Experience: A Hitch-hiker's Odyssey 1971-72

"Yea and the gods, in the likeness of strangers from far countries, put on all manner of shapes, and wander through the cities, beholding the violence and the righteousness of men."

 Anonymous suitor: Book XVII; The Odyssey - Homer

 

On December 27th, 1971, as 20-year-old University students, my friend "L" and I possessed that perfect storm of arrogance, inexperience and desire for adventure necessary to attempt a midwinter, 6,000 mile cross-country hitch-hiking road trip from Syracuse, NY; bound for anywhere in California where we could touch the Pacific Ocean; and then back to Buffalo in time for classes.  A two-week timeframe -- no problem; $100 a man -- plenty of money -- no place to stay -- so what!  In fact, I had never been west of Buffalo.

 

These are the tableaux from that event, with the facts (as accurate as I can recall) softened by the passage of nearly 40 years.  The experience blog is broken into 3 installments to entice readership.

 

Part I of III - "You can't go home again"

 

Day 1: 12/27/1971; Syracuse, New York to Windsor, Ontario - 350 miles

  

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"California or Bust"

I looked with disgust at my "California or Bust" cardboard sign as I tossed it into the trash bin at the Syracuse Thruway tollbooth. It was freezing cold with that dismal twilight winter gloom unique to central New York. After several mind-numbing, unsuccessful hours of hitchhiking, we had yet to catch that all-important first ride. I glanced back at "L", He had the perfect look for the job -- right thumb extended, stringy long blonde hair, rumpled surplus army jacket, wool cap and hiking boots – He could have been my twin.  How could anyone pass us by!

 

After another hour or so in the hitchhiker's queue, a pair of middle-aged women en-route to Rochester stopped for us. I suppose we reminded them of wayward sons or nephews, but I didn’t ask. No memory of conversation, or the other rides obtained, as we cruised by the northern route (I know, but that’s where the ride was going) across western New York state, through Buffalo and on into Canada, ending up just short of Windsor, Ontario in the dead of night.

 

Tired and cold, but still upbeat, we had just settled into our “good to 40 degree” sleeping bags along the sheltered side of a rest-stop service building, when a startled man nearly stumbled over us on his way to the men's room.  With a few questions he quickly sized up the circumstances -- we were dangerous only to ourselves -- and he invited us to his home to sleep inside for the night; bringing us to Windsor (across the bridge from Detroit) in the morning to resume our journey.

 

 

Day 2:  12/28/1971; Windsor, Ontario to Denver, Colorado - 1,450 miles

 

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"The Longest Ride"

Crossing back into the United States, we caught rides south from Detroit on Route 75, taking us to the windswept intersection with Route 70, just outside of Dayton Ohio.  Our first day on the road was disappointing, and today it'd taken us into the early afternoon to travel about two hundred miles.  We were worried that at this rate our trip could be a failure.  As if responding to our thoughts, a dirty blue Ford Fairlane station wagon pulled over.  It was driven by a blond haired god-like young man of few words.  He never disclosed his name or where he was from, but we were ecstatic as he told us that he was headed to a friend’s home outside of Denver. He planned to drive through the night and wanted our company to keep him awake -- no, we couldn't drive but we could take turns as co-pilot -- yes, it would be helpful if we could ante in for gas ($0.35 a gallon).

 

The ride itself was a confusing blur of sights, thoughts and sounds of the road after dark.  "L" and I alternated between the shotgun position and sleeping in the extended back of the station wagon.  We were generally diligent in elbowing our driver back into consciousness when he periodically dozed, but occasionally we would all nod off together and the sound and feel of speeding tires on highway shoulder gravel would jolt us back into the moment.

 

I recall the black prairie and rolling hills of Missouri and Kansas and the reflections of the city lights off the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers.  I remember seeing the Golden Arches of St. Louis and eating at the "Golden Arches" in Kansas City.  We rolled into Denver about 6 AM -- a ride of 15 hours and 1100 miles.  We were beyond the point of no return.

 

 

Day 3: 12/29/1971; Denver, Colorado to Flagstaff, Arizona - 1,100 miles

 

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"Critter, Cowboy Bob and The Army Buddy"

We caught several rides south from Denver on Route 25, traveling through the fantastic open landscapes of Colorado.  A business-man hoping for sales in Pueblo -- a trucker, passing through Trinidad -- and a pleasant couple in their 50s, the woman wearing purple buckskin, who delivered us into an artist colony in Santa Fe.  I thought it would be warm in Santa Fe in the winter -- I didn't know we would still be in the mountains!  We hung around in the artist colony for a while.  We should have been more interested, but at the time, it wasn't our thing -- we were programmed for motion.  Someone in the artist colony was headed to Gallup, New Mexico and offered us a ride.  (No, it wasn’t Georgia O’Keefe, although I can't be certain.)

 

Gallup seemed a godforsaken place, but it wasn't long before we were picked up by a 59 Chevy Bel Air (with fins), driven by a thin, pasty, middle-aged man in a dirty cowboy shirt. He was accompanied by two other characters he had acquired along the way, only one of whom spoke. The articulate one called himself "Critter" and Critter called the driver "Cowboy Bob". Critter was of uncertain age, tall and thin with a coon-skin hat, a bedraggled rabbit-skin jacket, and eyeglasses containing only one cracked lens which Critter said was on his blind side.  The silent one was a teenager and appeared to be Critter's sidekick.  Looking back, maybe he was his son.

 

Critter promised us a "shortcut" to Phoenix through the mountains in the Tonto forest – on the way we could stop at his "Ma's house" near a town named Sunflower.  He assured us that she would insist on giving him money for their trip.  "L" and I contributed a few dollars for gas and enjoyed the show. Critter claimed to have grown up outside of Phoenix, lived in various California communes and currently was on his way to nowhere. He simultaneously would carry on conversations, mostly monologues, with all four of us at the same time, filling us in on his opinion of the current state of affairs in the West and mercilessly tormenting his side-kick and Cowboy Bob.  From time to time Bob would stare off into space and weave the Bel Air from side to side as he reached for nitroglycerin pills that he took for “heart trouble".

 

Bob faithfully followed Critter's directions through the forest and mountains northwest of Phoenix, making a few circles and loops, and unbelievably, we actually found the town of Sunflower.  Critter piloted Bob to a ramshackle cabin with a sandy yard of cactuses, tumbleweeds and various discarded appliances surrounding the entrance area. A large disheveled woman in obvious bad spirits peered out of the cabin doorway, surrounded by several filthy young children.  Critter assured us that "Ma" would love to see us, feed us and fund us on our further travels; but he needed to speak to her alone first, as he hadn't seen her in several years. Critter disappeared into the cabin and after about 15 minutes came skulking out. Not only did he come up empty-handed, but his mother never wanted to see him again. Critter solemnly directed us out of the wilderness. "L" and I were disappointed that instead of heading toward Phoenix as we anticipated, they turned north on Route 17 to Flagstaff where we were unceremoniously left off.

 

It was late, dark and cold in Flagstaff while were trying to catch a ride west on Route 40. Unexpectedly, a taxi pulled up to us, and a young man who looked something like “Ratso Rizzo” jumped out waving his arms and yelling to my friend "L" -- "Jim! My old Army buddy!"  We were amused -- how many characters are there in the West?  Nothing could convince the man that "L" had never been in the Army, much less as his buddy. Not to be denied our company, he insisted that we stay overnight with him and his wife in their three-room roadside shack. The wife, thin and pallid, looked about seven months pregnant, and was herding a sweet two-year-old urchin about the house. I remember that they listened in wonder about our description of New York; they couldn’t conceptualize the difference of “The City” from the rest of New York State – an intellectual task that we learned was achieved by few outside of upstate NY.  After an hour or so, our host abruptly got up, called a cab, and ran out to buy beer -- I don't remember the brand -- leaving us with his wife and child.  Thankfully, he came back.  We drank the beer and stayed the night.  We offered, but they wouldn't take any money from us.  The next morning we said good-bye and returned to Route 40 heading west.

 

Next installment -  Part II - "The Promised Land"