When I walked through the swinging doors of the Red Dog Saloon, everyone in the dimly lit bar seemed to stop what they were doing to check out the stranger who had entered their private domain.

I found an unoccupied seat at the crowded bar and ordered a Kodiak Ale on tap. The bartender studied me before asking where I was from. Back then, the citizens of Juneau could easily recognize a stranger in town. This was in an era when Juneau was still a relatively isolated place, and long before the Princess Cruise ship invasion brought thousands of international tourists to its shores.

As I took a sip of the cold brew, the middle-aged bartender set down another full mug in front of me and said it had been taken care of by the dark-haired woman at the end of the bar. I acknowledged her complimentary drink with a casual wave. Before I could get the glass to my mouth, he put down a third beer while nodding toward an elderly woman at the opposite end of the bar who appeared to be waving her walking cane in my direction. He leaned over to me and whispered, “Hey pal, don’t let all this go to your head, because women here don’t see many new men coming through town.” As I scanned the room, I saw no evidence the place had a back entrance which might provide a swift exit.

The daily life and attendant perils of the traveling salesman might not have been everyone’s cup of tea (or beer, in this case), and the lifestyle had been known to have taken a dramatic toll on some of those who lived it.

I was one who chose that particular mission, and surprisingly, lived to tell about it. Some personalities are perhaps better suited for the “Willy Loman” lifestyle than others. I was a salesman for an East Coast publishing firm for almost four decades and spent a good portion of each year on the road living in hotels. The job description might sound like a “life sentence” to some, while that very same existence held great appeal for determined road warriors like me. Back then, the traveling lifestyle and the constantly changing surroundings shielded me from the sheer boredom of the daily office grind that I had envisioned it would be.

While visiting bookstores throughout my territory and presenting books from my company’s seasonal catalog required some diligent preparation and homework, the actual appointment with receptive booksellers was often remarkably stress-free. By their very nature, booksellers were welcoming to those who shared the same profession. We all knew that bookselling was a rather eccentric business, and certainly one lacking in the true definition of an industry. Books were the binding component in our nascent business relationship.

Early in my career, I spent an inordinate amount of time in cities named Lubbock, Midland, and Odessa, and during that period, “Tuesday, this must be Amarillo” became my steadfast refrain. But whatever that particular West Texas town might have lacked in glamour and beauty, it more than made up for in my absolute amusement at the endlessly flat landscape. Author Larry McMurtry once said about the region in which he had been raised, “The only thing that breaks the wind in West Texas is the barbed-wire fences.”

I liked the people there. Even though they were slightly distrustful of outsiders, West Texans were nevertheless unfailingly hospitable to the weary traveler.

Several years later, my company offered a job based in Southern California, which entailed covering several Southwestern states, including Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico. And just for a little spice, they threw in Alaska and Hawaii. That addition made this decision an instant no-brainer, and within several weeks of my move, I found myself comfortably entrenched in the Southern California lifestyle.

I wasted no time in making arrangements for the first trip to Alaska and Hawaii. At that time, Western Airlines offered a triangular fare between Los Angeles, Anchorage, and Honolulu, with one small caveat. The flight departed and arrived only once a week—on Wednesday evenings. Translation: Don’t miss your flight.

I was excited about visiting Anchorage because I had friends there whom I had worked with in Texas when I had first entered the book business. They owned two bookstores in town, so our reunion would consist of a pleasant mix of business and pleasure.

Only days later, I found myself wading ankle-deep in a shallow stream running beneath a roadway bridge on the outskirts of Anchorage with instructions from my friends to “catch our dinner for the evening.” I was equipped with only a plastic bag as I chased a three-pound salmon upstream while my friends, Dave and Joyce, watched and laughed from atop the bridge. After a number of failed attempts to capture the slippery creature, and several incriminating photos later (that undoubtedly documented my futility), I finally managed to bag our dinner.

Within hours of arrival at their home, Dave had already placed several sizzling salmon fillets on the backyard grill. I sensed this might just be a dining experience for the ages, and my speculation turned out to be correct. Later that same evening, I assured my hosts that this was an even better meal than the one I had enjoyed during my last visit to Red Lobster in Lubbock. If this particular day’s adventure represented a typical road trip in my new territory, I decided this had indeed been a worthwhile career move.

After my visits to Anchorage and Fairbanks—plus my narrow escape from Juneau’s Red Dog Saloon—I was off to Honolulu. This trip represented a traveler’s nightmare when packing for the winter season. It required the world’s heaviest overcoat for Fairbanks’ sub-zero nights, plus swimming trunks and flip-flops for Waikiki. I was always curious what airport security agents thought as they rummaged through the contents of my bags.