When I was 16 years old, I watched Pulp Fiction for the first time. While it turned out to be one of my favorite films, there was a single quote in particular that would drastically change the course of my life. Toward the end, in the famous diner scene, Samuel L. Jackson’s character, Jules, is contemplating quitting his job to, “Basically walk the earth … walk from place to place, meet people, get in adventures.”
At face value, there’s nothing particularly earth-shattering here, sure, but I remember hearing this and thinking to my teenage self, “Damn, do people actually just walk around like that? I didn’t know that was a thing. I think that’s all I wanna do too.”
Over the next 11 years, dropping everything to ‘walk the earth’ never really left my mind; but it never seemed like the right time to take the leap until I had another realization: It’s never going to be the ‘right time,’ and I should just do it if I’m going to do it.
So I did it.
In the summer of 2019, I left a solid job and comfortable apartment behind in the San Francisco Bay Area, tore out all of the seats in my 2014 Chevrolet Sonic, and hit the road with my dog Tito and whatever else could fit in my car.
I had no real plan other than that I would start by driving north to Canada in order to ‘follow the weather’—which was a philosophy that would guide the entirety of my journey—and to never go anywhere without my not-so-trusty Olympus Stylus Epic (I went through no less than 10 of these cameras while making this project) hanging around my neck.
I didn’t know how long I’d be on the move, if I’d gather enough material to put a series of photographs together, and had no preconceived notion of how that body of work would look even if I did have enough. Like any worthwhile adventure, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
I was riding a natural, and sometimes weed-induced, high for the first few months, enjoying my newfound freedom, camping out in the Canadian Rockies, and stopping in every small town I’d pass through. But I quickly learned that taking photos in these places required a vastly different approach than the one I had employed in San Francisco—the only place in which I’d really made photos up to this point. There was, for the most part, no slyly walking by people and making candid photographs. No parades of passerby strolling about. No surreal scenes playing themselves out at my feet.
I realized that I’d need to interact with others more often, which was tough for me as an introvert, but ended up adding a new dimension to my photos that I hadn’t anticipated. I was thoroughly out of my comfort zone—exactly where I wanted to be.
I gradually grew better at this as I crossed back into the United States and headed southeast toward Florida for the winter. I watched the badlands of Big Sky Country slowly morph into the plains of the Midwest and eventually into the tree-lined mountains of Appalachia—all the while stopping everywhere I could to see what I’d run into along the way.
I made it to Florida by the end of the year, moving around within the state for the winter before heading north for New York in March 2020. By the time I made it to North Carolina, the COVID pandemic was intensifying and it was clear that life was about to change dramatically. The panic-buying of toilet paper and hand sanitizer had begun, heated debates about mask mandates were underway, and most Walmart locations would no longer allow me to sleep in their parking lots. I decided to rent a cheap Airbnb in Philadelphia for a month to see how things would play out before determining what to do next.
I stayed in a South Philly rowhouse until early May before settling on continuing toward New York as planned. Once back on the road, I found myself navigating a strange new world. In some cities, I’d be chastised for walking down the street without a mask on. In other towns, I’d get dirty looks for entering a gas station with a mask on. It was impossible to keep up with.
When I finally arrived in New York, I trudged around the city and an eerily empty Times Square; there were only three people in the area: me, The Naked Cowboy, and a man holding a large sign proclaiming that ‘The End is Near.’ I saw these Jesus folks quite often throughout my travels, but for the first time, I was beginning to believe that they might actually be on to something.
After a couple weeks in NYC, I started driving back west, exploring the mostly desolate, ghost-like towns while en route. There were signs that life had once existed in these places—bulletins still advertising events that were scheduled for March, pieces of paper taped to businesses’ front doors explaining their closure, and overflowing garbage bins that hadn’t been collected in several months. However, this all changed in late May when George Floyd was killed by the police in Minneapolis.
Instantly, the deserted streets of most American cities were once again filled, but with angry protesters instead of the typical tourists and businessperson types. As I mentioned before, I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I embarked on this adventure—sometimes for better and other times for worse. A great example of ‘for worse’ happened at one of these protests that fall.
I was photographing a gathering in Portland, Oregon when I was badly burned by an errant Molotov cocktail that exploded on my legs and feet. Afterward, I had to stay in Portland a while to recover, going through the excruciating process of cleaning my burns each night and the persistent uncertainty of if I’d ever move normally again. I eventually did make a full recovery after about a month, resuming my travels with a renewed drive to finish my project and a newfound appreciation for still being able to walk.
I continued showing up to photograph these demonstrations, along with pro-Trump rallies, all the way through the November presidential election, after which I had definitely seen enough. The anger, chaos, and division was beginning to wear on my mental state and I decided to take an indefinite break by heading down to the desert.
Now, let me tell you—the seemingly never-ending space and total serenity offered by the American desert is a hell of a drug for someone like me who’s already inclined to enjoy his isolation. There are few rules in the desert—you can camp pretty much anywhere you want, shoot your guns, or just be a general weirdo—and basically everybody you’ll run into is out there for the same reason as you: to get away from it all.
I became particularly fond of the Salton Sea area in California, which is essentially an ongoing ecological disaster whose landscape resembles a post-apocalyptic movie set. Scores of dead fish washed upon the shore, an overwhelming aroma of sulfur, dilapidated structures everywhere, and random art installations sporadically strewn about, withering away in the unforgiving heat of the Sonoran Desert.
I wound up getting several photos out here that would make the final cut for my project, as there was an exceptionally impressive assortment of misfits from every walk of life in this region—anti-government sovereign citizens, eccentric artists, nomadic wanderers, etc. It was quiet and peaceful when I wanted it to be, as well as interesting and stimulating when I desired some interaction.
For the next couple of years, I continued to criss-cross my way across North America several times over, eventually exploring all lower 48 states, and parts of Canada and Mexico too. I kept following both the weather and my mood, staying in the south during the winters and migrating north for summers, while dipping into the city when I wanted some action and back to the desert when I needed solitude. In the end, I had trekked over 16,000 miles and driven more than 120,000—as close as I could come to ‘walking the earth’ without leaving the continent.
After reflecting on the images I had accumulated, I concluded that I did indeed have enough to put something out into the world. I self-published the work that resulted from this journey a few weeks ago, a 111-page book, Gasoline, that’s filled with my photographs and found materials (basically interesting trash) that I collected during my walks.
As it turns out, I enjoyed life on the road even more than I had expected. Although Gasoline reached its natural conclusion, I discovered the idea of not knowing what each day will hold suits my personality well. I’m still traveling today and already working toward my next project—whatever that may be.
Gasoline, by Kyle Pappas, is a self-published book available for $34 here.
