Hitchhiking Across America (December 1972)— A Really Dumb Idea —Jim Stiles (ZX#57)

And the story of the dog who saved my life, even if she didn’t mean to…

It’s been a while since I wrote my last installment about the “Lost Art of Hitchhiking .” In the first segment, I described the memorable hitchhikers, good and bad, that I encountered over the years. (You can read it HERE) In the second story, it was ME with my thumb out. I hadn’t planned on hitchhiking but circumstances beyond my control and my ‘pal’ Cronk made it so….well just read it yourself; I hate to be redundant (CLICK HERE).

There was one very scary moment, but otherwise, the thumb rides were rather pleasant. And after all, in that first experience, I was only trying to hitch a couple hundred miles— from Vero Beach to Daytona. It was spring break time and I knew I’d find college pals there. Eventually I did, and they somewhat grudgingly gave me a ride home to Kentucky—we were in a VW Beetle and there were six of us.

But now…more than two years later, I was in Los Angeles, California, or to be more precise, Hollywood, California. To narrow it down to the square foot, Muckluk and I were somehow sleeping on the couch of a friend’s apartment. This was no run-of-the-mill flop house. I was actually living in the famous Alto Nido Apartments, just a block up from the intersection of Hollywood and Ivar. A block north was Hollywood & Vine. The building was used in the opening scene of “Sunset Boulevard” with William Holden and Gloria Swanson.

I wound up there because, to be honest, I had nowhere left to go. I was lonely. I graduated from college in late May 1972. In just a few paragraphs, let me show you my itinerary from June 16 to December 11.

Everything I did back then, and even now, was driven by impulse. I like to say, “I’m an ‘idea’ man.” (My ex-wife hated it when I said that). But one day in April, a month before graduation, I decided I’d like to go see Alaska. I did a little checking. Found out it was about 5000 miles to Fairbanks. Over a thousand miles were gravel. And my mode of transportation was a 1965 VW Squareback (some of you have seen the pictures) with a checkered past and an uncertain future. Reliability was not its forte’. At the last moment, a college friend decided to come along. We made the trip. Saw McKinley. Marveled at the Midnight sun, drove down the Kenai Peninsula south of Anchorage, all the way to Homer. And best of all, Muckluk and I found each other (That’s a tale for another time.. I’m still trying to get to the Hitchhike Event in this story)

Then my friend realized he was almost broke. Less than a month after we left Louisville, we turned around, drove the Alcan again, but decided, as long as we’re out here, we might as well take the Pacific Coast Hwy. We followed it all the way to Long Beach, where we visited a Navy pal we had gone to college with. Then the mad dash back to Kentucky. I dropped off my friend, but my journey was just beginning.

By pre-agreement months ago, and with no way of contacting my friend Cronk, I turned around and drove back across the midwest on I-70, north on I-25 to Cheyenne, then west on I-80 to Rock Springs. I turned north on what was then US 187 to Jackson, past the Elk Reserve and finally to my destination at the Curtis Creek Campground.

There he was. Cronk had arrived an hour earlier, “You’re late Stiles, you asshole.” Cronk had not changed much since he left me in Vero Beach. Still…there was just something about the guy. We hung out a few days, leaned against the elkhorn antlers in Jackson and tried to look mysterious. But once again we couldn’t agree where to go next. So we parted ways and I traveled south to canyon country.

(Right now, you’re saying to yourself, “Okay, but what the hell does all this have to do with a hitchhike across the country…I’m getting there. I’m a long-form journalist. I can’t help myself.)

I stayed at Capitol Reef and met a couple of young girls. One of them–her name was Nola– told me her mother owned the Chappell Cheese Factory in Loa. So I followed them to Loa and sure enough, there was an operating and, at the time, a quite successful cheese factory. Nola gave me the full tour. However her mother thought I had an unsavory look…not mysterious…unsavory! She didn’t even give me a cheese sample.

(The factory closed years later and the building was standing in the 1990s. Now there’s not a trace of it)

Incredibly, now I realized that I was running out of money. I should have tried to get a job in Utah…maybe they could have put me in charge of the “cheese curds’ at Chappell Cheese. But instead, I drove all the way back to Kentucky. I knew I could get some part-time work, but there was a second reason…my Squareback was falling apart. But there was one VW mechanic in Louisville that I knew and trusted and charged a fair price for his work. So…back to Kentucky. John fixed the VW, and I earned a little extra money. I stayed at my parents’ farm for a couple weeks, but I sensed some hostility from my father. He’d paid for my college education and i the six months since U of L President Woody Stricklet handed me my diploma, and from my father’s way of thinking, I wasn’t really “moving forward with my life.” he didn’t order me to leave (that would come later), but I knew a tactical withdrawal was in order.

We drove back to Jackson, Wyoming. I was almost flat broke and finally applied for a job as a janitor for the Dust-Mop Janitorial Service. We cleaned the commercial kitchens of several restaurants by night, and the homes of the early “Rich Weasels,” who were already making a land grab that would someday make Teton County the richest in the USA–they even beat out Aspen. My co-worker at the Dust Mop was a nice guy a couple years older than me named Kerry Lanier. He was the spitting image of Dick Cavett. Hewas unflinchingly honest and one day, when we were cleaning some rich guy’s house, I suggested we raid the liquor bar. He was shocked.

“But…But,” Kerry stammered.“That would be stealing!”

We were working for two bucks an hour. No overtime. But I couldn’t help but admire his honesty.

Finally at the end of October, we decided to quit. Kerry didn’t have a car, so he offered to pay for the gas if I drove him home to Portland, Oregon. I thought for a moment…what the hell. Why not?

It had been a dry fall and the road through Yellowstone was still open on October 22. At Old Faithful, the parking lot was deserted. Not a single vehicle to be seen. Instead, hundreds of elk roamed the parking area and the land beyond it. Kerry, Muckluk and I climbed out of the VW to have a better look. Within seconds I heard the harsh scream of an officious sounding man. I turned around; It was a park ranger. I thought, ‘where the hell did he come from?’

Some rangers can just smell unleashed dogs. It’s like a paranormal talent. “Get that dog on a leash or I’ll write you a ticket right now!” Muckluk was a very smart dog. Chasing a thousand elk seemed like an idea to her that could have serious repercussions. One dog chasing a thousand elk? Or a thousand elk chasing one dog? Muckluk was quite content to just watch.

But it didn’t matter. No matter how hard I tried to explain Muck’s laid back demeanor, or the fact that if she had opposing thumbs, she’d probably be HIS boss, the Ranger was unmoved.

“Get in your car and go.” We left.

We drove west on US 12 along the Snake River. It was late October. The tamarack were in full gold. It was hunting season. The smell of campfires and the smoke from little bars and cafes along the way was like incense to me. I have never been back.

I got Lanier to Portland. He lived in the most depressing, bare-walled apartment I have ever seen. One naked light bulb hung from the ceiling. Its glare was so harsh, I knew I couldn’t stay long. Kerry left for a while to visit friends, and I was there with Muck. I turned on the radio. The local AM station was playing the current number one hit, “Alone Again (Naturally).” When I got to the part where he throws himself off the tower, I knew it was time to go. I needed to see a friend.

One of my best pals, a friend I had known since high school and roomed with in college, was going to film school in Los Angeles. ‘Barry,’ I thought. ‘Barry Schreiber!’ I’ll visit Barry. After all, it was only another 1500 miles.

For the second time in three months I followed the Pacific Coast all the way to Los Angeles, to Hollywood to Hollywood Blvd & Ivar and up the hill to the Alto Nido. Schrieber didn’t even know I was coming. Barry was living in L.A. because he had enrolled in a “film college” called Columbia College for the Arts. Schreiber was absolutely convinced he was on the brink of becoming the next Stephen Speilberg. He was living with three other guys…or four…or two…depended on the day. I was even an actor” in one of his school projects that required me to look up into the night sky at the Griffith Observatory at two o’clock in the afternoon…I’d love to know if that little film still exists, but sorry to say, Schreiber died of brain cancer more than 25 years ago.

I stayed a month. I tried to peddle a few of my drawings. One art shop bought one of my black and white ink sketches for $15. He told me he was going to hang it “next to my Picasso.” Everyone in Hollywood was so full of crap. Everybody and I mean everybody…was in “the business.” The Alto Nido house manager was writing a screenplay. The janitor was really an actor. I walked down Hollywood Blvd one day and shot some black and whites…Hollywood was way ahead of its time.

When I first arrived, I detected a bit of tension between the roommates. I had no idea what the issue was. Later, Barry took me aside and explained. Apparently, Barry had been regularly attending the iconic 60s “Whiskey a’ Go GO’ nightclub, just down the street, and had been befriended by the famous rock drummer, Buddy Miles. Buddy took a shine to Schreiber and told him he knew where he could get them a LOT of pot for a fairly reasonable price— $400. That’s about $4000 in 2023. Schreiber went back to the Alto Nido and talked it over with his roommates. They decide they’d all chip in and each would get his share.

So Barry gathered the money, went to the A’ Go Go that night and found Buddy. He handed him the cash, Miles counted it and smiled. “Okay,” the great drummer said. “That should do it.”

Barry hesitated. “But..uh…what about the pot?”

Miles laughed. “Oh it’ll take me a couple days to round it up…don’t worry. You can trust me.” They shook hands and Barry headed home. His co-investors were not pleased when they heard the news. They had planned on all being bombed out of their minds by midnight. But Schreiber assured them that Buddy could be trusted. “He PROMISED!” Barry pleaded.

But the product was not forthcoming. Schreiber made two more trips to the nightclub. Miles wasn’t there. This is where I came in. Barry was starting to get worried. One dancer at the Go Go quietly told Barry that they’d been scammed and that Miles was tired of being annoyed by Schreiber’s persistence.

Now the roommates were ready to throw him out of the Alto Nido. Again Barry pulled me aside. “Would you mind going to the Whiskey a’ Go Go tonight with me? I’ve got to get that pot.”

I’d heard of the Whiskey a’ Go Go and even Buddy Miles. But this was definitely not my scene. (God help me, but I was listening to John Denver and Glen Campbell at the time). But I agreed to go. We parked down the street from the club. Even from a block away, the noise was deafening. Once we walked inside, I could hear nothing but the music. It WAS “Steely Dan,” and at a lower decibel level I loved those guys. But this volume hurt my head. We worked our way across the dance floor…Good Lord! There were so many hot girls in mini-skirts. All gorgeous, but they all looked exactly alike. The club reeked of pot smoke and patchouli oil.

We made our way past the chaos and walked down a long dark hallway to the manager’s office. He looked up skeptically at us. “Who the hell are you?”

We cringed, just slightly, and Barry haltingly told him we were looking for Miles. “He owes us pot or our money back,” Barry said bravely. The man smiled a sinister smile…

“Boys…my advice is this. Accept your losses and leave this establishment immediately, before things turn ugly.” We both sort of ‘gulped,’ and nodded, and backed out the door. As we were walking across the dance floor, a scantily clad girl looked at Barry and started dancing with him. Barry could never resist a beautiful scantily clad woman…who could?…and began his own form of writhing and grinding.

I thought, ‘You have got to be kidding.’ I screamed above the 140 decibels of Steely Dan, “Are you completely out of your damn mind? We need to get OUT OF HERE!” Barry reluctantly agreed, the hot girl found somebody else, and we exited Whiskey a’ Go Go. My first and last visit.

(NOTE: We’re getting very close to the hitchhike story… don’t give up yet)

***
Over the weeks, Life just got weirder. I took my camera down to Hollywood Blvd and shot some black and white—it was all I could afford. Decades before I moved here I must have said to Muckluk, “I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more.”

I looked for Hollywood stars and assumed they’d be everywhere. I went to Schwab’s famous drug store where Lana Turned was discovered. Nobody but hippies and tourists. The closest I came to stardom was the day I stopped at McDonalds and James Darren, a B list TV actor was ordering a Big Mac. I could not have been more excited. Yawn.

Then my Hollywood life really went off the rails.

One day Barry and I were walking down Hollywood, just past the junction with Ivar, when two men in suits jumped out of an unmarked sedan, grabbed me by the shoulders and slammed me against a wall. Barry did the only sensible thing he could do—he ran. They drew their weapons, a .38 Smith & Wesson snubnose, and finally pulled out their IDs. They were undercover cops. I apparently resembled a guy who had just robbed the Bank of America, a few blocks east of here.. They cuffed me, pulled my wallet out of my pocket and spun me around.

“Where were you 45 minutes ago?” they bellowed.

I said (and this is the honest truth), “I was watching ‘The Lone Ranger’ on TV. You know… that station here that plays all the old shows? If you don’t let me go, I’m going to miss ‘Ozzie and Harriet!’ I’m from Kentucky. I didn’t rob any bank!”

They carefully examined my wallet and its contents and talked quietly between themselves.

Suddenly Schreiber appeared around the corner. He’d run back to the Alto Nido, grabbed every guy he could find, and they all came running back to save me. I was impressed! They were ready to rumble. Barry was breathing heavily. He may have been armed with a golf club.

“Hold on!” I said diplomatically. “These men are officers of the law. They mistook me for an armed bandit.” By now the detectives had uncuffed me and though they never actually apologized, they did acknowledge that while I looked like the suspect, there was “reason to believe” I was not that man.

I decided I was not meant to be here. But my VW was hammered. It sounded like it could give out or blow up at any moment. I didn’t know if it could make the trip home. I calculated that I had driven 22,000 miles in the last six months. It wasn’t really like I missed home anyway…I just didn’t know what else to do. And I was yet again almost broke. It was at that moment that the idea of hitchhiking across the country, more than 2500 miles, with a 75 pound Husky, in the middle of the winter, began percolating in my brain.

“Stiles…are you crazy?” Schreiber said. “It may be warm here, but once you’re out of here, you’re going to freeze your ass off…and besides…HITCHHIKING? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Have you heard of Charlie Manson? That was only three years ago. Do you know how many crazy people are out there? Or just plain mean? Don’t do it.”

I said, “Would you give Muckluk and me a ride as far as San Bernardino?”

Schreiber shook his head. “Sure, I’ll ride you that far. Damn Stiles, you are one crazy youngster.” (Schreiber always called me ‘youngster’ for some reason).

FINALLY…THE THUMB HOME STORY
The truth is, except for one extremely scary moment, the long journey was relatively uneventful. It was December 11…my birthday and this is how I was celebrating it. Schreiber dropped me off on the eastbound ramp of Interstate 15. It appeared to be a good spot because there were five other guys thumbing it as well. All equally spaced along the on ramp. Being a rookie hitchhiker, I didn’t understand the protocol. Schreiber dropped me off at what would be the head of the line. In other words, I’d be the first guy a car would see when they entered the ramp. My unintended faux pas created an immediate response from my fellow thumbers. They all started shouting at me that I had no right to be in front of them…”Go to the back of the line!” they almost screamed in unison.

Humbly, I flung my pack over my shoulder and Muckluk and I meekly slinked by our mentors and assumed the position. I would now be the last guy a car would pass. They were a rough looking bunch. I would guess almost all of them had criminal records; at least one of them had probably killed somebody. If cell phones had been invented then, I may have called Schreiber and begged him to come back.

But I was committed to do this. I reached into my pack and pulled out the sign I’d made for the trip. (Incredibly I still have it…here it is.).

One thing I had in my favor was that I didn’t look like I’d ever been in prison, or killed anyone, and even better…I had Muckluk. One would think a dog would be a detriment to a hitchhiker, but the opposite was true. Muck curled up beside my pack and I must have stood there for an hour. Nobody was getting a ride. Finally a small sedan approached slowly. It was a woman and her daughter. They eyed every one of these creepy dudes as they slowly passed them by. Then they came to Muckluk and me.

I saw mother and daughter looking at each other. The mother nodded and just as they were about to pass me, she slammed on her brakes. I walked to the window and the mother said, “We’re not going to Kentucky but we can get you as far as Barstow.”

“That would be great!” I replied. Muck and I climbed in the backseat. It was a tight fit but we made it. The other hitchhikers were furious. I could hear them yelling and saw what one might call an obscene gesture. I looked back and waved. I prayed I’d never see those men again.

Barstow wasn’t that far a ride. Maybe an hour or so. But I was moving, at least, and away from the Second Coming of the Manson Family. And I would need to change routes there anyway. Barstow was the beginning or end of Interstate 40, depending on how you look at it. I-40 would take me almost all the way home. Mother and daughter dropped me off in Barstow and within five minutes, I caught another ride. I thought, ‘Wow. This is going to be easy.’

The driver was a military recruiter so it made sense for him to stop. He’d already picked up three or four other young guys and from there to Needles, we heard about all the advantages of military service. By now the draft had ended. American involvement in Vietnam was within weeks of ending, and all branches of the military were trying to “up the deal” with promises of higher pay, better medical benefits and of course, the opportunity to serve your country. I’m not sure he convinced anyone. I was already worrying about my next ride.

I-40 was complete as far as Needles, California. But at the far east end of town, it returned to two-lanes. But construction was well underway and a wide swath of desert had been bulldozed and graded and the four lane highway was starting to take shape. Mostly I recall how cold and dusty it had become. The Marine recruiter dropped me off at the junction with US 95 that went south and eventually to Phoenix. The other guys stayed with him. I pulled out my pack, Muckluk happily jumped down to take a leak. I was confident my good luck would hold. Surely a car headed east on the future I-40 would come along soon.

But there was nothing. Hardly any cars came by at all, and those that did took the right turn to Phoenix. It was long past dark on what was almost the longest night of the year. It occurred to me….this was my birthday. I never did like December. Still don’t.

By 9 PM, I was losing hope. In those days, there were no open convenience stores, no McDonalds. Not even a gas station. I was out there on the far east end of town, where the I-40 construction was ongoing and I had never felt so cold and alone. Muckluk…the Mighty Beast, that Killer Canine, was sleeping peacefully by my backpack, which I had turned on its side to block her from the wind. A Husky mix, born in Alaska, these temperatures were downright balmy to that damn dog.

Then finally, I saw a car approaching slowly. Just like the Florida mishap, this was an older car and even in the darkness I could see the silhouette of several men in it. They pulled up beside me and the man on the passenger side rolled down his window. I peered in and one quick glance told me I did NOT want to get in this car. At first I thought maybe they were the creepy dudes from San Bernardino, but on closer inspection, I realized these guys were older, meaner, scarier. They looked capable of killing both me and Muck, just for the sport of it.

The man looked me over…remember, at 21 I looked like I was 15….and he said, “We’re going east toward Flag, but we need five bucks for gas.” He squinted at me and said, “You got five bucks?” I backed away from the window and said I didn’t. I had two fifty dollar bills in my shoe but I wasn’t going to reveal that to them. I shook my head, “Nope…I’m just about flat busted broke.”

He looked skeptical but nodded, “Okay kid…we’ll be seeing you. Good luck.”

I watched them drive away, headed east on the future I-40. Because of the construction, they had cleared a wide swath of vegetation for miles. I could see their tail lights shrinking in the distance. Then suddenly, their brake lights came on. They stopped. They were about a mile east. I watched them turn around and head back toward Needles. Toward me.

I think I said something like, “I don’t believe it! They’re coming back for me!” But it didn’t even occur to me to hide.. I could run but I couldn’t hide. Except for some old sheds across the road, there was nothing but dirt and tumbleweed. Wide open country. Meanwhile Muckluk slumbered peacefully in the shadow of my backpack.

The car slowed down. Stopped. The driver and the man next to him jumped out of the car. The driver said, “That’s bullshit. We know you’ve got at least five bucks. You’re coming with us.” He took hold of my arm and started to pull me toward the open door. The other guy walked over and grabbed my pack. But he hadn’t noticed the dog. Muckluk was tethered to the pack and when this maniac picked it up with a violent jerk, Muckluk finally woke up. And she awoke with a jar. She leapt to her feet, looked at the man, and was probably thinking, “I wonder if he has any Milkbone Biscuits….I could use a good treat about now.”

Muckluk was the worst watchdog one could imagine. I’ve mentioned this before but Muck exuded a certain….insouciance, She was more like a cat. Indifferent to the world around her. But she looked fierce; her sudden movement, leaping to her feet, and staring at this cretin with her furrowed brow and cold brown eyes, scared this lowlife to death. Clearly these guys had a pathological fear of big dogs that were half German Shepherd..

The man immediately dropped the pack and actually raised his hands. Muckluk just stared at him. Ready to pounce. (not really…she just wanted to go back to sleep)

“Okay! Okay Man! Make that dog back off! We don’t want no trouble with some damn freaking dog…you can keep your damn five bucks.” He was actually trembling; I almost started laughing. He turned to the driver, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They turned around again and headed east. I watched them until they disappeared in the distance. Muckluk went back to sleep. She had no idea she’d just saved our lives. I was just relieved she didn’t yawn during our ordeal.

I decided to move closer to town. Though everything was closed, there were at least a few street lights and a bit more local traffic. At the time, I don’t think I appreciated the full extent of my near miss with monsters. Today I think about it more than I did then.

Another hour passed. It must have been close to midnight. A car came along and stopped. It was a late model Buick or Olds. I peered inside. It was just one man, and he was wearing a coat and tie. He looked safe. “Where you headed?” he asked.

East on I-40 I explained. He shook his head. “Sorry…I’m turning right up here on 95 and going to Phoenix.” I thought about it…for about two seconds.

“What the hell,” I said. “I’ll go with you. It’ll at least be warmer.” Then he saw the dog and started to have second thoughts, but I begged and pleaded and he finally relented. We climbed in and I finally fell asleep for most of the ride.

*****

We reached Phoenix before dawn and he dropped me off at an intersection with I-17, the highway that would take me north to Flagstaff, and back on track via I-40 and Route 66. (In 1972, there were still many sections of two lane road as construction continued).

It was dead quiet at 5 AM but by seven, the roads were bustling. Incredibly, a small car pulled over, driven by a young woman and she had a dog, a black lab I think. She rolled down the window and said, “Are you really going to Kentucky?” She had seen my sign. I nodded and she laughed. “That’s perfect. I’m going to Cleveland. I was just visiting relatives in Tucson. I could not believe my good luck.

Actually, I’m not sure it was Cleveland but it was some city north and east of Louisville and right on the route she planned to take. I think her name was Linda Rupnik. At first things went swimmingly. We drove north to Flagstaff and when she mentioned that she had never seen the Grand Canyon, I told her I was in no rush and had been there many times. She loved the idea and so we drove north to the South Rim and spent most of the day at the different viewpoints, and hanging out at the Bright Angel Lodge and that magnificent fireplace.

But it was getting dark. We had dinner at he Bright Angel Lodge but neither of us could afford a room there. And we’d only known each other for a few hours. I decided it wouldn’t be wise to push the idea of sharing a room, and she didn’t offer. In the end, we ended up sleeping in her car at a rest area just outside the park. It was my idea; I had been sleeping in the car for years. But I could tell, the next morning, she was not impressed with the experience, and she claimed I snored. Somehow, the bloom was off the rose when it came to “us.” The next day, we rarely spoke, but she did trust me enough to let me drive a while so she could rest.

The other problem was the dog situation. Our dogs didn’t like each other. On occasion they even barked at each other. By the end of the day, we’d made it into Oklahoma and she spotted a cheap motel. “I’m getting a room,” she said. “You can come in if you want.” But it didn’t really sound like an invitation to a dream date, and she was becoming less and less enthralled with both me and Muckluk. I didn’t want to get left behind in Oklahoma and so the dog and I spent yet another night in the car. Even then, I’d been told my mere presence could sometimes be annoying.

The next morning she emerged from the room, looking grumpier than the night before. She said, “You can take a shower if you want, but we need to get going.” I told her I was fine. With all these winter clothes on, I wouldnt start publicly smelling for another couple of days. She nodded and off we went—across the remainder of Oklahoma, across the entire width of Arkansas to Tennessee, and then that long stretch between Memphis and Nashville. It was dark by the time we reached Nashville and bitter cold. We were on the freeway, in the middle of a massive interchange, when suddenly I heard a commotion in the backseat. Our dogs’ tolerance for each other had snapped and in the next moment so did Linda’s. It was honestly her dog who was the aggressor, and I yelled at HER DOG to back off. I reached into the backseat and grabbed her dog by the collar and pulled them apart.

Linda swerved to the side of the freeway, onto the breakdown lane, and slammed on the brakes. We came to a screeching stop. “OKAY! THAT IS IT!!! GET OUT OF MY CAR…YOU AND YOUR DAMN DOG!” she screamed.

I couldn’t believe it. We were less than three hours from Louisville.

“Seriously? “ I said meekly. “I was just trying to break up a fight.”

“You yelled at my dog and manhandled her. NOBODY yells at my dog…I’m sorry but you and your dog have to get out of my car right now.”

I hooked up Muckluk to her leash and pulled my pack out of the backseat. We were literally on top of an overpass and cars and trucks were roaring by. I considered another attempt to reason with her, but now she was just staring straight ahead, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly I thought she would crush it.

“Well. Okay,” I said. “I appreciate you getting me this far.” She nodded but never looked at me. Linda Rupnik and her car vanished in the darkness. It was about ten degrees out and I was standing on top of an Interstate overpass in a crush of traffic. It wasn’t even legal to hitchhike on the Interstate itself. I had to find an on ramp to be legal. That task alone wasn’t easy. I was almost hoping a cop would come along and arrest us. But we were able to get off the freeway, walk down a grassy berm and find an on ramp.

Within minutes, a car full of high school kids spotted me and pulled over. They had seen my sign and again, though they were locals, they said they could take me to a truck stop a few miles north and out of the downtown area. The girls all fell in love with Muckluk and the guys wanted to hear about my cross-country hitch. The boys were all sure they wanted to give it a try themselves. Being three years older and wiser I said, “Sure…It’s great.”

So we got out of town and they took me to one of the old truck stops…nowadays it’s either a Loves or a Flying J…I’ve searched for the old truck stop on Google aerial but can’t find a trace of it now. There were dozens of big rigs outside and I thought I might get lucky and catch a ride with one of the truckers.

I brought Muckluk inside the foyer where the newspaper racks were and tied her to one of them. Nobody seemed to mind and every new and outgoing customer stopped to pet her. I went to the counter where one man sat alone, drinking coffee. He was a wiry fellow, in his 50s maybe. His face was lined with wrinkles, but the good kind. He had a friendly face. He looked at me and smiled and I told him I was trying to hitch a ride to Louisville.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I’m a trucker and I am going north through Louisville, but my company doesn’t allow us to pick you guys up….sorry. I wish I could help.”

I nodded and pointed to Muckluk. He laughed and said, “Your thumbing with a dog? Where’d you come from?”

“Los Angeles,” I said. He almost fell off his stool. So I told him the whole story of the last three or four days. He shook his head and said, “Well…at least you’re close now.”

We chatted for another twenty minutes or so. Finally he stood up to pay his bill, he left a big tip, and patted me on the back. “I hope you get lucky soon.” I thanked him and watched him walk up to the cashier. He paid his bill and was halfway through the door. He looked at Muckluk and me, and then at the dog. He turned around.

“Aw Hell…C’mon. Grab your pack and your dog. I’ll give you a ride. But if any of the weigh stations are open, you’re gonna have to get down on the floor and lay low. They’ll report me for sure if they see you.”

I could have kissed him, but that might have caused him to change his mind. We walked to his truck. He climbed in the driver’s side and then I handed him my pack, and then Muckluk. She was only a pup but a big pup. I lifted her up by her shoulders and the trucker, his name was Lenny, took her the rest of the way. I told him more about my trip and he was especially impressed by my encounter in Needles. Every weigh station, all the way to Louisville, was closed, so I never had to hit the floor.

We drove right into the heart of Louisville and Lenny dropped us off at Brandeis Avenue. It was a short walk to the University of Louisville and I was hoping my old fraternity house would be unlocked. We walked the last half mile and sure enough, I turned the door knob and walked right in. I spotted a few Phi Tau Brothers who were still up and drinking beers in the Chapter room. I knew most of them. One of them took one look at me and said, “Jesus Crimony, Stiles…you look like shit. But that sure is a handsome dog….you want a beer?”

We all sat down on the couches and I told them the whole damn story. One guy said, “Sometimes Stiles, you do really stupid stuff. But years and years from now, it’ll make a good story.”

Another Brother chimed in, “Yeah,” he said, shaking his head, “if he lives that long.”

*****

Jim Stiles is the founding publisher and still editor of The Zephyr. Still “clinging hopelessly to the past since 1989. He can be reached via Messenger or email: cczephyr@gmail.com

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