently invite others to join the fun. More people were better for his parties (which I found out the fun way).
During our week together, Mike sent out the call to any travelers, digital nomads, and nearby city dwellers to join him and his corral for a dance party. After work on Friday, he cleared off his tow trailer, fired up the generator, and assembled a DJ stage behind his truck. The speakers, strobe lights, and lasers looked professionally installed.
With the stage assembled and a bonfire roaring, more people began to arrive. One by one, brave musicians shared their musical talents during an open-mic session. Electronic keyboards, trippy synthesizers, acoustic guitars, and bongo drums were just a few of the acts I enjoyed that night.
After, when everyone was well-oiled with libations and the moon was high enough in the sky, we danced to electronic music and howled at the moon. With no one nearby to be bothered by the rambunctious noise but the coyotes, we danced until our feet were sore and the fire ran out of fuel.
In the morning, well before I could imagine getting up, between the sounds of snores from Dot and the whipping wind, I heard the bellowing of Mike’s motorcycle echo into the distance as he peeled off into the desert towards town for another day of work.
After that week, I never saw Mike again. I’m still holding out for the moment when I see his rig on the road and can follow him to his next desert dance party.
———
Toward the end of our trip, my fiancé and I began planning for our next apartment. We did so on our way back southeast en route to Texas, where we’d left 12 months earlier, after storing other household belongings at Whitney’s childhood home.
Specifically, we needed a new mattress.
So on our way back, we stopped somewhere in Dallas to take advantage of Black Friday deals. This is how I met Brad.
You wouldn’t be able to tell now, but Brad was once the vocalist in a ’90s hair metal band. He swears his long locks, good looks, and seductive singing made him quite the catch back in the day.
When I met him, he looked a lot different. He was one of those perpetually sweaty types (It’s either that or the relentless Texan humidity). He self-deprecated frequently and identified as only a “little” overweight. Most of his hair from the ‘90s was gone, but luckily there was still something special about his salesman’s voice.
I wondered a lot about Brad as I tried out the mattresses in his store. I couldn’t help but be curious about what he was like back in the day, and what his life was like when I met him.
Staring at the ceiling, I imagined Brad living his dream. I pictured him standing on the stage with his band at their local haunt, with long bleached blonde hair, leather pants, and a jacket, performing his best song.
I did so much staring at the ceiling and so much wondering (worrying) about Brad that as I lay there daydreaming, I noticed he was looking at me too. I felt his gaze as I cycled through my repertoire of sleeping positions. I assumed he was wondering (and worrying) about me all the same.
I started to get the feeling that this man I was critical of when I walked into the store, whose job was to help me find a comfortable mattress, the place where I will spend ⅓ of my life, wasn’t so different from me.
On the contrary, he might’ve even been an example of who I’d like to become. A simple, sweet man with stories to share and the patience and expertise to make others feel cared for.
The author, Teddy, enjoying a beer in his home for 12 months.
———
Fast forward six months, and I’m lying on my new mattress (thanks, Brad) in my new home in Upstate New York. I am fondly reminiscing on my 12-month foray into van living and wondering where Kathy, Mike, and Brad are now.
Whether they wanted it or not, these strangers were inserted into my life and me into theirs, a couple of tiny humans fitting together like pieces to a larger puzzle. What that puzzle is I have no idea, but I’m grateful to play a part.
The thought of Kathy's inevitable grim health outcome makes me sad. But I am thankful she shared her story.
My fantasies of Mike’s desert parties give me hope that someday I might be back amongst new friends and the glow of a bonfire.
And Brad… Well, I’ll be thinking of Brad every time I lay my head down to rest.
Teddy Dondanville is a freelance writer focused on the outdoor industry and adventure sports. When he is not enjoying the cerebral and caffeine-fueled pursuits of writing, he works as a rock climbing guide in upstate New York. You can learn more about Teddy on his website.
