Steve Fugate was 53 when his world shattered. Hiking the Appalachian Trail in 1999, the Florida resident got word that his 26-year-old son, Steven Jr., had died by suicide. Six years later, his daughter Michelle, battling multiple sclerosis, succumbed to an accidental drug overdose at 33. Instead of crumbling, the retired construction worker laced up his boots and hit the road—carrying a simple plywood sign overhead that read “Love Life.” What began as personal therapy in 2001 has ballooned into a 24-year crusade, with Fugate trekking the continental U.S. at least nine times, logging over 51,000 miles on foot to spread a message of hope and suicide prevention.

Now 76, Fugate—known online as the “Love Life Guy”—pushes a custom trailer loaded with camping gear, a cooler, and essentials through rain, snow, and blistering heat. He averages 7 to 14 miles a day, resting every other day in motels or kind strangers’ driveways. His ninth cross-country jaunt kicked off Valentine’s Day 2025 from Sebastian, Florida, aiming for Oregon before looping back east. “I’ve limited my bad days to three minutes, and it’s been years since I needed them,” Fugate told WDHN News in Coffee County, Alabama, where he paused last month to chat with locals. The walks aren’t sprints for a finish line; they’re marathons of connection, where the sign sparks conversations that can last hours.

Fugate’s odyssey defies easy categorization—part grief therapy, part awareness campaign. Early on, the miles were escape: “I was running from the pain,” he admitted in his 2017 self-published book, Love Life Walk: Stories & Thoughts from 43,000 Miles Walking Across America Eight Times. But repetition turned torment into purpose. By his third crossing in 2007, strangers were pulling over, sharing their own battles with depression. One encounter stands out: A trucker in Oklahoma confessed to suicidal ideation but credited Fugate’s sign with pulling him back. “He didn’t do it because it would make him feel rotten to do that to me—and he didn’t even know me,” Fugate recounted in a 2014 Korduroy.tv documentary. That man, now sober for over a decade, became a walking testament to the ripple effect.

The math alone staggers: Nine full U.S. traversals clock in at roughly 45,000 miles (about 2,500 per coast-to-coast hike), plus detours and loops pushing the total past 51,000—equivalent to circling the equator twice. Fugate funds it piecemeal through Social Security, book sales, and GoFundMe boosts from fans. His Facebook page, “Love Life Walk,” boasts 12,000 followers who track his progress via daily posts: sunsets over Kansas prairies, diner breakfasts with well-wishers, or philosophical musings like, “When love fills your life, all limitations are gone.” A 2020 GoFundMe for his eighth walk raised $5,200, enough for tires and tarps. “Random acts of kindness happen daily—sometimes multiple in one day,” he wrote then, countering the doom-scroll of cable news.

Encounters fuel him. In April 2023, near Miami, a CBS News crew caught Fugate with 76-year-old retiree Linda Bartlett, who laundered his clothes and fixed his trailer after spotting the sign. “Instead of hating life and asking ‘Why me?’, he turned it around,” Bartlett said. Fugate’s creed—”mend the broken heart while it’s still beating”—has touched thousands. A 2014 NationSwell profile detailed how he deterred a young hitchhiker in Nevada from self-harm, urging, “If I can love life after losing both my babies, anybody can.” That philosophy echoes Peace Pilgrim, the 20th-century activist Fugate admires, whose mantra he borrows: “The medicine this sick world needs is love.”

Suicide prevention sits at the core. The CDC reports over 49,000 U.S. suicides in 2022, with rates spiking 30% since 2000—disproportionately among men Fugate’s age. His walks align with National Suicide Prevention Month (September), where he’s keynoted events and lobbied for awareness funding. “That’s the opposite end of the spectrum,” he told Kickass Trips in 2014. “If you love life, you’re not going to end it.” Experts like Dr. Christine Moutier of the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention praise such grassroots efforts: “Personal stories like Steve’s humanize the stats, showing recovery is possible.” Fugate’s not clinically trained—he’s a dad armed with empathy—but his sign has become a beacon, featured in Huffington Post (2012) and WSVN (2023) spotlights.

Physically, it’s brutal. Blistered feet, swollen knees, sciatica that sidelines him for weeks. At 76, he’s traded youthful vigor for “tenacity,” as he calls it. Yet he persists, towing a trailer dubbed “The Beast” stocked with a cot, propane stove, and his late kids’ photos. Michelle’s MS battle inspired a pivot: After her 2005 death, Fugate added advocacy for chronic illness, linking it to mental health strains. “They wanted me to have joy,” he said in a 2012 HLNTV interview. “Not loving life disrespects their memories.”

The 2025 trek marks a milestone—his ninth, amid post-pandemic isolation that’s worsened mental health crises. Fugate’s route snakes through the South, Midwest heartland, and Pacific Northwest, hitting hotspots like Nashville and Denver. Followers mail care packages; one 2023 donor sent orthotics that “saved my arches.” His book, a slim 100-pager on Amazon, weaves anecdotes from 43,000 miles (pre-2017 stats), blending humor (“I hate walking, but I do it”) with raw grief. “The walking is the goal—meeting people, tearing down walls,” he reiterated in February to WDHN.

Critics might call it quixotic, but impacts abound. A 2020 blog by Inspiration Junkie dubbed him a “thru-hiking passion project,” inspiring armchair adventurers. Fugate’s no fundraiser—he rejects big sponsorships to stay authentic—but his presence alone deters despair. “I’m making my babies proud,” he told CBS Miami in 2023. As he nears 52,000 miles, the sign endures: weathered plywood, bold letters, a lifeline for the lost.

In an era of filtered facades, Fugate’s unvarnished trek cuts through. From Appalachian echoes to Oregon’s coast, he’s not just walking—he’s proving grief needn’t be the end. “Life’s not what newscasters scare you with,” he posts. “It’s the kindness on the road.” For those eyeing the edge, his steps whisper: Love it anyway.