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"