I often drive the road between Shiprock and Farmington and I always feel reassured that the art of hitchhiking is still alive somewhere in our increasingly scary country. You’ll see a lot of Navajos hitching their way home, though I always appreciate the fact that as they stick out a thumb, they usually keep walking. One way or the other, they figure, they’re going to make it to their destination, sooner or later. No point in just standing there.
Most of us are afraid to pick up hitchhikers these days, and many potential hitchhikers are afraid to thumb for a ride. I don’t think I’d take the risk these days, after a few close calls many years ago. You never know if the stranger who’s offering you a ride is just a nice guy trying to be a Good Samaritan, or if he wants to take you out to some remote corner of the desert and dismember you, and have your liver for lunch. Scary times indeed.
But I’ve known a few of the old and noble hitchhikers. Traveling by thumb was their way of life. And many of them loved it. I even gave it a try myself on a very bizarre cross-country, mid-winter hitchhike with my dog Muckluk—from Los Angeles to Louisville, Kentucky (part 2 of this hitchhiking story will include that little misadventure). That was so many years and decades ago.
Whenever I picked up a hitchhiker, I’d ask him about the risks involved in thumbing, and just dealing with the extreme weather conditions. I remember one old fellow said to me, “It may be too cold or too hot, and scary as hell sometimes, but how much did you spend on gas today?” He had a point.
The most accomplished hitchhiker I’ve ever known was an English fellow I’ll call Reggie Gubbins, who probably logged close to a million miles in his decades-long travels. I even made him a wooden thumb to utilize on the road, when his own thumb could no longer stand the monotony. The problem with Reg was that once you picked him up, there was a really good chance he’d still be hanging around or sleeping on your couch, or eating all your food, weeks after the initial contact. I always wonder how many citizens of the world, over the last 50 years, have asked themselves— “Is this guy ever going to leave?”
But Reg was the exception. Most hitchhikers and hoboes, at least the ones I’ve met, didn’t want that kind of permanence or commitment. What they loved was the freedom of the road and the ability to do any damn thing or go anywhere they damn well wanted to. Everything they owned, they could carry on their backs. Sometimes, when I look around my house and the Zephyr office and look at the thousands of ‘things’ that I have accumulated over a lifetime–little objects that have might have meaning to me, but to no one else, I imagine how liberating it would be to just walk away from all this ‘stuff.’ Even those items that actually have value. Who cares? They mostly only have value to me. A wise friend once came to my place and looked with awe at my rat’s nest of memorabilia, and books, and CDs, and DVDs and glass balls, and knicknacks, not to mention my extraordinary collection of cowboy hats and antique (non-working) radios. She took it all in and said, “You know, when you’re gone, nobody is going to construct the “Jim Stiles Museum of Stuff,” right? I was shocked. It hadn’t occurred to me. And so now I think of the hobos and the hitchhikers with a certain envy.
Not all of these wandering souls were happy individuals. Nobody who is broke and on the road can ever be free of those primal fears–like starvation, or freezing to death. Still there are other qualities in that fading hobo world that I admire. Like the freedom it provided them…something that meant more to them than any of the crap I have accumulated. I can respect that desire to be unencumbered and free to move about the country at will.
I’ve picked up a few hitchhikers over the years. Not many, because I’m just as paranoid as the next guy. But sometimes you see a fellow by the road–male or female— with a thumb out, and you see his/her face, and you think…this guy’s got to be ok, right? Something will instinctively tell me that this person poses no threat to my well-being. It’s nothing more than a hunch for sure, but sometimes you just have to roll the dice and take a chance. So far at least, my luck has held. Every hitchhiker I have picked up has so far failed to slit my throat. For that, I am grateful.
Many decades ago, I was traveling the Big Sur coast, headed north to Monterrey and looking for gainful employment. I was down to my last fifty bucks. Because I had been run over and almost killed on a Yamaha 350 a couple years before, I somehow had it in my mind that I might make a good salesman. I had spotted a classified ad in a Monterrey newspaper for just such a position and was headed there from LA. I saw a young hippie girl with a thumb out, not too far from Cambria This was in the early 70s so imagine the standard issue peasant skirts, and Earth Shoes, and halter tops and the hairy legs (we guys had grown used to it by now, or at least resigned…to complain was a dangerous, even lethal course of action. Today, just writing this description might be fatal). She had the pigtails and cute freckles and couldn’t have been friendlier; she was bound for San Francisco of course. Sort of a Janis Joplin clone. I hope this girl made it past 27.
But she had barely closed the door when I was overwhelmed by this strange overpowering aroma. It wasn’t body odor. She looked clean enough. As clean as me, at least And it wasn’t booze. It wasn’t weed. I was stumped. But I didn’t want to be rude and ask her, or show my ignorance. But when I told this story later to an LA buddy, he just laughed. “Two words, Stiles— patchouli oil. People are swimming in it out here.”
Granted I was from Kentucky and had never heard of such a substance, if that in fact, is what it was. But I could only ask, “WHY?” Why would anyone want to smell like that? Is it like a cult? Is it supposed to create the same attraction as perfume, because this was working in a very counterproductive way. In fact, I was desperate. I thought I was dying. My nostrils burned. It became so intense that when we reached Nepenthe’s, a magnificent seaside restaurant that I couldn’t even afford in 1972, I pulled over to the side of the road.
“You know,” I said sheepishly. “The more I think about it, the more I fear this idea of mine to work at a Yamaha shop is a bad idea. I’m sure they’d never hire me. I’m probably too short anyway.”
She laughed and assured me there was no height requirement. Besides, she really wanted that ride. But I faked like I was getting really depressed (I was depressed but from the Patchouli). “ No, I said sadly…I’m going to turn around and head back to Los Angeles. My chances are better there.”
“So that’s it?” she said. “I have to get out?”
“I am so sorry,” I said. I’m sure you’ll get a ride.” She climbed reluctantly out of the Squareback and walked toward the restaurant. She waved unenthusiastically as I turned around and went south. It took a week driving with the windows down to free me from the potent patchouli.
****
A couple years earlier, on my first Big Trip out west, I was transporting myself in a very stylish 1965 MGB. I was leaving the South Rim, on my way to Los Angeles to rendezvous with my Kentucky pal Tynes. A young guy my age, who was wearing absolutely nothing but a pair of shredded cutoff jeans with a two inch inseam, asked where I was headed. He was standing in front of the El Tovar and I’m amazed he wasn’t arrested. When I told him LA, he was absolutely thrilled. “So am I!” he screamed. “This is great.
We made it 50 miles to the intersection with Route 66 near Williams when I got my first flat tire. The spare was naturally under all my gear, so it took me a while to get the tire and the jack. The hitchhiker waited patiently in the car, listening to the radio. When it came time to use the jack, I told him he needed to get out of the car and he reluctantly complied. Finally with the situation resolved, we turned west on US 66. We were about a half mile west of Seligman when the second tire blew. The hitchhiker was furious. “You gotta be f—ing kidding me, man!” I didn’t feel inclined to apologize, but it didn’t matter—- he’d had enough of me already. “You’re bad luck, Dude. You got demons! BAD KARMA! I’ll find another way to get to LA.”
****
Earlier that same summer, I was at the Grand Teton National Park visitor center at Moose Junction. It was after hours, and I was checking to see if they left the toilets unlocked–they didn’t. The parking lot was empty, but there was one young, short cowboy, shorter than me, who seemed to be lurking about, just pacing the sidewalk. He seemed agitated. But when he saw me, the young cowboy broke into a broad smile and walked over to my car. My fears were immediately allayed. He said, with a slight Spanish accent, “Hello. My name is Joe Anastas. But you can call me ‘Cow Gone.’”
We shook hands and I asked him about his nickname. Why ‘Cow Gone?’ (at first I thought he’d said ‘Calgon,’ like the lotion, which made no sense to me at all. But he explained, “ No. ‘Cow-Gone.’ People say I lay around all day, quiet and not doing anything much…like a cow. But then all of a sudden…I’m GONE! So that’s why they call me Cow Gone.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “From now on, Cow Gone it is.” I should have seen the next question coming.
“So…to tell you the truth, I think it is time for me to be gone from here. By any chance you might be going to Idaho Falls?”
Well, by sheer coincidence, I was headed that way the very next day. The route took me over the summit of the old Teton Pass road, which was always an adventure, and then down the western side of the mountains, past Victor and Ririe, to the Falls. I eventually was headed south, to the North Rim, via Salt Lake City. I thought for a moment and then replied, “Well Cow Gone, I am headed that way in the morning. If you meet me here at 8 AM, I’ll give you a ride to the Springs.”
Cow Gone was elated. He said he could find a place to sleep by the Snake River that night and would be right here tomorrow morning. Sure enough, right on time, 8 AM sharp, Joe Anastas was sitting on the curb smiling and happy to see me.
He climbed into my little MG and we headed for the state line. But before we began to climb the torturous switchbacks of old Teton Pass, I noticed a lot of men on foot, spread out through the forests and meadows, as if they were looking for something, or someone. And I saw various law enforcement vehicles racing up and down the old road.
Then I remembered a news report that I had heard the previous evening on Jackson’s only radio station, KSGT-AM. A couple who lived near Wilson had vanished the day before and there were fears that they had been kidnapped, or worse. These were search crews out trying to find the missing man and woman. I pointed out the searchers to Cow Gone and related the news story to him. But he said nothing and hardly took notice of the men. In fact, he looked a bit uncomfortable. Suddenly, I felt mildly panicked as I wondered for the first time, if this cheerful young cowboy might be connected to the crime. We made it over the pass and eventually to Idaho Falls. His mood had improved as we crossed the state line which only made me more suspicious. In town, he hopped out of my car, shook my hand and waved merrily as he strode up Main Street.
The memory of that incident and of Joe “Cow Gone” Anastas stayed with me for days, but eventually, the story faded from my head as I looked forward to the summer of 1969 and what lay beyond. But in August I returned to Jackson Hole and once again I remembered my strange little hitchhiker and the murder mystery that had just begun to unfold as I was leaving. On my first morning back, I was eating breakfast at the old Chateau Cafe’ on Broadway and I asked a waitress friend of mine, Nancy Shinkle about the June murders. “Oh yes, “ she replied. “The Paynes, Martin and Emmalyn. Terrible story. It turned out their own son murdered them and buried them in shallow graves near an old Wilson dump. Terrible.”
It was, in fact, one of the most gruesome crimes in Jackson, Wyoming history. But I was also relieved that my hitchhiker buddy Cow Gone had nothing to do with it. Still it showed how the business of hitchhiking can create suspicion and paranoia, even when there’s no reason to be.
(For a comprehensive account of the 1969 murders click here and here for a story from the Jackson Hole News and Guide.)
*****
When I think of all the hitchhikers I’ve met over the years, two especially come to mind (besides Reggie).The pair of men could not have been more different. One of them was the happiest hobo I’ve ever met. The other man was a tragic figure. Whose ultimate fate I still wonder about to this day, forty years later.
WESLEY ERNSBERGER: “KING OF THE ROAD”
I was in Jackson, Wyoming in the summer of 1975. It was the year I actually made the move West and wound up, a few months later, in Moab. But on this mild summer afternoon, I was just hanging out at the city park watching all the tourists having their picture taken in front of the elkhorn arches. Just minutes earlier, I had been perusing the shelves at the Valley Bookstore. From my journal entry for August 26, I made the following notation (much of the dialogue that follows comes directly from that 1975 journal):
“I stopped at the Valley Book Shop to browse and found a new book by Edw. Abbey—MY HERO, entitled “The Monkey Wrench Gang.” The story is about a group of guys who wreak havoc on the industrial and commercial interests of the Southwest….But it’s $8.95…too much for my budget.” (the next day, I skipped breakfast and lunch and bought the book anyway)
When I returned to the park, I saw an interesting looking fellow, sitting on a bench. Beside him was a bedroll and a bag of his belongings. As I noted in the journal, “He had the look of a wanderer,” so I asked if I could join him. Of course, in those days I never went anywhere without my beloved husky mutt Muckluk. It was the first thing he noticed. Later I sat down and tried to scribble down in my journal, the entire conversation with my new friend.
“Good lookin’ dog. Good lookin’ dog, right? I’m right aren’t I? She’s a good dog.”
I told him that Muckluk was the best, but I sensed he had some kind of primal canine fear. A bad past experience maybe.
“I like animals…like animals. Excerpt the bad ones–stay away from them right? Bears—you gotta stay clear of them.”
And that’s how my acquaintance with Wesley “King of the Road” Ernsberger began. The King title was his and he told me that he was a “retired, well-educated, high class hobo.” King of the Road was born in Pittsburgh, PA, 55 years ago and had been on the road since he was 21. He always spent his winters in Palm Springs, California. Hobos don’t get any smarter than that.
I’d mention a town to Wes, any town in the continental United States, and he had been there. “Been all over,” he said proudly, “but I like the West the best. I know people all over the country. They know me and they trust me…they say, ‘That Wesley’s a good guy. He’s okay. It’s good to know things, but it’s better to know people. It ain’t what you know, it’s who you know….right?
We sat on the bench through most of the afternoon. He shared many of his life experiences. He rounded up cattle in Big Piney and had worked on a county chain gang in Florida for some unspecified violation of the law. He washed windows in Idaho Falls and he was especially fond of waxing cars. He always kept a can of car wax in his duffle.
“I’ll wax your car,” he said, “Twenty-five bucks.” If I hadn’t been almost as broke as Wes, I might have taken him up on it. He asked me what I drove and I pointed out my beater of a 1965 VW camper bus. “Nice van,” he said. “Lots of room.” I could see his mind working. He had an idea.
“You think I could sleep in your van tonight, couldn’t I?”
“Well, not really,” I explained. I sleep in it myself along with Muckluk.”
“Oh right,” Wes replied. “Oh well…or maybe couldn’t I sleep on the floor?” I tried to explain that there just wasn’t enough room, and that I also had to go to work soon. I had secured a lucrative position with a local cafe, ironically named The Tourist Trap. I was their chief dishwasher and had to work until midnight.
Wesley was quick to point out that maybe he could just sleep in the bus until I was off work. “I could just catch a little shut-eye in there til you were done. I’m right, aren’t I?” He wore me down and Wesley slept on my little cot until midnight. When I got off work, we drove to a rest area north of town and Wesley moved to the floor. He wasn’t pleased with the situation but was grateful for his sack time and something kept poking him in the back, but he said it was okay.
Finally we said goodnight. A few minutes passed. Wesley said, “Are you still awake Jim?”
“Yep,” I replied groggily.
Another thirty seconds passed. “Jim? One more question. The dog won;’t pee on me, will she?”
“Never has before,” I replied.
“That’s good to hear. Good dog.” The next day, Wesley “King of the Road” Ernsberger hit the road again. He wasn’t sure where he was headed, but it didn’t really matter. Wherever he laid his head at night, he was king of his domain.
I never saw Wesley again, but many years later, I did a Google search and discovered that Wes died in July 1985 at Desert Hot Springs, California. The King was gone. Long live the King.
MARTIN TANAKA
A decade later, I was a seasonal ranger at Arches National Park. Hitchhikers in the park were few and far between. One exception turned out to be my first ex-wife. She was trying to hitch a ride to the Devils Garden campground where I lived out of a rat infested tin trailer. A pickup truck pulled over to give her a ride. The bearded grizzled driver of the truck turned out to be Ed Abbey, a man who could never resist offering a ride to a young woman with wild hair, cut-off jeans and a tank top. He probably had notions but when she told him she was headed to the campground to see me, he became the most perfect of gentlemen.
“Yes,” Ed said, “Stiles is a good friend of mine. I’m not going all the way to the Devils Garden, but I can drop you off at the visitor center.” Linda thanked him for his generosity, but as she climbed out of the cab, Ed said somewhat self-consciously, “I don’t want you to think I was trying to hit on you. I would never do that to a friend of Stiles.” Linda laughed and thanked him again for his excellent manners.
But a year or two later, another hitchhiking incident occurred on the switchbacks above the visitor center. Four of us—the chief ranger, park tech, my partner at the campground, and me— were headed back to park headquarters after a long day doing boundary surveys. Bone tired and looking forward to a hot shower, we had just made the first hairpin turn when we saw a young man walking in the opposite direction, headed uphill toward the Courthouse Towers. He was a young man, with short, cropped black hair. He was wearing a long black overcoat and barely noticed us as we passed him.
The four of us looked at each other and collectively said, “what the hell?” We turned around and pulled up beside him. Joan asked, “Where are you headed, sir?”
He was nervous and his hands trembled, so he thrust them into his pockets. Finally, in a shaky voice he replied, “I’m trying to get to San Francisco, but right now I just want to get as far as Denver.” With that, he started walking again. Still heading away from the main highway and San Francisco for that matter. We caught up with him again and we all climbed out of the park cruiser. We tried to explain to him that this road would never lead him to his destination and offered to give him a ride back to the visitor center. We were already wondering if Four Corners Mental Health would still be open at 5:30 PM.
On the short drive down the switchbacks, we learned his name was Martin Tanaka and that he had come “from the east,” but he couldn’t be more specific. When we reached the visitor center, Tanaka suddenly thrust his hands into his pockets again; the chief ranger instinctively flipped the keeper on her gun holster, wondering if this guy was about to open fire. Instead he pulled out a greasy mess of partially eaten fried chicken and offered to share it with us. It was his way of thanking us for the ride.
Once inside, calls were made to the local authorities and Mike and I tried to keep Martin occupied. In the early 80s, it was still legal to smoke inside the park visitor center and scattered throughout the building were several long-legged ash trays, the kind that are filled with sand. Tanaka spied the ashtrays and immediately started sifting through them, looking for usable butts. He found several and seemed quite pleased with his discovery.
Meanwhile, the chief ranger reappeared. She’d called mental health and they were already aware of his presence in Moab. Martin had scared a few people, but had broken no laws. They were able to give him a refill for a prescription he was on, and then sent him on his way. The Grand County Sheriff had also dealt with Tanaka, but again, he had done nothing wrong. We had no idea what to do. Finally we realized our only option was to send him on his way as well. We came up with twenty bucks to take with him, and Mike and I drove Tanaka a few miles north to the junction with State Highway 313. He was grateful for the money, shook our hands, and said goodbye. We both felt awful, leaving this poor disturbed individual in the middle of nowhere.
We had barely left when it occurred to both of us that as much as Martin needed money, he also needed some gear. All he had to stay warm was his overcoat. He was without a pack or suitcase. Nothing. The Park Service always has massive amounts of surplus equipment because every September, as the fiscal year draws to a close, park managers are desperate to find ways to spend all the year-end money that they swore they wouldn’t have the previous April. In one of our sheds were piles of old sleeping bags and canteens and mess kits. There was even a stack of MREs (Meals Ready to Eat). This is what he needed. We raced back to the park, told the chief ranger our idea and she heartily agreed. We drove to the shop, put together a rucksack, complete with sleeping bag, foam pad, water bottles and a mess kit.
No more than 15 minutes had passed since we left Tanaka at the 313/191 junction. We had been excited that we could help him out a bit more. But when we got there, incredibly, he was gone. It seemed impossible that Tanaka could have grabbed a ride that quickly. We drove up the Dead Horse Point Road a bit, just in case he had gone in the wrong direction yet again. But there was no trace of him. We kicked ourselves for not thinking of the gear earlier. But now it was too late. Martin Tanaka was out there somewhere, bound for unknown destinations, even to him.
And that should have been the end of the story, and for the most part it is. We talked about our encounter with Martin and we would wonder from time to time where he had gone. But eventually we put the incident behind us. Then one afternoon, two years later, I was on patrol in Salt Valley and our new Chevy Blazer patrol vehicle had an AM radio in it. I was tuned to KREX in Grand Junction, but was paying little attention to the music.
But when the local news was broadcast at the top of the hour, I was shocked to hear a familiar name — Martin Tanaka. The report stated that Tanaka had been shot in the arm, trying to break into the home of a Grand Junction resident. He had been taken into custody and just been transferred to the state mental hospital for observation. In two years, Tanaka had covered a hundred miles, apparently still suffering from some kind of severe mental illness, had survived a gunshot wound, and was now in a psychiatric ward, somewhere in Colorado. To this day, I have always wondered what Martin Tanaka’s ultimate fate was. I fear it did not turn out well.
*****
POSTSCRIPT
As the years passed, I became less enthused about picking up hitchhikers and even more fearful of sticking my own thumb out. In fact, I hadn’t stopped for a hitchhiker in decades. The world has become too scary a place and people in general just look creepier to me in the 21st century.
But last summer, I made an exception, though in all fairness, the man for whom I stopped was merely walking up the road, about a mile from what looked to be a broken down pickup truck. I was in a remote part of New Mexico, and it was a brutally hot day. It was also a fair guess that the truck was his, so I stopped and asked him if he needed a ride. If anyone seemed wary, it was him. But the truck was his and he had about six miles to his parents’ ranch house. He squeezed into the back seat of my tiny Prius and it occurred to me, he probably thought I was some damn urban environmentalist, which sometimes can be scarier than a crazed hitchhiker.
But he decided we looked reasonably safe and we introduced ourselves. For the life of me, I cannot recall his first name, but his last name was “Corn,” and after we dropped him off at the homestead, we passed the Corn Ranch entrance gate. He was the classic, incredibly polite Old Style Westerner, though he was no older than his 30s. I was convinced he must have also been a Marine. I don’t think Marines ever stop saying “sir” and ‘mam” to their very last breath. I appreciate that kid of decency.
But the name “Corn” came up again, a few weeks later. I was watching a documentary about the alleged 1947 crash of a UFO near Roswell, New Mexico. As it turned out, one of the ranches closest to the crash site was, of all places, the Corn Ranch!
And I had to wonder…if the crash story was true, and the aliens had survived, and had made their way to the highway, and needed a ride to town…would I have stopped and picked them up? They’ve no doubt been monitoring Earthlings for years; extraterrestrials would surely have known how to stick out a thumb. But only if they had one. That would be a real dilemma for an inter-galactic traveler. What if they failed to possess thumbs?
Sometimes…my mind wanders. Just like those wandering hobos of days long gone and soon forgotten.
Jim Stiles is the publisher/editor of The Zephyr
If you’d like to comment on this story, scroll to the very bottom of this page. We welcome constructive criticism, but please…try not to get personal, in a negative way, that is…. Thanks…JS
great article, love that old bus. We had a ’70 combi for years.
The last time I hitchhiked was in Moab. I had rented a “duckie”, a couple of paddles and PFDs, and a dry bag to take my ten year old grandson on that stretch of the Colorado between Hittle Bottom and the BLM takeout to teach him how to paddle. While on the river, busy with our teaching/learning adventure, I had somehow missed the takeout, something Had never done before. We were a three miles past it when I noticedI
I decided that the solution to our problem was to pull the duckie into some willows on the side of the river, stash our paddles and other gear, and hitchhike back to the takeout where i could get the car and return to pick up the duckie and gear to return it to the rental place on time.
Wearing our PFDs to show that we were only river runners and safe to pickup, we walked up to the highway and stuck out our thumbs. I told my grandson to stand in front of me so that potential rides would be reassured that we were just a family needing a ride from to or from a river trip.
After what seemed like a thousand tourist cars had passed, finally a woman in a Volkswagen sedan stopped and gave us a ride back to the takeout. She was a local.
We missed the deadline for returning the duckie to the rental place but when I told them my story they let me slide and I didn’t have to pay the late charge and my grandson thought hitchhiking for the first time against all parental advice was a great adventure. That he had the great wisdom to wait until he was home in godless, soul less, culture less suburban Phoenix to tell his parents about his adventure was just icing on the cake.
I used to hitchhike in the 1970’s between NH and Maine. I turned down 2 rides – a motorcycle and looking in a car where I was to sit between 2 guys in the back seat, not a good vibe.
When I write my follow up and my own hitchhiking experiences, I had the same terrifying encounters. And one time I accepted the ride…almost got murdered. The one I turned down, I only escaped thanks to my dog…at least all these years later, it makes a good story.
I’m looking forward to that story!
https://wp.me/p2kL2W-5x
there was, and is, a lotta unfortunateness w/r to hitching. my story (link above or wearever itz located w/r to this reponse) was a summary of, basically, nothing but “good luck” / good fortune (well, no $$$ was/were accumulated) — i’m tossing this out ’cause maybe Jim would like to fill up some space in a future CCZ hitchin’ edition ~
In ’69 and ’70 I was working in Yellowstone and hitching was easy in Wyoming, Idaho and Montana. I didn’t have much competition except for soldiers and sailors on leave. Long distance drivers needed someone to talk with to keep them awake. When one of my patrons dropped me off at an Absaroka trailhead and learned of my intention to hike a couple weeks, he gave me all the food he had in the car as well as a fistful of joints for the trip. Most others were just as kind.
In ’71 things changed radically. I had to wait for hours between rides. I finally found out why from a radio news story on a lift north out of Pinedale. In Livingston, the trial of the “Yellowstone Cannibals” was going on. Apparently, the year before, a well meaning fellow had picked up a couple of hitchers and camped with them in Paradise Valley. During a lightning storm, they killed and partially consumed their driver and dumped his remains into the Yellowstone. The crime was unsolved until the perps were stopped on the Bay Bridge in Oakland and confessed to the very surprised traffic cop. They offered the officer their victim’s fingers as proof.
Everybody in the entire Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem was following the story closely. Screwed up my “Dharma Bums” phase considerably. The three surrounding states legislatively banned hitchhiking in their next sessions.
Fast forward 50 years. My buddy, the late Leland Christiansen, a Wyoming State Senator and long time Nat’l Guard, was upset with the hitching prohibition and introduced a bill to lift it, “so soldiers and sailors can get home on leave”. The bill passed. Since he was only 4 when the crime happened, he was unaware of why Wyoming had banned hitching in the first place. I have always retained hitching in my portfolio of transportation options, so I didn’t share the story with him until after it became legal again.
Interesting stories,I do remember Wes and how he bragged about all the nice places that he stayed,only to sleep on the floor of your van that night.And speaking of getting flat tires,in a funnier now than then remembrance,the first day out of Louisville,heading to meet you in Jackson Hole,driving your former 1965 MGB,I had a flat tire.I had debated, before leaving,about getting a new set of tires and obviously decided to wait,I did decide then to stop and buy a new set of tires for my journey.
Yep, Muck was a good dog. I’m not fond of dogs as a rule, but as I recall she was a good, well behaved dog.
Mmm, the photo of the interior of the Arches VC brings back good memories. I was working the info desk that day. I recall how a woman came in to the VC asking where the restroom was. I replied after “reading” her attitude, “the dump station is at the other end of the parking lot”. Fortunately I was right about her attitude, because she laughed and I immediately told her where the real restroom was. That could have gone soooo wrong!
Oh Jim, good memories! In ’67 I was in on a river trip with some friends in rubber duckies. Traveling north from the south rim people were real nice. I slept in Uinta County jail one night, cause it was such sparse shrubbery around Vernal that I felt too exposed. They were obliged to lock me in, but that was okay and they fed me breakfast the next morning. Going on up into WYoming, I got a ride from an older couple in a real nice car. I think we were heading over the Beartooths. They were from the east and lacked skills for driving the mountains, so I volunteered to drive and they let me! I ended up in Glacier Park and a few days later was joined by Tuck at a back country chalet. Yeah, we used to always pick up hitchhikers on the Navajo reservation- Woshden (nasal) is what you say- “come in”.
Probably our best hitchhiking story took place on the Canadian border one day. We picked up an interesting woman, probably 70 years (at least back then she seemed old) in Eureka Mt, just 6 miles south of the border. She had just left her handgun at the motel there, her common practice. Okay, but then she talked about it at the border! So they hauled her in to talk some more and she turned to us and said, “If I’m not out in a few minutes, just go ahead”. The officer said we would wait right there and if she was not allowed to enter Canada, we would take her back “from whence she came” ! They let her into Canada and we started off, but there was a kid with a pair of skis hitchhiking, so we took him on board. This is our old Chevy carryall, Pakeha. Poor kid was really intimidated by the lady who kept talking about traveling the country to work for justice. Then some 10-15 miles north was a rancher standing at his driveway thumbing a lift. So he got in the front seat with me and Tuck. He’d have gone to town for his truck with his neighbor except he’d had to wait and feed the cattle. Out lady thought he said ‘beat his cattle’ and she was threatening him with the SPCA. The kid was cowering and we drove on. At the E-W road the rancher headed to Fernie, we soon dropped off the lady and the kid with his skis and Tuck and I felt we’d been part of some crazy movie!
I love reading this stuff, Colonel. Thanks. Yes, I have thumb-first stories. One of these days. In the meantime, more.
As I was driving through Moab about 7 years ago, heading to the Grand Gulch area to hike, I stopped at a gas station on the North end of town to get fuel. As I was about to depart, a Chinese man in his early 20’s approached me and asked if I could please give him a ride to a farm in Montezuma Canyon. Jokingly, I said I would as long as he didn’t intend to kill me. He assured me he had no intention of that and was a college student on break from a college on the East coast. He was heading to an organic farm for a couple weeks where he would learn organic farming techniques as a volunteer worker. He wanted to be called Rocky, after the boxer of film fame, whom he greatly admired. Rocky had never been West. He traveled by bus to Green River, UT, hitchhiked to Moab, and was waiting at the gas station hoping for a lift further South. Rocky was fascinated with my topo maps (he took photos of them), asked if I had ever camped before (yes, for the past 40 years I happily told him), and was amazed by the wide open country South of Moab and the grazing cattle. He was an only child due to the Chinese government policies of the time. His plan after the farm was to hitch hike to Denver and meet his parents who were flying in from China. He was a great young man, very polite and appreciative of the ride. I often wondered how he made out after leaving the Montezuma Canyon farm.
I am looking forward to your part two of this hitchhiking story!
We had our own hitchhiker story when my husband Jerry and I were driving through Nevada late one night. The year was 1981. We were heading toward San Jose, California. My husband was getting tired of driving, so I volunteered to spell him off for awhile. We had three little girls at the time. The youngest was an infant. She was sleeping as were the other two. My husband had just become comfortable and had also fallen asleep, when our brand new Chevy Impala came to a stop on the remote road. I was attempting to find out what a woman and small child were doing so far out of town. They were waving their arms in a distress type of signal. The woman claimed she had been beaten and needed a ride into town. I think the town we were both headed to was Tonopah, Nevada. We squeezed them in. In the process of stopping, our baby awakened and began to wail. My husband, realizing he was not going to get sleep took back over the wheel, so I could try to calm down our infant. As we neared Tonopah, the woman requested that we drive behind an apartment building to let her out. I was glad Jerry took my hint. I was worried that the woman may have some companions who might be waiting back there to take our car from us and leave us stranded in Tonopah. I explained that we would let her out in front of the apartments instead. Jerry pulled up under a streetlight and let her and the little girl out. I think that was the last time either of us picked up a hitchhiker. I think it was also the last time Jerry gave me a chance to drive on our vacation travels.
Love this article. My high school sweetheart every weekend hitchhiker from his college at USL in Lafayette Louisiana to his home near False River. He then borrowed his parent’s car and drove across the Mississippi River to Baton Rouge to pick me up for a date to go to dinner, dancing and drinking. Drinking age in 60’s was 18. He was old enough to buy drinks for us and no one cared that I was underage. Hitchhiking was pretty safe back then.