S3, E4: A Septuagenarian Adventurer Takes to the Road

In this week’s episode of Travel Tales by Dinogo, we share a story from an extraordinary traveler you probably haven’t heard of yet.

Transcript

Aislyn Greene, host: I’m Aislyn Greene, and you’re listening to Travel Tales by Dinogo. Each episode features a traveler sharing a journey that holds special significance for them. This season, we’re sending out writers, comedians, and playwrights to explore life’s essential questions. In today’s episode, we’re joining J.R. Harris, one of the most inspiring travelers I’ve ever encountered.

J.R. has been an adventurer for as long as he can remember, starting from his childhood in Queens. Now at 78, he has explored some of the most remote corners of the globe. He’s the author of Way Out There: Adventures of a Wilderness Trekker. Additionally, he holds an emeritus position at the explorer’s club, where he is a member of the Board of Directors and the Chair of the Club’s Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion Committee.

He also journeys around the globe, sharing his experiences and motivating others to seek their own adventures. His heart particularly belongs to Arctic environments and road trips, which aligned beautifully during a recent excursion to Canada and Maine. Here’s what he discovered.

J.R. Harris: A wave of excitement washes over me as I settle into the driver’s seat of my nearly-new Mini Cooper. It’s metallic gray with a black roof, featuring leather seats and an impressive sound system. Taking a deep breath, I can still catch a hint of that new car scent.

It’s a beautiful, sunny day in New York during early September. The gas tank is topped off, and my suitcase is tucked away in the trunk. All that remains is to choose a music track, shift into gear, and hit the highway. My week-long adventure will lead me through Canada, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Maine. After 78 years of road trips, the excitement is still alive.

Now, I’m a man with a serious passion for travel. I see myself as a rolling stone: wherever I set my hat becomes my home. Whether I’m flying, taking a train, riding a bicycle, skiing, paddling a canoe, skateboarding, walking, or however I’m traveling, I’m content as long as I’m heading somewhere new.

But what truly excites me is a good road trip—just getting in my car and driving. My first trip took place in 1966, right after I graduated from college. Back then, I had an old Volkswagen Beetle: 40 horsepower, two doors, and a stick shift on the floor. It was my first car, and I drove it all the way from my home in New York City to the northernmost point of the road system in the Western Hemisphere, around 100 miles north of Fairbanks, Alaska.

I ventured there for one purpose: I wanted my battered little car to be the northernmost vehicle on the continent, with no other cars between me and the North Pole.

I clearly don’t need much motivation to hit the road, though this time I actually have one. (More on that later.)

That first drive was an incredible adventure. Alaska in the 1960s was far more remote than it is today—a true wilderness. The few people I encountered were mostly Indigenous, along with a handful of rugged outsiders who had fled north to escape civilization. Back then, free land was still up for grabs for homesteaders, and the state’s oil reserves were yet to be uncovered. It was about a 9,000-mile round trip, and I was gone for several weeks. With very little money, I ended up sleeping in my car and picking up odd jobs along the way to scrape together enough to return home.

It was the trip of a lifetime, and I was just 22!

Now, 56 years have passed, yet I can still feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins as I release the emergency brake and smoothly roll away.

I enjoy listening to music while I drive. During my Alaskan adventure, a popular hit was "I’m a Road Runner" by Junior Walker and the All Stars. For this trip, I’ve chosen another classic road song: "Truckin’" by the legendary Grateful Dead, the greatest band in rock history.

The traffic is relatively light as I make my way toward the Grand Central Parkway and the Bronx Whitestone Bridge. I pass through the neighborhood where I grew up in Queens, glancing at the building where my parents raised my two siblings and me in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment within a city-owned public housing project. This was the place I left from on my journey to Alaska all those years ago.

I was born with an inherent desire to explore; it’s as simple as that.

As a child, I always dreamed of being an explorer. I would read about the Lewis and Clark Expedition of the early 1800s, as well as the trappers, traders, and mountain men who followed them into the Rocky Mountains. I learned about York, who accompanied Lewis and Clark, and about Matthew Henson, the African American explorer who journeyed to the Arctic with Robert E. Peary in 1909 and is now recognized as a co-discoverer of the North Pole. Strangely, neither of these men were ever mentioned in my school lessons; I had to discover them on my own.

The more I read, the stronger my desire to explore grew. I envisioned a thrilling and adventurous life. But honestly, it didn’t seem like a realistic aspiration for a young African American guy like me, coming from a working-class background. My parents didn’t have much education. My mom worked for a time in a factory assembling ballpoint pens, while my dad—whom I called Pops—waited tables in the dining car of an overnight train between New York and Chicago. When air travel became popular, he lost his job along with the other waiters, but for the next 26 years, he drove a truck, a job he enjoyed. He was actually the one who sparked my love for driving.

However, I didn’t know any explorers personally, nor did I have any idea how to become one. My parents firmly believed that if I truly desired it and worked hard enough, I could turn this dream into a reality.

At the age of 14, my parents enrolled me in the Boy Scouts and sent me to summer camp in the Catskill Mountains. They thought that spending summer in the inner city wasn’t the best environment for a teenage boy. Initially, I had never been to the mountains and wanted to stay home with my friends, so I went reluctantly. But my resistance quickly faded as I began learning essential outdoor survival skills: reading maps, using a compass, and starting a fire in heavy rain. Before long, I found myself embarking on extended backpacking adventures in the wild, and that’s when I started to believe I could truly become an explorer.

Years later, I earned a scholarship to college where I studied social psychology and became intrigued by individuals who managed to thrive in isolated environments across the globe.

Following that, it was a natural progression to merge my passion for travel, the survival skills I acquired in Scouts, and my curiosity about those living off the grid. Just a week after graduating, I hopped into my VW and headed to Alaska, fulfilling my childhood dream of exploration.

Since that inaugural trip, I’ve embarked on over 50 expeditions around the globe. Most of these journeys have been solo, taking me to remote areas in places like Greenland, northern Canada, Lapland, the Australian Outback, Iceland, the Andes Mountains, Patagonia, and Tasmania. I even authored a book about my adventures titled Way Out There: Adventures of a Wilderness Trekker.

Yet, my heart holds a special place for the Arctic—it's the very reason I’m on this road trip.

As I cross the Whitestone Bridge and head north, my first destination is Montreal. It’s amusing how I’ve always felt a pull towards the north—something that began in my childhood when I read about Arctic explorers.

One of my favorites is Matthew Henson—the man who co-discovered the North Pole. Besides our shared ethnicity, Henson and I both have a deep fascination for polar regions and their inhabitants. While Henson spent two decades in the far north, I've ventured above the Arctic Circle about 15 times.

A few months back, I hosted an event for the Explorers Club, a group I’ve been a part of since 1993. The gathering took place in New York, where we honored the four Greenlandic Indigenous hunters who accompanied Peary and Henson to the North Pole.

After my talk, Dr. Susan Kaplan came up to me. She’s the director of the Peary–MacMillan Arctic Museum and Arctic Studies Center at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. It’s the only museum in the contiguous United States dedicated to the Arctic—and it makes sense, considering Robert Peary is a Bowdoin graduate from the class of 1877. The museum, particularly its Special Collections, houses artifacts and correspondence from Peary, Henson, and Don MacMillan, another Arctic explorer and Bowdoin alumnus.

Dr. Kaplan mentioned she enjoyed my talk and then extended an invitation for me to visit the school to deliver a lecture on African American explorers.

My first thought was: ROAD TRIP!

After a six-hour drive from New York City, I reach Montreal, a city I know well. This time, I’m staying in a suburb called Longueuil, and my mission is to seek out and photograph graffiti.

Growing up during the graffiti boom in NYC, I now have thousands of graffiti photos from various cities worldwide. It’s an art form that resonates deeply with me, representing the urban landscape of my childhood. Discovering it in cities across the globe always gives me a sense of belonging. Montreal, in particular, is a haven for graffiti.

The following morning, I rise early and grab my camera. I have a street map I downloaded online, marking spots where graffiti is likely to be found, including railroad yards, industrial areas, playgrounds, highways, bridges, and lesser-known neighborhoods. By midday, I’ve captured dozens of photos. There’s always a thrill in turning a corner to stumble upon a striking graffiti throw-up, or “throwie,” just waiting for its moment in front of the lens.

As the day comes to a close, I crave a cup of coffee. Nearby is the Complexe Desjardins, a lively and upscale downtown mall. I step inside and unexpectedly find myself at a break-dance competition. Seriously. All around me, young men and women are showcasing their skills, spinning, dropping, kicking, and moving with remarkable agility. A panel of judges scrutinizes every move while the crowd cheers enthusiastically. I stand captivated as muscles strain, sweat glistens, and music thumps. Graffiti serves as the artistic backdrop of hip-hop culture, and breaking is its hallmark dance.

The music accompanies me as I exit the mall and make my way back to the hotel. The explorer in me feels fulfilled—for the moment.

A couple of days later, I’m back in my Mini Cooper, ready to take on the 194-mile drive to Gorham, a quaint town nestled in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It’s time for another adventure at Mt. Washington.

The mountain belongs to the Presidential Range, home to the tallest peaks in the Whites. Its most prominent summits are named after American presidents, including Madison, Adams, Jefferson, and Monroe. As I approach the town, the ridge appears to my right, but today it’s shrouded in thick cloud cover, which is no surprise.

Standing at 6,288 feet, Mount Washington is the tallest peak in the northeastern United States and the most topographically prominent mountain east of the Mississippi River. This notoriety comes from its unpredictable weather. On April 12, 1934, the Mount Washington Observatory recorded a wind speed of 231 miles per hour at the summit, a world record that stood until 1996. Mount Washington still holds the record for the highest wind speed ever measured that isn’t associated with a tornado or tropical cyclone.

I've actually reached the summit of Mt. Washington four times out of six attempts, all during midwinter. This time, my goal is less extreme but still presents a challenge: driving the 7.6-mile Mt. Washington Auto Road to the top. The road is steep and lacks guardrails. Inclement weather adds a layer of uncertainty to the drive, making it, shall we say... sketchy. However, if you make it to the top, you can proudly display the bumper sticker that proclaims, 'This Car Climbed Mt. Washington.'

As I near the entrance gate and glance upwards, the weather looks grim. Thick fog—or perhaps low-hanging clouds—begins just 100 feet above me. If I proceed, it won’t take long before I’m surrounded by whiteout conditions, obscuring any view of the picturesque mountain landscape, now hinting at the first signs of autumn foliage. I ask the attendant at the toll gate if he thinks it’s worth it.

He replies, 'A few cars have ventured up this morning, but if you’re willing to spend $45 to navigate a narrow, winding road with zero visibility, I’ll gladly take your money.'

I opt to wait and see if the weather will clear up. It doesn’t. Although I’m disappointed, a lifetime of exploration has taught me that nature doesn’t bend to my desires. She does as she pleases, and I’ve learned to adapt. I’ll return next year to give it another shot.

The following morning, I set off early. From Gorham, it’s just a quick two-hour drive to Brunswick, Maine. There’s not much to see along the way, but the day is stunning and traffic is light. With music blasting through eight speakers, I savor the drive. Before I know it, I’m parking on campus.

Bowdoin is a prestigious private liberal arts college, established in 1794, nestled on a beautiful 200-acre campus. The scenery is stunning, just as one would envision for a small college in a charming New England town: a spacious, grassy quadrangle framed by a blend of modern and 19th-century buildings and dorms. The trees are ablaze with autumn colors. It’s easy to imagine what it would be like to be a student here.

With my speech scheduled for 7:30 p.m., I take the opportunity to stroll around campus. It’s incredibly exciting to see my image on flyers plastered on doors, windows, and walls. It strikes me that past Black explorers never received such recognition. These flyers both humble me and make me feel like a bit of a celebrity.

That sense of excitement continues as I enter the auditorium that evening. A large audience has gathered for my presentation. Dr. Kaplan and I are pleasantly surprised since the fall semester has just kicked off and many students are still away. Clearly, those flyers have done their job! A young IT technician assists in uploading my presentation and setting up my microphone. I’m all set to begin.

My presentation is titled “Sambo or Superman: The Rocky Road to Recognition.” Over the next hour, I share stories of the few African American explorers in history—figures like Matthew Henson, Jim Beckwourth, and York, who was part of Lewis and Clark’s Voyage of Discovery in the early 1800s. I discuss how the achievements of Black explorers have frequently gone unrecorded, and how, when they have been documented, those records are often flawed or skewed. I then draw on my own expedition experiences to highlight a group of African Americans whose contributions in the wilderness for their country have been forgotten by history.

At the conclusion of my talk, I display a copy of my book and inform the audience that it’s available on Amazon or from the publisher’s website: Mountaineers Books. You’ve got to promote your own work, right?

As the lights brighten once again, I receive a standing ovation; the audience is clapping and cheering enthusiastically. Despite having delivered this talk many times before, I still feel a thrill in sharing the stories of those who inspired me to embark on my own explorations. I spend a considerable amount of time fielding questions about Black explorers and my journey from a city kid to a wilderness traveler and explorer.

The audience is filled with so many young faces, all fully engaged. It warms my heart to think that perhaps I’ve sparked a passion in some of them to pursue their own dreams in life. I’m just an ordinary guy, and I genuinely believe that if I can achieve it, they can too.

The following morning, I finally get to explore the Peary–MacMillan Arctic Museum. Dr. Kaplan and curator Dr. Genevieve LeMoine greet me for the tour. Though small, the museum is steeped in history—it has housed natural history artifacts collected from the Arctic since the 19th century. As I look around, I’m nearly overwhelmed. The collection includes 41,000 objects, 9,000 photographs, and countless reels of motion picture film.

One of my favorite displays is the Hubbard Sledge. These large, robust sleds were used to transport heavy equipment and personnel, and the Hubbard Sledge is thought to be one that Peary and Henson used on their journey to the North Pole. I even make a friend in a polar bear—well, a stuffed one, which happens to be the college mascot. Quite amusing (no pun intended).

With no other visitors around, Dr. Kaplan and Dr. LeMoine encourage me to take my time exploring. It feels like a journey into the past. I can easily envision what it was like to be an Arctic explorer in the early 1900s. I love seeing, up close, the equipment these brave men used and the clothing they wore. I reflect on how different my own Arctic adventures have been and how much gear and clothing have evolved over time.

After finishing at the museum, I make my way to the Special Collections unit in a different building. Once again, I find myself alone, this time to explore letters written by Matthew Henson in the years following his journey to the North Pole. He penned several to Donald MacMillan, expressing his gratitude for MacMillan’s pivotal role in helping Henson gain the recognition he so richly deserved.

It feels surreal to hold these aged, handwritten letters. As the son of sharecroppers, I can’t help but admire Henson’s exceptional grammar, syntax, spelling, and even his neat penmanship.

After a quick lunch in the cafeteria, I have a final meeting with a student organization called the Bowdoin Outing Club. This club boasts over 400 members and organizes more than 150 excursions annually to foster a spirit of adventure among Bowdoin students.

Their meeting space is right up my alley, filled with camping gear stacked outside alongside kayaks and canoes. Inside, a large open room features trophy heads of various animals mounted on the walls. About 40 to 50 students sit in a large circle on the floor. I join them and ask if they ever feel scared while outdoors. Almost everyone nods. "Me too!" I exclaim. "In fact, I’ve been scared so many times that I consider myself an expert in fear."

I share one of my most terrifying experiences: the time I lost my pack in the mountains of southwest Tasmania and nearly succumbed to hypothermia. We spend the next hour engaged in a captivating discussion about fear—what it is, how it manifests, the different types, and the lessons we can learn from it. It’s clear that these students haven’t thought much about fear before; not many people do. They ask if I have any advice to share. I tell them that fear, like anything else, can be approached rationally. Courage isn’t the absence of fear but the acceptance of it. Most importantly, never be afraid of being afraid.

My journey concludes in Bar Harbor, Maine, located 157 miles north of Brunswick. This charming town borders Acadia National Park, a destination I’ve always dreamed of exploring. The park showcases the stunning natural beauty of the tallest rocky headlands along the Atlantic coast. Despite its small size, it attracts 4 million visitors annually, making it one of the top ten most-visited national parks in the U.S.

After a three-hour drive, I arrive in the picturesque tourist town of Bar Harbor. It features a marina and a scenic seaside path with breathtaking ocean views. The main thoroughfare, fittingly named Main Street, is lined with bars, souvenir shops, and restaurants. There seems to be an abundance of eateries, all boasting about their lobster offerings. In coastal towns like this, lobster is practically a staple. I can’t help but ponder how one lobster dish could possibly stand out from another.

Skipping the lobster, I head straight to the park. As I make my way to the summit of Cadillac Mountain—the highest point on the eastern seaboard—I’m greeted by a riot of fall colors. The trees burst with red, gold, yellow, and green hues, and the air cools significantly as I near the top.

Since this drive is so popular, a time-stamped reservation is required. As expected, traffic is heavy and parking is a challenge, but I strike gold at the summit. The weather is sunny and delightful, prompting me to seek out a rock with a stunning ocean view. Many others have the same idea; the area is bustling, and finding the ideal rock proves tricky. Eventually, I discover a flat stone with a clear vista. I climb up and gaze out over the water, enjoying a unique perspective as the highest land-based viewpoint of the Atlantic, stretching from Maine all the way to Florida, framed by beautiful autumn foliage.

How many times have I stood atop a mountain and marveled at a fresh view? Too many to count. I reflect on my talk at Bowdoin and the explorers who forged the way for me to pursue my passion for exploration over the past 78 years.

I reflect on the students I encountered at Bowdoin College and the future generation of explorers. I’ve built upon the legacy of those who came before me, and I can only hope that I’ve inspired a few students to embrace the outdoors and not shy away from their fears while exploring.

Bathed in sunlight and fond memories, I descend from the rock. There’s just one last task ahead, but it’s a good one: the 500-mile journey back home, filled with the pure joy of being on the open road.

Aislyn: That was J.R. Harris. Although J.R. hasn’t yet mapped out his next road trip, he is gearing up to tackle a mountain—specifically, Mount Kilimanjaro. This summer 2023, he’ll lead an expedition in partnership with the Explorer’s Club called Breaking Boundaries. He’ll bring a diverse group of New York students, ages 18-25, to climb alongside a varied group of African students in the same age bracket. Members of the Explorers Club will also participate in the expedition, conducting experiments on climate change that the students can join in on, aiming to inspire them to consider careers in science. For more on the Explorer’s Club, visit explorers.org.

You can join J.R. on more adventures through his book, Way Out There: Adventures of a Wilderness Trekker (we’ll link to it in the show notes), and discover more on his website, jrinthewilderness.com. Also, check out a fantastic profile of J.R. on Dinogo.com, penned by my colleague Katherine LaGrave, which inspired this episode. (Links will be provided in the show notes.) And remember to follow J.R. on Instagram @JRinthewilderness.

Craving more travel tales? Visit us at Dinogo.com/podcasts, and don’t forget to follow us on Instagram and Twitter. We’re @Dinogomedia.

If you enjoyed today’s journey, we invite you to join us again in two weeks for more captivating stories. Subscribing is a breeze! You can find us on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or your preferred podcast platform. And please don’t forget to rate and review us; it helps fellow travelers discover our show.

This has been Travel Tales, brought to you by Dinogo Media and Boom Integrated. Our podcast is produced by Aislyn Greene, Adrien Glover, and Robin Lai, with post-production by Jenn Grossman and Clint Rhoades from John Marshall Media. Music is composed by Alan Carrescia. A special thanks to Irene Wang and Angela Johnston for their contributions.

I’m Aislyn Greene, your host who travels whenever possible. I’m thrilled to be back on the road. As we explore the globe this year, keep in mind that the adventure truly begins the moment we step out our front door.

Everyone has a Travel Tale to tell. What’s yours?