There’s something oddly rewarding about having the only out-of-state license plate around.

It declares with metallic certainty that you come from a land far away. You, the stranger in a strange land, can be forgiven for sudden, halting turns or constant speeding-up and slowing-down, easily viewable in your air-conditioned Navigator (ironically) clutching your GPS and shaking it angrily.

I’ve been there myself, without the Navi. Though there’s a small level of embarrassment that comes with obviously being lost, it’s greatly outweighed by the knowledge that everyone else around is at home and you are on an adventure. They’re in a routine, and you’re on a route ten.

There is a certain kindredship found only in parking lots at entrances to wild places like national parks, historic monuments or recreation areas. It’s like a family of people that collects by accident in some place far away to enjoy the great outdoors.

I’ve taken pictures for minivanned consanguine families in Wyoming who simply wanted a portrait in front of the Grand Teton before they returned to Maryland. I talked with a man from Canada’s Yukon Territory who informed me that he’d been hiking in more places in my home state than I had.

When hotel clerks ask me which car in the lot is mine, I can just say it’s the one from Pennsylvania. Some people out west don’t know the state abbreviation for Pennsylvania. Now that’s far from home. (It’s PA, not PN.)

I’ve played highway leapfrog in Montana with another driver with Pennsylvania plates. He didn’t seem into it, though.

I once came out of a three-day wanderfest in Badlands National Park in early March, where the weather dropped from mid-70s one day to two-below the next night. Since our compass broke before we even saw our first buffalo, our return trip was destined for calamity. (Badlands is large, empty, nearly void of landmarks and totally void of trails.)

But with a stroke of hiker’s luck we found our way to the car in plummeting temps and sharply falling snow and discovered a gift left at my driver’s side door by a couple of guys from Wisconsin.

A Bud Light Lime lay buried in the clay and snow, with a note that read: “Have a cold one on us: safe travels! –Ben and Walt.”

And let me tell you with extreme enthusiasm that at the end of an extremely grumpy day of burdened walking, even a Bud Light Lime tastes exceptional, especially when it’s partially frozen and you have Girl Scout cookies in the trunk. Samoas. Mmm.

So if you ever find yourself out of your home state on any kind of adventure, don’t fear the what-are-you-doing-here looks you’ll probably get (especially in some backwoods towns). Know that you’re not alone, and welcome to the family.

Oh, and next time, bring something better than Bud Light Lime.