My first hitchhikers

Hmm…

Should I or shouldn’t I? Should I or shouldn’t I? Should I or – oh what the hell.

I turn Black Betty around and guide her back a half mile to the turnout at the edge of town. Sitting on the gravel at the entrance to the turnout, facing away from me, are two young hitchhikers. They smile and stick their thumbs at passing cars until it slowly dawns on them that one is approaching from behind.

“Where you guys headed?” I ask.

“North, to Eureka,” one of them replies.

The two hitchhikers are Kyle and Rachel, both 22. Rachel is quite attractive and Kyle looks like Abraham Lincoln on a good day. Once inside with the doors closed, I notice the stench of body odor. Could be an interesting ride.


I once considered hitchhiking around the country myself, but given the reaction from most of my friends and family regarding the CouchSurfing Project, I think an all out intervention might be staged if I decided to hitchhike. Picking them up is the next best thing, I guess.

“You ever had any bad experiences with hitching?” I’m hoping for some wild stories of hiding in bushes and defending themselves with nail clippers or something.

“Nah, most people have been good. The worst that happens is a guy will pop a can a beer or you just know he’s all tweeked out on something.”

Kyle’s nonchalance belies the hardcore nature of his and Rachel’s travels, a trip that makes mine look like a comfortable Sunday stroll to the park. They have backpacks and gut intuition when accepting rides, and nothing more. They could reach their destination in two days or ten. They could wait two hours for a ride or two minutes. That’s badass.

“So what do you guys do when you’re not hitching?”

Kyle, in the front seat, fields this one as well. “Ah, that’s a good question. Rach, what would you say we do?” Rachel thinks a moment. Before she can answer, Kyle says, “I used to work at a boys and girls club. Mostly I think about hitching.”

Of course Rachel has dreads and loves Ani Difranco. Of course Kyle wants to be an Abe Lincoln impersonator. Of course they’re on their way to a festival and of course they sound like they’re permanently stoned. These are today’s hippies, as stereotypical as the San Francisco neighborhood I just left. They sit adrift on the edges of society, taking fate into their own hands and traveling when and where they please, not letting petty concerns like money get in the way. There’s something vaguely appealing to that.

People have often told me they’re jealous of me and/or this trip I’m taking this summer. And here I am jealous of a couple of counterculture kids from Nowhere, America. The grass is always greener… as they say.

I drive Kyle and Rachel all the way to Eureka, a coastal town in Northern California. I drop them off on Main Street downtown.

“Ok, God bless, Godspeed, peace be the journey and all that…”

“Thanks for the ride, man. You’re the best ride we’ve gotten on this trip, and we’re not just saying that like we do to all the others.”

They both heave their packs on their shoulders and walk off down Main Street to parts unknown, and I drive off in search of a Walmart parking lot.