Graduation from Cal Berkeley - 1977
In high school, I vanquished the southern and northern borders by bicycle. In college, I decided to travel from the west coast to the east coast, by thumb.
Hitchhiking was not a new form of transportation for me. After a tough wrestling practice, I sometimes hitched a ride from the 2 AM Club a couple of miles up the Molino hill to my home on Mirabel. And on warm spring days Jim and I were known to have left Tam High School a little early, hitchhiking over the mountain to body surf at Stinson Beach.
In the late 60’s and early 70’s hitchhikers were everywhere, depending upon the kindness of motorists. And so, during the summer before my sophomore year at CAL, I took my position among dozens of fellow travelers on University Avenue. My sign simply read: “East Coast.”
The first ride was a good one, taking me through familiar California scenery on Interstate 80 over the Sierras to Nevada. The trick in the desert was not to get caught in the blazing mid-day sun or the freezing night for too long. But I was prepared. Inside my handmade leather pack was a down filled mummy bag and a warm change of clothes.
I quickly caught rides though Nevada and Utah, only to have my luck run out in Colorado. My heart sank when I saw the flashing light of a Colorado state trooper. In most states hitchhiking was legal, but in Colorado the penalty for hitchhiking was a night in jail. However, this state policeman had something more mischievous in mind. He drove me to a remote farm community, miles from I-80. “Have a nice day,” he chuckled, as he dropped me off on a small rural road surrounded by cornfields. A farmer waved at me as he ambled by atop his tractor.
It took me a better part of a day to get back to I-80, but I managed a couple of long rides through the Great Plains. Most people were so nice. Sometimes drivers were travelers en route to vacation destinations, lonely for company. Local people gave rides too, wanting to hear tales of the road. Part of the allure of hitchhiking was talking with so many different kind strangers.
There was only a few times when I didn’t take a ride offered to me. One was outside of Joliet, Illinois, home of the state penitentiary. When a man in an orange jump suit opened his truck door and said, “hop in,” I decided that I probably shouldn’t catch rides with prison inmates, either going to or escaping from jail. “No thanks” I replied, “I’ll wait for a ride all the way into Chicago.”
The fun of hitchhiking was that you never knew what adventure would greet you at your next stop. In Chicago, I walked along the Lake, visiting the art museum, and listening to several concerts in the park. In New York City, Van Gogh’s “Sun Flowers” were on display at the MET; in Baltimore, I attended the rock musical “Hair”, in Boston, Jim and I camped out on a Harvard dormitory floor, and in Washington DC, I walked among our national monuments and memorials for my first time.
The East Coast cities were full of culture and crime, great beauty and crushing poverty. Out of money, I remember spending one night in a rescue mission in Camden, New Jersey, amongst the poorest of the poor. The next day we crossed the river into Philadelphia and visited Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell.
In Philadelphia, I decided to earn money unloading trucks. Long haul truckers would pay up to $15 to have their freight carried from trailer to warehouse. My career unloading trucks was a short one, when a veteran “lumper” ran me off with a baseball bats for poaching his territory.
Without an itinerary, motel reservations, or much money, you never knew where you would end up. A flood buried Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania while we were staying with at the American Friends Service Committee in Philly. We joined their rescue efforts, spending a couple days digging mud out of flooded homes.
In Massachusetts, we had the address of famous author John Updike. He was a relative of a Mill Valley friend. We met him briefly in his home, where he asked if we had any interesting tales from the road. Before we could finish telling him our first adventure, he dismissed us to his barn, our overnight accommodations.
Although we may not have been a big hit with the literary luminaries of New England, we had one of our best adventures camping in Maine. We caught a ride in the back of a truck through Vermont and New Hampshire, winding our way through the Green and White Mountains with the blue sky above.
In Maine, we followed the craggy coastline dotted with fishing villages until we reached Bar Harbor. We camped, living on fresh clams dug from the beach and blueberries we picked. With a gallon of milk and a few potatoes from the local store, we cooked our own fresh clam chowder. There were campfires, singing, and lots of laughter on that wild beach. In Maine, the life of a hitchhiking vagabond was good.
That summer I traveled over three thousand miles by thumb. I always begin recollections of that coast-to-coast journey with my daughters with the warning: “don’t do it, hitchhiking isn’t safe.”
It was a different time, a different place than the America of today. I wish it wasn’t, for there is something very special being a traveler on the open road, depending only on your thumb and the kindness of strangers.