Trepidations and Strangers

 “Aren’t you afraid to travel alone?” This uneasy question brings to mind images of kidnapping and murder by strangers—whom I would, of course, have to somehow identify among the thousands of people I might encounter during my cross-country journey. When asked this common question, I usually fumble through a brief explanation involving statistical odds and spiritual practices, but it never feels sufficient. As I sat down to craft a more thoughtful response, I gained a deeper understanding of the question’s nuances and the importance of personal pursuits.

First off, the concern has some validity. I am a petite female, and I will be in unfamiliar places. If I face a threatening situation, I have no backup except my dog Chester. While he might be good in a crisis, he has been known to bark at an abandoned dishwasher, upturned buckets in places they did not appear the day before, and dog sculptures. In a novel, he would be pegged as an unreliable narrator, his intuition and perceptions a bit faulty. I might be left to rely on my own defensive skills.

Statistically, what are the chances that I will be harmed? In today’s age of easily accessible and sometimes artificially created news, our perception of how often violence occurs gets skewed. Vivid stories or images of crimes seem so real and immediate that we imagine that if it happened to them, it could happen to us. This kind of thinking ignores the vast size of our country and the fact that violent crimes are, in most places, rare. Aside from robberies, these crimes are usually committed by someone the victim knows. In fact, you might be safer traveling among strangers than staying at home. 

The word “stranger” comes from the Latin word extraneus, meaning “foreign” or “not belonging to the family.” As a member of the Bahá’í Faith, I am encouraged to see all of humanity as my “family,” as souls of a single race. When I became a Bahá’i in my thirties, I started working to shed prejudices and misconceptions—those initial reactions based on race, clothing, poverty, or body language. It changed how I connect with people. Furthermore, the Faith asks me to show loving kindness to everyone who crosses my path. This “everyone” includes the strangers I will inevitably meet when I travel alone. 

During this past trip, I realized there were several times when I might have mistakenly feared someone if I hadn't become a Bahá’í. I would have missed many engaging exchanges. Here is an example. I was camping in late October at a deserted Wyoming campground, situated between a railroad, a river, and a highway. I ate dinner at a picnic table under a canopy of gorgeous yellow cottonwood trees and then took Chester for a walk the length of the grounds. When I was nearly as far from my car as I could get, an older-model sedan pulled into the campground and strangely stopped right beside me. Again, there was no one else around. An older man, slightly stooped, got out, barely looked at me, moved to the back door of his car, opened it, and reached inside. This is where, earlier in my life, I might have hurried away, scared of this man. Instead, he straightened up and backed away as he pulled out a fishing pole, turned, and enthusiastically began telling me about his wonderful day of fishing and birding. After winding down our conversation, he circled the car before heading down the path to the river on the opposite side—his original destination. His passion for the area’s lakes and birding opportunities inspired me to consider returning someday. I felt fortunate to have met him and grateful for having learned to be open to his company.

Traveling can involve unsettling events. They're not threatening, but sad or unexpected. Being alone makes it harder to process their impact. In Thunder Bay, Canada, I had just parked in a hotel parking lot when, from the corner of my eye, I saw a youth knock hard into my side passenger mirror and fall away from my sight. I got out and checked to see if he was okay. The young man, who was obviously Native American, lay on the pavement shaking, eyes rolling back in his sockets, drugged. He didn’t respond to my touch or words. I went into the hotel and got someone from their security staff. She called 911. Later in the evening, on a walk to a park on the edge of Lake Superior, I passed other youth who also appeared to be on drugs. Having to leave the young man alone while I went to get help made me wish I had had a second person with me. It would also have been comforting to have someone with me to deal with the sorrow of seeing the tragedy of drug use fostered on the Native population.

Does anything scare me or give me trepidations about traveling alone? I had to think about this one. I usually sleep in my Prius, doors locked, but sometimes the windows are open and netted to keep out bugs. Usually, I stay at campgrounds with many other campers, but not always. However, the night I stayed at a city park campground for just ten bucks in Broken Arrow, Nebraska, reminded me of what I may fear the most. I slept restlessly that night, folding and unfolding in my sleeping bag around Chester, whose hot little dog body usually keeps me warm and makes me sleep well. But all night we were woken repeatedly by the rumble, clatter, and whistle of monstrously long coal trains passing along the edge of the park. A sleepless night and the potential for falling asleep on the road the next day; this is what I fear. 

Me at Watkin's Glen—Photo Taken by a Lovely Japanese Family, "Strangers"

The Trip Stats—Chester’s and Mine

I admire how numbers convey time and distance or embody an experience. On the fall trip across the continent and back in 2024, my dog, Chester, took over 1,000,000 steps. He counted none of them. I did. Not that I followed him with a clicker counter, but factoring in that he has four legs to my two, I doubled my 557,586 cellphone-recorded steps to arrive at his number. Although I sometimes walked without him, he made up for the step discrepancy since his stride is shorter. Our step counts converted to around 279 miles, but despite similar mileage, we experienced the trip very differently.  

On September 13, 2025, I walked 13,999 steps. Chester walked an estimated 27,998. The date and step count converge at Acadia National Park and the tourist town of Bar Harbor, Maine. Behind the numbers are these memories: we hiked around Cadillac Mountain’s pinnacle, the easternmost point of sunrise in the United States. 

We passed near one porcupine. I saw it. Chester didn’t. I took photos. Chester didn’t. Chester tabulated dog news on bushes or rocks. I didn’t. Bar Harbor meant shopping for me: a cap with a moose embroidered on it, a puzzle to do at home, and a maple-flavored milkshake for lunch. For Chester, it meant navigating a thicket of legs and being disappointed that so few of them belonged to dogs. He was frightened by a store’s black ramp and embarrassed to be carried over it twice while shopgirls laughed. For dinner, he ate the same dog food as the day before. Late that evening, we hiked toward a coastal trail in the park. Oncoming hikers kept encouraging us. “Not much farther to the water.” On his nimble little legs, Chester especially loved running on the return, bounding over rocks and tree roots, the trail becoming almost too dim to see in the dark. Me nervous. Him not.

Chester smelled his way across the land. I didn’t. 

As we entered towns, I would slow down. Chester would press his nose against the window, his way of asking me to roll it down so he could identify the unique scents of wherever we were, sniffing for traces of dogs and figuring out whether he recognized the place. I fear he was often disappointed.

He is a dog who appreciates the comfort of the familiar. He was truly animated only when we visited places with old friends: Art or Adele, Tom, and their dog Opel. 

At the end of the journey, as the car’s trip odometer rolled past 10,000 miles and we wound our way out of the Palouse hills into the Walla Walla valley on a road I rarely travel, he became so excited. By some inexplicable combination of smells, he recognized home. 

I wish we could have a conversation about what was memorable for him on the trip. His full name is Chester Muggins, PhD. I am often asked what his degree is in. I answer, “Food science, of course.” All dogs major in food science. Maybe his recollections are the trip’s culinary highlights. This reminds me that years ago, when my husband and I thought about going out for pizza, we would laughingly suggest a particular restaurant that served smoked salmon, cream cheese, and dill-and-caper pizza. The only problem was that it was in Nelson, Canada, about a six-and-a-half-hour drive away. Chester and I had our favorite foods on this trip. Maybe if he could talk, this is what we would discuss. If we were to return for a second or third helping of something, these would be the stats:    

Our favorite chips: Mileage from home:1,422 miles; Driving Time: 23 hours, 45 minutes

Ye Olde Chip truck in Kenora, Ontario, Canada. The menu offers four cup sizes: small, medium, large, and X-large. Malt vinegar is available on request. Cash only. Must stand in a long line. 

Chester has sampled these French fries twice now, eating any that have fallen in his path and, once, a stolen chip from a cup I was holding. Such thievery is most unusual for him, but even he knows these chips are different from all other fries. 

My favorite chocolate: Mileage from home: 2,327 miles; Driving Time: 37 hours; Walking Time: 36 days (this seems optimistic, but Google Maps is always accurate).

Large double chocolate flourless cookies from the Homestead Artisan Bakery and Cafe, Barrie, Ontario, Canada. I ate one and returned within minutes to buy another. The clerk chuckled at my return. The second cookie lasted three days. I regretted not buying a bag-full.

Chester’s favorite chocolate: Mileage from home: 2,614 miles; Driving Time: 39 hours, Tolls: $67.20; Trotting Time: 38 days 

One-half of a milk-chocolate Hershey bar with almonds purchased at a food mart in Hershey, Pennsylvania. I confess that I bought this candy bar in remembrance of my father. It was his favorite kind of chocolate. I think he ate lots of them during WWII. I had hoped to visit the Hershey Museum and purchase a candy bar there, but I decided not to after realizing how difficult it was to reach its parking lot and that dogs weren’t allowed. 

Chester never takes advantage of food left in the car. But something about that half of a Hershey candy bar he found in the carry bag on the passenger-side floorboards while I later that day walked the grounds of Fallingwater was irresistible. Maybe he was just trying to honor my dad. Half of the candy bar costs 91 cents. The emergency vet bill to pump his stomach was $125.00. He has very expensive tastes.  

Very few dogs have eaten and smelled their way across 15 states in the United States and 7 provinces in Canada. As a final statistic, maybe Chester is a 1-percenter among dogs, a premier smeller of smells, a heroic walker, a milk-chocolate connoisseur, and a coveter of maple ice cream.