Tag: hitchhiking

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Road Trip to Nowhere

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Do you need time?
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Have you ever had one of those nightmares where you are kind of aware of what’s going on, and wish the damned thing would end so you could wake up? Well, I had one the other night. Like most of these things, it isn’t so much that they are awful, but they are tedious. The threatening thing about them is your futile attempts to escape – only to be drawn back in. Time seems elastic.

There I was on the road again. I’d just been picked up by a couple outside of Philly who said they were going straight through all the way to Pittsburgh. Great! About three hundred miles on one ride, and getting me almost entirely through the state of Pennsylvania. It would be a scenic ride through the countryside in practically regal comfort. They’d just gassed up and were going to roll on through.

After the initial introductions were done, they settled into an easy conversation with each other. I sort of drifted into a nap. But after a while, the voices grew louder, strident, and very bitter-sounding. The conversation turned into an argument that had the feeling of being one that had been often repeated. The ruts were deep, but no resolution was ever achieved.

Who Me?

Then the driver turned his head and asked me what I thought of his wife’s position. I thought that he should keep looking at the road. But I politely answered that it wasn’t my place to interfere in their lives. Then the wife turned to me and begged me to agree that he was being silly to oppose her.

It went on like this for many miles and hours. I begged to be let out. But the driver pointed out that it had started to snow, and it wouldn’t be safe. The wife agreed. Then she accused me of selfishly wanting to endanger them by stopping under dangerous conditions and risking their safety.

The trip went on like this for hours until we were stopped at a light in a small town, and I lunged for the car door, dragging my pack and guitar with me. I woke up clutching the quilt to me and listening to my two cats begging for breakfast.

How much time had I actually spent in the car with the two LooneyTunes? Probably seconds, but it felt like hours. How much time do you need for a dream?

Points of Origination

Where did the dream come from? Experience. Hitchhiking experiences can go bad in a variety of ways, and one of them is the sort of situation I described. Friends who hitched always insisted that it was preferable to be let off in the middle of nowhere than continue as the forced go between in a domestic dispute. One friend described a trip gone wrong where it came to physical blows, with him ( the driver) slapping her and her slapping him. He escaped much as I did in the dream by hopping out at a red light.

How much time do you need for a dream, probably not too much, but the good ones are too brief and the bad ones seem to linger.

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Trudy

You might have noticed that the literature on road trips lacks many long-winded entries on winter jaunts. Let’s say that pristine snow and frozen feet do not inspire depositions on the glory of being on the road again. Most smart Pius Itinerants find a pleasant place to lodge for the stinky season and travel by plane, bus, or prearranged ride ( going all the way).

So it was only with great need that I agreed to the relatively short hop between Boston and Bridgeport in early March with Christine’s younger sister Trudy. Trudy had been a very bad girl in a section of Boston that you don’t misbehave in ( 1967), and some very bad people were looking to do her some serious harm. She needed to be gone from Boston, but her family, Brain Trust, decided that conventional means of travel via air, bus, or train were unsafe and that family members might be watched. Extreme and very paranoid measures were needed.

It was decided to ship Trudy off to live with her great-aunt in Bridgeport. A car trip to Bridgeport usually takes two and a half hours. But the idea was to sneak her past the bad guys’ suspected spy network; it might take longer. My friend and erstwhile roommate, the Teahead of the August Moon, had the bright idea of her hitching rides to get out of town. Who’d be watching for a single cute chick with a thumb out? Right. So the idea shifted to having some patsy accompany her. It would be a young couple going to visit Aunty.

Unfortunately, I owed the Teahead more than a few solid favors for rent-free living and food. I could do it, or the next time I breezed into town, find other quarters to crash in. So we bundled Trudy up, and off to the highway we went. You might think a “cute couple” on a cold day in March might get many ride offers. Not so that day. We got lots of short hops, and by about four in the afternoon, we were in a stretch of deserted highway as the sunset. I decided that hitching after dark was not the wisest thing, with Officer Opie on patrol and people whizzing by at high speed. The road was icy, and it could be a hazard for someone to stop for us.

Luckily, I recognized the stretch of road and determined that there was a good spot to bivouac not far into the woods. It was a little hollow protected from the wind on all sides by a stand of hemlocks. I even located the circle of stones my buddy and I used two years ago for a fire.

I had placed a carefully packed sleeping bag and a tarp at the bottom of my backpack. It was a “just in case” preparation. I never knew if my next host might only offer a spot by a radiator for me to sleep. It took half an hour to improvise a tiny shelter and a carefully constructed fire. Out came the can of beans, and soon, there was a quick impromptu dinner. Everything that could conceivably be used to warm us was pulled out of the packs. Luckily, the weather cooperated, and we were uncomfortable but not freezing.

Now, two people sharing one regular-sized sleeping bag means lots of compromises in comfort and warmth. What results is a tug of war. Move one way, and one person is exposed, tug the other way, and the other is open to the elements. Somewhere around two in the morning, I was accused of sexually accosting Trudy because I embraced her in the interest of warmth.

Vituperative is one way to describe the eruption of foul language. If it had been fuel, we could have stayed warm and toasty till the sun was up. I tried to explain that there was nothing sexual in the hug and that I’d never think of sex with a good friend’s little sister. Well, take your pick of anything in those statements that might have caused the eruption. But one, some, or all caused significant offense, and the result was that Trudy had the sleeping bag to herself while I huddled by the tiny fire.

Come morning, I was stiff, cold, and mad. I found a diner for breakfast, and I sat at the counter; she took a booth. By ten AM, we were in front of her Aunts. Aunty was at work. Trudy looked at me and asked what we could do till five when her Aunt returned. I pointed out that I had delivered her to her Aunt’s door. I would get some coffee, find the bus station, and grab a bus to New York; she was free to do whatever she pleased. She smiled, grabbed my arm, and suggested that she’ll tell her family that I’d attempted to molest her. I reached into my pocket and took out a dime. As I walked away, I tossed it to her, “Go ahead; the call is on me.”

I didn’t see the Teahead for almost six months. Trudy had indeed poisoned the well with untrue tales. It turned out that her taste in bad boys continued to be a problem, but she had burned her bridges with family over the wild and untrue stories of mob gang members searching for her.

One night, a large group of us were drinking together at Harvard Gardens. In walks the Teahead with some other friends. He comes right over and tells me the rest of the story about Trudy, apologizes, and asks for forgiveness.

So, that was one very unmemorable road trip. It was short and not sweet.

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One Night On The Side Of The Road

Written for OLWG – #393

In those days, not too far off Route 1, there was an old milk truck that someone had converted into a lean-to shelter. The faded logo of a cow sittin’ on a rainbow could still be made out on the side. Inside were a few improvised plank beds, and right outside of the opening was a large fire pit with the hood of an old car propped up as a heat reflector. Past the road was a pasture, and on some afternoons when I camped there, I’d pull out the guitar and serenade the “girls” before they headed off to the barn for milking. They were always an appreciative audience.

I camped there whenever I was on that stretch of road. Beyond was a lonely stretch of road, and I preferred to hit it in the morning when there was a good bit of traffic rather than wait for hours seeking a ride. 

I always checked in with one of the dairyman’s kids just so someone knew I was there. It was polite and easier than explaining what I was up to the local officer Opie.

Not long after starting a fire, I was joined by the dairyman’s large tom cat. His motto was “friendly, not familiar,” he greeted me with a rub against my legs and allowed me to rub his chin in greeting. After that, I was not allowed to pet him. We’d spent enough time in front of the campfire together to know each other but not enough to get all palsy. I pulled out the beefsteak sub sandwich I had bought in the last town and started sharing it with him. Afterward, I played his favorite songs, the Cat Came Back and Ringtail Tom:

I’ve got an old Tom Cat

And when he steps out

All the other cats in the neighborhood

They begin to shout

There goes a ringtail Tom

Struttin’ round the town

And if you got your heat turned up

You better turn your damper down

Ringtail Tom is a star

He’s a boss around this town

He don’t allow no other Tom Cats

Come pussy footin’ around

He sat there and preened as I played and sang directly to him.

Then I saw something moving down the path in the near darkness. The cat was already ready to run. I looked again and said, “Look over there. Did you see that?” He started a loud purr and jumped from the shelter to greet the man coming our way. ” And how are you, Josiah!” He bent over and gave the eager cat a thorough patting. Seeing me, he greeted me with a hearty ” And how are you tonight, Traveler?”

I gestured for him to come over and sit in front of the fire. The tom cat squeezed in between us. I offered him the last bit of the sandwich, and we talked for a long while as the evening progressed. His handle was Pilgrim, and he’d been seriously on the road since his discharge from the Navy following the Korean War. If Pius Itinerants had elders I was in the presence of one. Taking out a flashlight, he showed me the old tramp marks on the side of the milk truck that signaled that the dairyman was friendly and that this was a safe place to stay. I had learned this by trial and error, but it was marked if you could read the sign.

We sat and sang songs like “Song of the Pius Itinerant” ( Hallelujah, I’m A Bum), “I’ve Been Everywhere”, and the new “King of the Road.” Sitting in front of the fire with a purring cat, we discussed many things. I eventually unloaded the reason I was on the road rather than with my girlfriend. After giving me advice, he summed it up by simply saying, ” Don’t overly worry about it, son; this night will end as the others have.”

Early in the morning, Pilgrim hit the road going south and me north. And Josiah, the cat, headed back to the barn for breakfast.

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The Brooks Brothers Suit

I always tried hard to be off the road before Thanksgiving. By that point, travel by thumb was becoming a chancy proposition. And camping out in the woods required more than a pancho and a few blankets.
But I had a need, one November first. I had to be in a middling size city in Connecticut for a gig that Saturday.
Although I started late, I figured that I’d make it before dark, sleep on a sofa at someone’s house, and be there for the gig the next evening. I was wrong.

Getting rides was not happening. It was almost dark when I stumbled across a little stream to a thicket of woods where I figured I’d make an overnight camp. Carefully stepping from stone to stone, I managed to misstep and fall into the stream. My last dry act was to toss the guitar to the other side of the stream. Now I was wet. The clothes in my pack for the gig were also wet—no dry clothes to sleep in.

Wet and cold, I started a small fire and spread all my wet clothes out so they could dry. This looked like it was going to be a challenging evening. Then I looked over into the field behind me. There stood a nattily attired scarecrow. The three-piece suit it wore was entirely better than anything I owned. No, I thought. But it’s dry, I then thought. Let’s get it.

It took minutes to strip the scarecrow and dress it in my worn and soaked duds. I then retired to my fire and feasted on some candy bars that I kept stored in the pack for emergencies like this. It was a moment of resourcefulness in the face of adversity, and it felt empowering.

The following day, I debated redressing the scarecrow in its suit but decided that dry cleaning would make it the best feature of my sad and tawdry wardrobe. Besides, anyone who could afford to discard an excellent Brooks Brothers suit for a scarecrow wouldn’t miss it. I dressed in my now dry spares and packed away the suit.

In about ten minutes, I was in a nearby roadhouse. The $.99 breakfast special was terrific. I ate and listened to the local gossip. The gossip stopped me cold.

It turned out that Mrs. Doughtry wanted to play a joke on her husband. He was skinny ( like I was in those days), and she couldn’t fatten up no matter how good her cooking was. As a joke, she had dressed their garden scarecrow in his best Brooks Brothers suit. But this morning, when she showed him her joke, the scarecrow was attired in some bums-worn-out jeans and a chambray shirt. Sheriff Doughtry was not amused and was looking for whoever had swiped the suit.

Instead of hitchhiking, I walked calmly to the nearby bus terminal and took the next bus to where I was going. The last person I wanted to run into while hitching was an angry sheriff who wanted to know how his Brooks Brothers suit had wound up in my backpack.

I wore the suit for several years. It was eventually stolen from my pack, but I was glad to see it gone by then. I felt a bit guilty every time I wore it.

So, if you come across a well-attired scarecrow, think twice before taking advantage of the poor thing.

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Summer time is superior – statistically

Outstanding memories pepper my memories of being on the road. How could I ever forget Officer Opie in Cape Neddick, making me walk from one end of town to another with him driving slowly behind me? What about when my buddy and I went by logging roads across Vermont? That was one rugged shortcut” we’d never forget. Then, we were caught in soaking rain for the entire day. Everything but my guitar was wet – and that was because our waterproof stuff was around the guitar. The guitar was our means of procuring meals and drinks when we got where we were going. It had priority. Yes, sweet sweet summertime memories.
Ninety percent of my hitching occurred in the summer. There had to be a dire need for me to hit the road in the winter. Snow on the ground, a bad weather forecast? Some people would say that drivers will take pity on you. Good luck with that! Even back then, only one in 250 drivers considered picking you up. And in the winter, they don’t see you or don’t want to stop due to icy conditions: freeze, baby, freeze. I can still see myself huddling frozen, praying that the fuzz would bust me and take me to a nice, warm police station.

There was that one time, the poor guy who picked me up had car problems and went to a garage in another town. It was that or have a breakdown. It added ten miles of misery to my trip. Luckily I scored some cash and had enough for a bus to get me the rest of the way. I spent the next five hours looking out at slushy roads from the overheated interior of a bus. I wasn’t complaining.

Right about now, you are asking yourself, where did that 250 driver’s number come from? Did he pick a number at random?” How dare you insult the statistical analytic methodology of the Fraternal Brotherhood of the Road! We derived that figure from multiple days of counting in high-traffic areas. We “field tested” the methods outside of DC, near New York City, Toronto, and one unfortunate trip with my friend to Muleshoe Texas to see his girlfriend – Ruby “the Belle of Muleshoe.” And by the way, the National Mule Memorial is the only thing worth seeing.
So these are our figures, and we’ll stick to them.

In any case, Summer is my favorite time of year. And it would be yours too if you ever walked ten miles in the freezing rain with a hole in the worn-out sole of your boot. So unfurl that banner that says Summertime in a fancy curly script with flowers embroidered.
You skiers can keep the frozen stuff!

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Thumb

During the sixties, I was part of what people called the counterculture. No, not the hippies – they were from well-to-do families and could afford all the glitz, clothes, and designer drugs. I was a Folkie, not only a Folkie, I was a Folksinger. You know those dark holes-in-the-wall clubs with exotic coffee drinks and people singing the blues or soulful ballads? Well, those places paid shit, and that meant Wes, my stage name, traveled using the thumb.
Most places have laws against begging for rides, which is what traveling by thumb is. So, yes, I was a breaker of the law – and not unintentionally. One might say that I attacked it with glee and contempt. To place a finial atop the whole thing, I was a serial offender. I did it almost weekly for thousands of miles of illegal travel. They say confession is good for the soul…so there it is.
Did I ever pay the cost of my sins against the community? Well, there was the time in Cape Neddick when I got stopped and made to walk from one end of the town to the other with the local cop checking every few minutes. But in the next town, their officer picked me up and drove me to the best location to get a ride. He said that Officer Opie was an ass.

Clearly, I have repented of my irreverent, youthful ways. I am a law-abiding pillar of the community. I only unintentionally break laws these days, except by pulling those nasty tags off pillows. Old age sucks!

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Have you ever unintentionally broken the law?
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By Thumb

You’re going on a cross-country trip. Airplane, train, bus, car, or bike?

From the Road-Trippers Guide, Vol2, no3, 1965- Thumbing It!

So you’ve made the big decision to see the opposite coast. Congratulations. Now comes the big choice. How? Air travel is expensive, and we’ve heard bad things about baggage handlers destroying guitars. This is a major bummer if you plan on making some bread while playing in coffeehouses, busking in bars, or on the streets.
Conversely, travel by train is not what it used to be as little as ten years ago. As a result, railroads are cutting back on passenger service to less well-traveled locations and sleeping in a coach car with old smelly upholstery stinks. So we advise it only in emergencies.
The bus remains a perennial favorite, with Trailways and Grayhound providing excellent service across the continent. Watch out, though, for connections that turn out to be locals. While picturesque, a tour of small-town America can get old over several days. Also, remember that while traveling on the bus, you are always at the mercy of the bus company for where and when you eat or go to the bathroom (if the onboard facilities are not working).
You guessed it. We won’t even suggest a transcontinental trip using your fat-tired Schwinn or three-speed Raleigh. Leave the bike at home for the kiddies. Someday they’ll have better bikes for this, but for now, let’s be serious; unless you want to take a year to cross the opposite coast, the bicycle is not a prime choice.
We are left, of course, with the easy preference of the professional road tripper, fraternal brother of the road, Pius itinerant, and kings of the road – the thumb. By thumb, you’ll discover that local diners are among the best places to eat, sunsets are more intense, and a bottle of cola at a service station more quenching of thirst. In short, you’ll get up close and personal with America. You look out at the scenery in all the other methods and wonder what’s happening. By thumb, you experience it all up close. You’ll meet people and exchange experiences.

Cautions:
1.) leave the stash at home. Toking up at night by the campfire is not worth a trip to the poke with officer Opie.
2.) Keep a sufficient supply of cash on hand to pay for bus rides out of unfriendly towns. Memorize this phrase: “Hi, officer! Just waiting for my bus. What a lovely town you have! I wish I could stay, but Mom expects me in LA by the fifth.”
3.) when asked about your political leanings, say that you don’t have any, but you’ll be glad to listen to theirs while driving to the next town. Nod and say Uhuhuh to make it seem like you are listening rather than counting the telephone poles.
4.) always remember to pack a towel.

Have a great adventure!

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Hitchhikers Guide, Vol 6, June 1968 issue

IMPORTANT HAZARDS

Contrary to uninformed opinion among Brothers of the Road, it is not all blue skies and easy riding out there. There are occupational hazards to being on the road that are not obvious.

For one, there are the “sky pilots”, They are religious people who pick you up and, somewhere in the ride, ask if you’d mind praying with them or if you’d like to go to a church supper. Depending on how soft or hard the pitch was and how much of a hurry I was in, I attended many suppers, met some fantastic people, and said my share of prayers with them. As the Bible says, no vital work should be entered without prayer’s benefit. And a trek of a thousand miles can use as much grace as possible. So as long as no one was trying to forcibly baptize me, convince me of the impurity of my beliefs or exorcise my demons, I was more than pleased to cooperate. As soon as my digestion settles, I am on the road again.

I like my demons…I’ve had them since they were pups, and I’ve got them well trained.

One of the other issues was well-intentioned Townies. You’d stop someplace interesting and get offered a job for a day or two, and before you’d know it, the decision had been made that you were a pretty clean-cut guy, and Jack could fix you up with an excellent job at the mill. About that time, Velma, Todd’s sister, would decide that you were a worthwhile project. Sometime that night, you’d be checking the straps on your pack and practicing putting your thumb out – as soon as twilight hit, you’d be on the highway. Maybe officer Opie would offer a ride to the municipal border?

These are just two less obvious, unusual, but perilous hazards to travel by thumb. So take care unless you want to wake up some morning and find that you are a church deacon or in a “for better or much worse” marriage to Velma.

It’s dangerous out there, Brother!

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Plans

Yes, there was a time when a few of my associates dropped the term on me– death-wish Wes. Wes was my performing name and alias in those years. People who knew me then and later became reacquainted with me had issues getting used to calling me Lou and accepting the fact that I was not always on the road and doing nutsy things. Conversely, most who’ve known me since have difficulty getting used to the staid pillar of the community (?!) having been a wild youth.

Truth be known, I have some issues with this as well. Just the other day, I realized that the itchy feeling I had was the urge to take off on some frolicking springtime detour. So, on a whim, depart of the nether reaches of the Hudson, northern Maine, Ottawa, Kansas- well, OK, maybe not Kansas, but maybe Alaska. Meet new people see new things, and play guitar again. When I started thinking about where my old backpack and the guitar case were, my wife called me in for dinner. This made me recollect all the awful diner dinners on the road. Maybe I’d look for the pack after dinner? Then I realized that Charlie – that’s my main ax ( guitar) needed new strings, but the music store was closed for the holiday weekend.
Afterward, I dozed on my nice comfortable bed, hardly even considering it’d be a wet night trying to stay dry on the road with the rain falling.
This morning I fed the cat and dog while I brewed coffee. But, of course, if I were on the road, I’d be searching for a place to get a cup of indifferent brew and looking out for cops seeking out vagrants.

I’ve decided to delay plans for a frolicking detour for the time being. I have to mop and broom out the carving shop first. One must have priorities.

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Hitchhikers Guide To The Lower Forty Eight, June 1967, edition

How important is it to avoid hitching a ride at a toll booth? Maybe not myriad, but a very important few. First, the toll keepers resented anything that slowed the flow of traffic. Second, the drivers resented anything that hindered the traffic flow; not a great way to get a ride. But most importantly of all, those state troopers in their big automotive machines love how easy it is to snag a wayward hitchhiker at the toll plaza.

If left off at a plaza, we hurriedly scurry into the nearby town for a fast meal, ask about the best route to where we were going, and generally behave like model citizens. Those who want to smoke a joint in front of the locals or talk about how cool they are; well, that’s not us—just a couple of working dudes on the way to employment.

So what is the purpose of being hip and cool in the sixties if you didn’t display it, rub the noses of the straights into it, and generally be obnoxious? Well, I guess if that’s your thing, it’s OK. But some of us view our life as a journey. So we’d gladly talk to you about it if you were interested in that journey. But by and large, it’s our journey, and we don’t need too much external support for it. It’s nice when we receive it. Very nice. However, we know that you can’t force it.

Don’t get me wrong. We love to talk about the self-righteous jerks who’d never dream of leaving their tiny universe to look at the larger world. They are stuck in a rut of their own manufacture.
No, I’m not talking about small-town people. Lots of the residents of large cities are stuck in their little corners, without a clue that the sun is shining.
Conversely, we met many residents of small places who roamed the universe of ideas and culture from the comfort of the tiny little home in the universe.

The diversion to avoid the toll plaza is a nuisance most times. But it also can provide some of the most interesting “frolicking detours” for the wayward wandering traveler.