Jenna Nienhuis

*Featured in Bradt Travel Guide’s 2025 “Kindness of Strangers” story collection.

Every teen driver in my hometown dreaded the name Jack Lithgo, a timeworn gatekeeper who stood between us and the open road.  Before surviving a five-lane freeway merge, we had to endure his driver’s ed classes, infamous for all the wrong, soul-crushing reasons. On Saturday mornings, we piled into a musty classroom listening to him spit awful statistics and growl on about horror stories from the road. “Murder-cycles,” he huffed, “Never get on one of those things”. 

But long before Lithgo could curb my love for the road, my three sisters and I had already discovered its magic. Our mom drove a teal Suburban like a boat, flying over speed bumps—unaware of her alignment—just for the thrill of watching us popcorn around in the backseat. Even more exciting were the rare big rigs on otherwise boring errand runs. We sat patiently in our seats, pumping our arms up and down until a truck finally rewarded us with a honk. By middle school, our antics escalated into cheeky “full moons” offered to select drivers, purely for shock and laughter.

Many years after maturing from mooning people (just kidding, I still do it to my sisters), the road reminded me again of its unexpected camaraderie.  This time, it happened while I was driving with my own family—my husband and three young daughters—on an 8-hour road trip from San Diego to Yosemite National Park in our beige Sprinter van, “Vanpire”.

Dust from the Central Valley’s farmland whipped up around our tires as we pulled off Highway 99 for a quick bathroom break. I had been preoccupied most of the drive, keeping the kids at bay and flinging snacks around like a seal trainer. Then, out the window, I saw my husband give the grey Sprinter van behind us a friendly “shaka”.

“Who was that?” I asked in surprise. 

He laughed. “I almost risked all of our kids peeing their pants because I didn’t want to leave my driving buddy.”

Unbeknownst to me, my husband and Grey Sprinter Van had shadowed each other’s every move, every turn and every lane change for the past four hours like a choreographed dance. This spontaneous caravan kept him alert and entertained on an otherwise tedious drive. The kids indulged in the story, thrilled by Dad’s “new best friend”, hoping to spot the van at our next stop.

Connection with fellow travelers is as old as travel itself. Indigenous Americans primarily traveled to new locations on foot and in dug-out canoes, always in groups. They used petroglyphs, tree markers and natural landmarks to signal wayfinding to others. The road trip revolution has evolved from leather-soled traveling to rubber-tramping in aluminum vehicles that keep us more isolated than ever.

And so, the wave of a hand or the considerate flashing of a headlight is even more enthralling on an intimate two-lane road. Together we cruise on a joint mission with our fellow drivers, passing up and over a shared landscape, along run-on highways once dirt, mountain rock or trees. Harley riders (if you’re willing to get on one of those things) tap their helmets to warn of an officer ahead and give the signature two-finger wave. Jeep owners “duck” each other by leaving tiny rubber ducks as tokens of kindness. And in a crowded national park lot, offering someone your coveted parking space feels like a tiny miracle of goodwill.

These small gestures break through even the worst moments on the road, and our unlikely companions like Grey Sprinter Van, Big Rig Driver and Mooning Maven make the open road a little less scary and a lot more human.