Columbus, Ohio USA
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The Last Hitchhike: Part One and Two
By Joel Knepp
November/December 2018 and January/February 2019 Issues
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Whatever happened to hitchhiking? For decades in our country it was a widely practiced way of getting around for students, the military, the carless, and the adventurous. Not only was travel by thumb cheap and practical (mostly), it was a way to (a) save gas and reduce pollution by keeping cars off the road, (b) meet interesting people, and (c) experience the freeing exhilaration of casting one’s fate to the wind.
Hitching is part of my heritage. My parents met at college in the 1930s, and though they were the same age, my mother graduated a year ahead of my father because her high school only went through grade 11 – I bet some kids would like that these days. During my dad’s senior year, when he wasn’t being a football star, he would hitchhike on weekends to the small country town where my mom lived with her parents and taught elementary school. Later, in his career as an army officer, perhaps fondly remembering his college days, he would often pick up soldiers hitching in and around the army bases where we lived. Many’s the time I shared the back seat of our Mercedes Benz 220-S with a grateful, shivering private, PFC, or corporal.
In my college days I followed in Dad’s venerable footsteps by occasionally hitching from Ohio Wesleyan down to OSU campus in search of excitement. One evening, things went a little too far in that regard when some wild and crazy guys picked up my roommate Gus and me going northbound on High Street. They decided to interrupt our journey by stopping just south of Lane to join in a fight. These were the pre-sanitized days of campus before the white tornado called Campus Partners ruined, I mean, cleaned up the High Street strip. We thanked our violence-prone hosts but opted to seek another ride back to Delaware.
Those short Delaware-to-Columbus hops were just warm-ups for more serious cross-country jaunts by thumb. Right after graduation I hitchhiked to and from Baltimore to see my brother prior to starting my first job at the Ohio Department of Health. In those days you might see a dozen young folks standing in line on a freeway entry ramp. Even under those conditions, I would wait maybe a half hour at most, just time enough to collect my thoughts and have a smoke. Back then many motorists picked up hitchers as both a public service and to get some company while tooling down the boring highway. Though crime in general was much higher in those days of yore, the widespread anti-stranger paranoia that rules modern society just didn’t exist to the same degree. Also, America’s predilection for liability protection hadn’t developed to anywhere near its current state. The biggest thrill was when truckers pulled over in their giant semis to give you a lift. In the unlikely situation that a trucker would stop for a thumb-waiver these days, a team of corporate lawyers would probably zoom in by helicopter to apply the kibosh.
My next major jaunt was a year or so later from Columbus to Oklahoma City. This was my first hitch with my spiffy new North Face internal-frame backpack. Yes, people, North Face, that ubiquitous brand you see on the shoulder of every third person, actually started as a company that made outdoor adventure equipment. Anyway, the previously mentioned Gus and I experienced amazing luck on that trip. I think we made the 915-mile trek from our apartment to our friend’s OKC house in about three rides; it’s pure joie de vivre when the benevolent universe takes you in hand that way. Alas, in our modern age of fear and loathing, most folks will never have the opportunity to enjoy that particular kind of experience.
All through the late ‘60s and ‘70s, I paid forward by picking up many a hitcher when driving for pleasure and even on state business, although I never stopped for anyone while operating a state car. One fairly common hitching trick back then was to post a cute girl by the road, and then when you stopped, she would bring out her boyfriend and dog from behind some bushes. I once picked up a guy from Switzerland who was instantly recognizable as a European because of his bright yellow rubber boots. We hit it off and I took him home for the night, even corresponding with him for several years afterward. In 1970, my college buddy Treat and I picked up a couple of guys in Colorado while tooling in my new Opel Kadett and we spent several days with them, even going to one guy’s house where his sister fixed us dinner. One of this duo had a 20-pound bag of granola as his only road food, my first introduction to this mixture which is now a diet staple.
A few years after the Oklahoma jaunt came my Big Kahuna of hitchhiking. In 1975, my buddy Frank and I quit our welfare department jobs, stored our meager possessions with friends, and hit the road for three months in the grand trek of our lives. At ages 23 and 24, we figured we had to go while we still had our youth. Even at that tender age, we were older than all the other thumb-riders we met. We started off by visiting my parents in Augusta, Georgia, and then headed straight west across the Deep South. Picture two young white guys in jeans and T-shirts, wearing the giant clodhopper hiking boots of that era and carrying huge packs, strolling down the main street, perhaps the only street, of a tiny all-black Mississippi town. To say we attracted curious attention would be an understatement. This was just one of many adventures on the long haul to California and beyond.
Farther down the line we stopped and paid with our traveler’s checks (anyone remember those?) to camp at a KOA. This is back when they still had little A-frame offices and tiny swimming pools and before they turned into pricey parking lots/amusement parks for folks with giant recreational vehicles. We purchased beer and lounged waaay too long at the pool in the late-May southern sun. The following day, badly sunburned, peeling, and hung over, we stood miserable in the pouring rain at a country crossroads and finally got a ride from a photographer in a fancy RV. He had more than a friendly interest in us, but we survived his attentions.
Have you ever hitchhiked or even driven across Texas? It’s pretty much a country unto itself. It takes a week. In those days, half the job-seekers in the USA had yet to move there and provide hurricane bait. Austin was still a delightful small city with, as Gary P. Nunn wrote in the original theme song to the PBS concert show Austin City Limits, “the friendliest people and the prettiest women you’ve ever seen.” We stayed for a couple of nights in a fine motel on the north end of town which featured hot and cold running roaches. Naturally, we hitchhiked downtown for entertainment. Then as now, the live music was terrific. We saw a young Tom Waits and Sixties folkie Eric Anderson perform in a bar that held perhaps 30 people. We also visited the legendary music venue known as Armadillo World Headquarters. I wore my souvenir T-shirt from that establishment until it turned to Kleenex. Austin had many cafés featuring tree-shaded sidewalk tables, a gracious European-style amenity that only arrived in Buckeyeland decades later. Last but not least, we visited the stunning state capitol building which featured paintings of Davy Crockett and many other Texas heroes.
Farther on in the barren flatlands of West Texas, in a desolate oil town called Monahans, we experienced our first serious setback. We perched roadside on the edge of town for so long that our arms almost fell off with fatigue. Folks just did not want to give us a ride. Some even stopped as if to pick us up and then peeled out laughing with their tires throwing gravel in our faces as we approached. I guess in Monahans the locals take their cruel joy where they can find it. A couple of men stopped and asked if we would like jobs rolling pipe, presumably in the oil industry. We passed on the offer, perhaps blowing our one and only chance at vast wealth a la J.R. Ewing.
By evening, we had given up and walked over to a nearby baseball field to watch the game. Later that night we were treated to an amazing display of lightning on a mountain range far away, the kind of show you can only enjoy in the vast spaces of the West. To get out of the rain that finally came, we laid out our sleeping bags under the gas-pump awning of a nearby service station. The owner who came to open up the next morning didn’t seem to mind. To punctuate our Monahans misadventure, a pickup truck finally stopped at mid-morning and offered us a lift in the back. The only catch was that they had been out “varmint huntin’” and we would have to share the bed with a large, lidless trashcan full of well-ripened, odiferous jackrabbits. We climbed aboard immediately with only one thought: “Get us the hell out of Monahans!”
Continued (from the January/February 2019 issue)
The Last Hitchhike: Part Two
Several current websites extol the practice and give tips, but I’m not sure who actually does it these days Down the line, probably in New Mexico, we were picked up by a friendly soul in an old white van and stuck with him for several days, first camping in a magical desert spot next to an abandoned adobe ruin. Later, we spent a chilly night in the van parked in Flagstaff, Arizona, the gateway to the Grand Canyon’s stupendous South Rim, then on to the canyon itself in the morning. Back then you could drive into a parking lot maybe 50 yards from the rim itself and car-camp quite close by without a reservation.
After that first night, Frank and I parted ways with the van man and snuck off into the woods, setting up our little tent away from the reach of rangers and Japanese tourists. We hiked down and spent the night on the canyon floor, pausing on the way back out to take a quick (and I do mean quick!) dip in the frigid Colorado River. If you have never seen the magnificent Grand Canyon, my only comment is, “What are you waiting for?”
Many days and many rides later, we found ourselves backpacking through the Sierras of California. At one campsite, several inquisitive deer walked up to us and stared us in the face. After two showerless but surprisingly non-stinky weeks in the wilderness, we bathed with Campsuds in an icy mountain lake. At another point in our Sierras trek we came across a rustic cabin complex with showers and a phone booth from which we called the ‘rents. The number on the phone was 2. Later, hitching our way up the windy northern California coast, we had one of those delightful experiences only possible when you give yourself up to serendipity. Standing by the road near Mendocino on a hot, dusty day hoping for a northbound lift, a car full of young guys passed us going south and gave us the onceover. A few minutes later, they came back bearing cold beers, saying, “You guys looked like you needed these.” Talk about restoring one’s faith in humanity! Farther north, a large flatbed truck stopped for us, already bearing a load of happy wanderers like ourselves. After a little friendly conversation, we mutually determined that all eleven of us were from the fabulous Buckeye State.
We encountered another formidable obstacle to our northward progress in Arcata, California, a town chock-full of hitchhiking backpackers. After an entire tedious day with no ride, no ride, no ride, we laid our pads and sleeping bags down under a highway bridge, checked out for the evening, and hoped for a brighter tomorrow. However, the next day yielded the same story. Finally, we went to the Greyhound station, bought tickets northward, and then went to a bar and proceeded to get drunk, but not so much that we missed our evening bus. Unlike some of our fellow vagabonds, we had the hard-won fruits of our Franklin County Welfare Department labors to fall back on, i.e., more traveler’s checks.
We passed a relaxing July week at the rustic Umpqua River country home of Dan and Linda, my best friend and his girlfriend-later-wife from high school in Japan (another story). Later, we backpacked extensively through the Cascades, climbed South Sister, and visited the then-cowboy and now rich-retiree town of Bend on the eastern side of the mountains. After grabbing a ride in the most beautiful blue van I had ever seen, we finally made it to beautiful Vancouver, British Columbia. No passports needed then, you just showed up at the border with a smile and were welcomed. Frank and I passed a couple of weeks there with his former Columbus neighbors Norman and Becky. Norman had the secret recipe to Skyline Chili, where he had worked for a time in Ohio, and proved it by cooking up some of the tasty concoction. He also took us and his dog by road and ferry to Vancouver Island and Pacific Rim National Park. On a long beach, aptly named Long Beach, we traded a couple of beers and a few dollars for a fresh-caught salmon which we roasted over an open fire. That August night, many miles from any city lights, three men and a dog ate like kings and witnessed both phosphorescent algae sparkling in the waves and a stunning edition of the Perseids meteor shower. Later, Norman drove us to Banff in the Canadian Rockies, where, on the veranda of the railroad hotel overlooking Lake Louise, we witnessed the rise of a giant August moon over the mountains at the far end of the lake, the waters of which closely resembled crème de menthe in color.
Frank and I parted ways at Banff and I began the homeward journey on my own, still trusting to fate and the innate goodness of humanity. I was not disappointed. Again and again, fine people from Canada and later my own land picked me up in spite of my somewhat rode-hard-and-put-away-wet look from months of hoboing. I got rides across the prairies from a teacher, an oil man with a radiophone, a Hutterite farmer, a wacky guy with an open cooler of beer, and more. I spent one restful night in a hostel just off the highway in colorfully named Medicine Hat, Alberta. Upon entering the US of A on foot at a remote customs shack in North Dakota, I was detained for several hours by representatives of our government who wanted to pin the tail of an AWOL soldier on me. Completely confident in my own identify as a non-GI, I put up good-naturedly with their idiocy until they finally let me pass. It’s still a mystery why, after showing them my Ohio driver’s license, my few remaining travelers checks, and several other forms of ID, they persisted in badgering me for so long. Bored with their jobs, I imagine.
In spite of my mostly good luck, one final challenge lay ahead. I was dropped off late one Saturday night on the edge of Minneapolis in an area replete with various bodies of water. To say that this place was merely a hospitable gathering place for mosquitoes would not do it justice. It was more like the Sturgis Rally for the nasty little biters. I ended up at a just-built, giant car lot which was yet to be occupied. The night was extremely hot and humid. In a failed attempt at bug avoidance, I went to the very center of the vast lot, but still they came. Lights on giant poles harshly illuminated the strangely empty, jet-black, newly paved expanse which must have covered several acres. Muzak blasted all night from speakers on the light poles, serenading only me and the skeeters. The whole scene was surreal, like a weird dream. I tried to cover myself up from the ravenous bugs and even got into the sleeping bag, but it was just too darn hot. By this point it was probably 1 a.m. and I was exhausted, desperate, and half-crazed. Then I spotted, far across the giant lot, a beautiful, double-wide port-a-potty. I spent a cramped but mosquito-free night in that squeaky-clean, pleasantly scented, fiberglass haven and was supremely thankful to have it.
At daybreak, I noticed a nearby diner and had breakfast. Back at the highway and looking and probably smelling grim after my rough night, I was immediately picked up by a nice family on their way to church. I sat in the back seat of the station wagon next to the kids. Try to imagine the chances of that happening these days; zero, I’d guess. After a couple of uneventful days on the road I made it back to Columbus and was welcomed by friends. A major hitchhike experience, yes, but not my last.
Five years later my friend and sometime ballroom-dancing partner Sarah decided to pull up stakes and join VISTA, Volunteers in Service to America. She invited me to accompany her to her assignment in Dallas, deep in the heart of Texas. I agreed, and in November we moseyed down to the Lone Star State in her automobile, camping and moteling along the way. Finally, near her place of volunteerism, she let me off by the Dallas freeway and we parted company. I know this doesn’t sound like Texas, but I stood on the entry ramp in a snow storm. After not too long, a monolingual Mexican truck driver picked me and took me to Arkansas. Back then I still remembered enough high-school Español that we could actually communicate a bit in the cab of his vehicle, which looked like it was held together with the proverbial duct tape and baling wire. In western Tennessee I stopped off for a visit to Ann, my high-school girlfriend, whom I hadn’t seen since 1968 in Japan. Then it was back on the road for the chilly trip north. After getting dropped off in downtown Louisville where I huddled in a doorway to get my bearings and try to warm up, a priest approached and asked if I needed help. I assured him everything was OK and moved on. I passed my last night away from home in my tent at a lonely Kentucky freeway cloverleaf.
So that was it, my last hitchhike. After that time, it became more and more apparent that hitchhiking in America was no longer a feasible form of transportation. The culture changed, and both hitchers and drivers became afraid to participate. Their numbers dwindled to practically zero. Several current websites extol the practice and give tips, but I’m not sure who actually does it these days because I drive a lot all over the country and almost never see a hitcher. I picked up my last one about thirty years ago on the Livingston Avenue on-ramp to I-70. He turned out to be a scary, speed-rapping, axe-murderer type. And that was it. I’ll qualify that by saying that my wife and I gave a short ride to a spacey young girl in Hawaii sometime in this current century; apparently the aloha/shaka spirit of those lovely islands still extends to hitching. By the way, the girl explained that she made her living selling macramé water bottle holders. Indeed!
So to all my compatriots out there who have experienced the thrill and perhaps the agony of the hitch, I send greetings and invite you to think back on some of your own adventures. And to you folks who have never stood on the roadside with your thumbs out and probably never will, I’ll only say that you really missed something!Joel Knepp lives in Victorian Village with his wife Lynda McClanahan, an artist.
They performed as the musical duo Nick & Polina for many years in the area.© 2018 - 2019 Short North Gazette, Columbus, Ohio. All rights reserved.
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