“This is a good spot,” I said to Lauren. The long, straight road that stretched out before us was lined by trees but still had plenty of space either side for vehicles to pull over and stop. A steady succession of vehicles crawled along the road through the still air. Bumper to bumper festival-goers all on their way home.
“I was discontent . . . ,” he states. “. . . [S]o I just threw in the towel and took off.” For a South San Franciscan city boy, this was a monumental decision. Leaving behind his hard-won position as a color-tester at DuPont Paint, he partnered up with a fellow San Franciscan named Ed, purchased some hiking boots, and set out for New York.
“Hey buddy, you lookin’ for a ride?”
With his thumb pointed skyward, saying ‘no’ would be an insult to the speaker’s intelligence. He was looking for a ride, just not from this bearded monstrosity of a man.
“I’m headed east on the 10 to Juntura,” the driver continued.
The hills are filled with rust and gold.
It’s funny how one has a tendency to become the other, in a roundabout way.
“I usually don’t pick up hitchhikers. But you don’t look like the usual hippie… “
The 40-something man opens the door of the fancy car he drives to make an impression on his clients.
I’m in. comfortably sitting in the rear, with my shoulders finally relying on something smoother than a rock.
Hvor skal i hen? I asked when I opened the door of the white transporter that dared to pull over on the narrow on-ramp close to Hjørring, in North Jutland.
Not only were my hosts on their way to join the New Zion Army, they were also stopping in Charlie’s hometown, Minneapolis, so they could live with his mom, get jobs, and save some money.
A man going to work took me to Cedar City, a town in southern Utah. I could see I was going to spend a lot of time trying to hitch out of there. A car would go by no more than once every five minutes traveling north on the near empty interstate which lead to Salt Lake City.
The pickup truck, that had whisked me across the California desert, dropped me off on the strip in Las Vegas. In those days the casinos were smaller, many open to the street.
I sat in the back of the speeding pickup surveying the desert in the direction the other hitchhiker was pointing. “There’s water in those mountains,” he said.
I wasn’t so sure. There wasn’t anything green as far as I could see. The truck was approaching a gas station where the guy wanted to be left off.
“You see this green part on the map? That means there’s water out there.”
