At the end of May 1991, it was time to start heading home — just as I had originally planned, spending two years in America. I flew from Montreal to Vancouver, where I spent a few days staying at a youth hostel. That’s where I met Steve, who had come from Georgia and was on his way to Alaska, planning to spend some time working on fishing boats. He was traveling with his husky and an old Volkswagen minivan.

Steve offered me a ride, so we soon set out together on the Alaska Highway toward Alaska. The journey took us about three or four days. Calling it a “highway” is a bit of an overstatement — parts of the road were basically dirt tracks, with only some sections paved. The farther north we went, the longer the days became, and we could see more and more mountains along the way. I was incredibly excited, eagerly looking forward to finally reaching Alaska.

I’ve forgotten the name of his husky, but it was clear how much he was enjoying the journey north. He seemed to relish the idea of returning to the place he truly came from. No wonder — Georgia, located in the southern part of the United States on the east coast, has a completely different climate than his usual homeland. When we arrived in Anchorage, Steve and I said our goodbyes. I explored the city for a while and then set out hitchhiking north to Fairbanks.