More citizens hitchhiked cross-country in the period 1965 through 1972 than in all the other 200 years of our national history combined. The ’60s brought a veritable hitchhiking revolution, but Kerouac’s On the Road was published in 1957 and folks had been building a transient subculture out of the superhighways, on-ramps, and University

Avenues for generations. Old-time hitchhikers had gone prosperous and were out picking up the kids in new Cadillacs. Human cooperation, the pure share and share alike. Besides, it was cheap, FREE, and the mobility was fantastic.

There was history as well. Woody Guthrie hitching with his guitar, and later, young Robert Zimmerman on the road to see his hero. With Cassady and Kerouac direct lines existed to the Beat Generation. Wobblies and Hobos who had earlier traversed this country on top of, inside of, and underneath railway boxcars were being reincarnated as hitchhikers. Hallelujah, I’m a Bum. Combine romance with economy and watch America react.

The late ’60s were my introduction to cross-country hitchhiking. I hitched extensively up into 1972. Route 70 cross-country, San Francisco to CHI, CHI to Denver, Denver to the East Coast, and roundtrip San Diego to St. Louis a couple of times. I gained a genuinely good feeling about the people of my country, a pride in the social revolution of the period, and a sense of personal fortitude acquired in 13-hour stints south of places like Pueblo, Colorado, no traffic, and surrounded by millions of potentially hostile (?) prairie dogs.

I used to have so much fun that I swore I would hitchhike crosscountry once a year for the rest of my life. But natural laziness and a middle-class tendency toward comfort have kept me kicked back in San Diego for the last couple of years. Temporarily flush, I had bought a car and become addicted to the security a regular means of transportation provides. When the energy crisis came down I began hitching again, locally, to save money. I had forgotten how much fun hitching could be. This summer I decided to take a trip up to Canada to see if long-range hitchhiking was still as fascinating and functional as I remembered.

I left San Diego at 1:00 p.m. on the 21st day of July for Vancouver, British Columbia. A minimum of planning, a small amount of reefer, no maps, a sleeping bag and backpack, mosquito repellent, and I was on the road. Attitude is all-important in hitchhiking and I had been rapping about how much fun I was going to have for so long that the night before takeoff, my good friend Mike signed on for the expedition. Solo hitching is easier, there’s more opportunity to wheel and deal. Two people seldom get a ride in a Volkswagen bug, and Volkswagen bugs give a disproportionate amount of the rides to hitchhikers (perhaps in keeping with their owners’ obvious intelligence and appreciation of the energy shortage). In all my years of hitching I’ve only gotten one ride in a Cadillac.He got me lost in the Bay Area.

Anyway, now there were two. Mike’s brother offered us a ride to Port Hueneme, the other side of L.A. We zoomed onto I-5 heading north, riding in the back of a pickup. All right. We would avoid the first obstacle for any hitcher heading north from Diego, the L.A. passthrough. Camp Pendleton was foggy, as usual. The Vietnamese refugees must think the sun never shines in Southern California. San Clemente, from the back of a pickup, is an upper-middle-class kind of place,an ex- Presidential town — the U.S. Versailles. Farewell, Southland.

Mike’s brother dropped us in Port Hueneme and we waited 15 minutes for our first official pickup. It was short, from a biker with a van full of motorcycles; he dropped us at the 101 on-ramp in Ventura. The ramp was crowded; summer hitchhiking season was in full swing. A few ramps like this one convinced me that more people are hitching right now than ever before. I’m happy to report the state of hitchhiking in these United States is good. Movement is perhaps a little slower than before, the on-ramps are definitely more crowded than I’ve ever seen them, and the pool of freak-driven automobiles has been lessened by the recent economic hardships. All of which means nothing to the hitcher who has been stranded in Bumball, Idaho,for 20 hours. His next ride could well be a beautiful blonde driving straight through to the East Coast.

There is an etiquette observed by the hitchhiker when faced with a small, crowded on-ramp.The people there first are usually the ones who will get out first. Others wait their turn.The exceptions to this general rule occur when a car stops right in front of a specific hitcher or when the hitcher first up on the comer refuses a ride, perhaps because it’s too short.Another obvious exception occurs when a female, solo or escorted, walks aboard the on-ramp. She will get the next ride out. This isn’t due to any chivalry on the part of her fellows. It’s strictly the way the driver wants it. Every male hitchhiker has spent hours on an on-ramp only to see some lady walk up and get a ride out in ten minutes. For some, sexism has its positive aspects.

Eight or nine people were clustered on the small on-ramp in Ventura, even more on the other side of the street,heading south to L.A., and on the back of the freeway entrance sign someone had written,“Patience is the name of this game.” Again acknowledgement of the fact that attitude is all-important. First up on the corner, sitting, symbolically, next to the freeway entrance sign, was a young Navy kid, L.A. to the Bay Area.It was apparent to veteran hitchers that the kid didn’t know how to do it. He sat there, lethargic and shorthaired, in no particular frenzy to return to the military but obviously frustrated by his slow progress hitching. There is a Zen aspect to hitchhiking. Vibrations are all-important. When a ride is desperately needed the only way to find one is by not caring. Enjoy the on-ramp view, laugh, sing or dance, jive with fellow hitchhikers. Be free, and the people will fall all over themselves to pick you up. This Navy dude was looking so sour and frustrated that I might not have given him a ride. And I always pick up hitchhikers. Finally, some freak headed for Big Sur walked over to the kid, shucked, jived, and was able to flag down a Bug to get him off our corner. Fifteen minutes later two Seabees in a van picked up the four people on the ramp, myself and Mike included. Everyone reached for their stash, the driver turned up the tape deck, and the next stop was Santa Barbara.

Anyone who’s ever hitchhiked California has a story to tell about Santa Barbara. People who don’t hitchhike tend to think S.B. is good for hitching because they always see a lot of thumb jockeys in the area.Actually it’s the other way around. The freeway runs either side of S.B.,on-ramps north and south are lightly traveled, and hitchhikers tend to cluster along the fast-moving highway going through the town. Going north is the more difficult, over a hundred miles of Okie country to travel before San Luis Obispo. There were about 30 people stationed up and down five blocks heading north out of Barbara when we got there. Competitive hitchhiking at its worst. Everybody trying to get the psyche in, find the right corner or gimmick. A steady stream of traffic passes, all moving just fast enough that they can’t stop safely. After a few hours by the road hitchers contemplate daredevil tactics. Maybe stand in the center of the road like the anti-hero in Polanski’s Knife in the Water. But that was Poland; Orange Countyites in their new Electras would love to run your hippie butt over. In America one has the freedom to be run over by a huge, tasteless hunk of chrome and iron. Santa Barbara brings thoughts like this to the hitchhiker.

My spirits were temporarily raised when a local alcoholic walked up and said, “Don’t worry, boys, you’ll get out of here. I’ve been a wino in Santa Barbara for the last 25 years and I’ve never seen the same face twice.” The old dude had sensed we were down. I felt better until he came back 20 minutes later with a bottle of white port and went through his 25-year sameface routine again.Suddenly I realized the dude never saw the same face twice because he couldn’t recognize the same face twice. Mike asked him if he had hitched into Santa Barbara originally. Seven hours after arrival in Santa Barbara, it was night and most of our competition had retired behind roadside shrubs. We still flogged the highway. Around 11:30 we scored two bank couriers making their nightly run to San Luis Obispo. They dropped us on 101, just north of San Luis. We camped for the night a short distance from the road. In the morning I woke up under a plum tree; we had slept in someone’s abandoned orchard.

Next day we waited 35 minutes for our first ride, then Mike started flashing a reefer at passing cars. It worked. Jim from Sacramento was an ex-con working as a halfway house counselor. He advised (he was into advising) us to go to Sacramento with him and then take I-5 on up.Superhighway and all, it sounded logical. Until we came to the heat. We went inland at Paso Robles through a crunch-dry desert. Jim said he’d almost gone bananas coming down through the desolate country with no companions. The heat was vicious.A forced acclimatization was our only choice. We stopped by Jim’s house in Sacramento,briefly,then he took us downtown to what he said was a pretty good on-ramp.“Take rides to Woodlands, Redding,or into Oregon, only, all the other freeway ramps are bad.”Be cool, Jim.

An hour and a half later, the heat (105 degrees F.) had driven us under the freeway-ramp bushes when two kids in a pickup stopped. They lived in Sacramento but were willing to take us anywhere within reason if we would buy them some beer. We opted for Woodlands, about 25 miles away,on Jim’s recommendation. After buying the beer we were dropped at a very hot and nowhere on-ramp. Forty-five minutes and two cars later we noticed a magic-marker note on the freeway entrance sign: “Dear Hitchhiking Brothers and Sisters. This on-ramp is fucked, walk down past two red lights (the town had three), and turn left and you will find an on-ramp that is better, shady, and with more traffic.” Joyously, we started to the other on-ramp. Old Jim hadn’t been full of shit after all.We’d been dropped at the wrong end of town. The heat was so intense my new pair of Jap flaps disintegrated on the nearly two-mile hike.At the other onramp we joined four other hitchhikers reading the magic marker note on the freeway entrance sign:“Dear Hitchhiking Brothers and Sisters,” etcetera.

This was disquieting. The heat was intolerable, traffic was nil,the four other hitchhikers were obviously ahead of us and beginning to quarrel among themselves. Mike and I walked, found the shade of a black walnut tree, and smoked a joint. The heat began to recede, sunset was coming with practical as well as aesthetic significance. A sign on the tree read Woodlands Hitchhikers Camp, and toilet paper was scattered around. We invited the other hitchhikers over and smoked another joint.My heat-stroke headache began to dissipate and I scribbled some notes about black walnut trees and the utter freedom of the road. I was beginning to think I had discovered the true Zen of hitchhiking. Then the mosquitoes came. The next morning, after a night that will live in infamy, Mike and I walked the two miles back to the other on-ramp. No one else was there; we were first up.

Mike saw the hippie van first and we watched as a longhair and his lady walked into one of the local restaurants. When they came out Mike was ready. As they drove into the on-ramp he frantically waved a joint back and forth. They stopped. Fifteen hours in Woodlands is enough for anyone. The heat never lets up in the Sacramento Valley. By the time we reached Redding, maybe 100 miles away, it was again well over 100 degrees. Mike and I repaired to the local Denny’s and watched three or four hitch- hikers get rides. Two girls got out within ten minutes, a trucker. Truck drivers will cross three lanes of radical traffic to pick up an ugly woman. I have never seen one give a ride to a male.

We sat in Denny’s about an hour waiting for the on-ramp to empty, but more hitchhikers kept piling up. Redding turned into a convention: two of the guys from Woodlands eventually showed up — the other two had broken down and caught a bus. At first, invigorated by Denny’s air conditioning and food, we had pranked and laughed, but soon enough, Redding began to feel like Woodlands. By 9:00 p.m., six hours after our arrival, there were 15 hitchhikers spread out along the ramp. Mike had begun suffering from a toothache and I was getting so pissed that even dope didn’t help. Then salvation arrived in the form of a rainbow-family hippie driving a battered ’59 pickup with Arkansas plates. His truck was named Red Star. We called him Stardriver. He walked onto a dejection filled on-ramp and immediately hippies were grabbing their packs, eyes lighting up.“Hey, I need gas, and I’m going to Seattle, plus I’ve got Rocks, beautiful rocks to trade.”

“Rocks. Rocks,” one excited individual gleefully repeated, thinking he meant cocaine.

“Yeah, beautiful rocks.”

Mike, this other guy, and I quickly joined up with Stardriver. We walked to a nearby gas station where Red Star was waiting, pushed her to start, filled up with engine running, and moved into the heated night. Stardriver felt bad because he couldn’t ride more than three persons in his truck. The driveshaft had a tendency to rub noisily on the frame when carrying a relatively small load or even when hitting dips.

Stardriver talked to his truck the way I talked to my cat. Pure animism. Mike crashed in the back most of the way, still toothached. The rocks turned out to be exactly that. They were kind of pretty. We made good time going over Mt. Shasta at night. The brakes were bad. Then Oregon, sweet Oregon, all-time together state. The freeways and roads are actually empty of trash. They look naked. Oregon allows hitchhiking on the freeways. No on-ramp-waiting bullshit. The driveshaft was rubbing seriously by now. It was physically and spiritually painful to pass all the freeway hitchers. Four freaks in a big pickup; we drew some ugly stares. By 5:00 p.m. the day after Redding, Stardriver was dropping us at one of the two on-ramps in the university district of Seattle, the best hitching in town. Washington State is no freeway hitching again.

Thirty minutes after drop-off and we had a ride to Vancouver. Hitching across the border is tricky. The Canadian authorities will turn you back if they think you’re indigent. The best deal is to stash packs, etc. in the trunk and work out a simple cover story with the driver. Shopping in Vancouver, blah-blah, worked for us. Coming back across you can expect to have the American authorities run a warrant check. Sweet hitch- hiker to Vancouver, 1975. Arrival time: 7:30 p.m., 25 July.

RETURN TRIP

I looked up a friend in Seattle. Mike went on ahead, and after a few days I followed, this time taking I-5 to Portland, then over to the coast routes 1 and 101, slower, but no mosquitoes. On the return trip I logged 16 rides and the average elapsed waiting time per ride was 30 minutes. The longest ride traversed 350 miles, the shortest 1/4 of a mile. I liked every person I met. My random scribblings include the following: on back of No Hitchhiking sign, Mt. Vernon. Wash.: “I think I ate too many mushrooms. No Dope. No Ride. No Hope. I Died.” Underneath: “Me, too,” and the basic “No more freedom, too many Pigs.” U-district on-ramp, Seattle, I-5 heading south. Wasted, 35-minute wait, new Monte Carlo, rich 40ish swinger driving: “I don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t like any sports or games. My thing is balling women.” Neat stories about orgies with nuns in St. Louis, etc.

The swinger dropped me in Tacoma on a corner with two crazed Jesus freaks dressed in long sackcloth robes. Culture shock.“Praise God,” plus a sermon, I tell the two. “Jesus is OK. Buddha is OK.” but before I can say Confucius is OK they turn ugly and mumble, “Buddha is not OK.” I moved across the street to another on-ramp. A 20-minute wait and two G.I.s on their way to cop a pound picked me up. Both were being court-martialed because their hair was too long. Next ride was from a meatcutter who lived in Centralia. A Centralia local who’d driven past my ramp on his way to the movies came by again hours later and gave me a ride 115 miles south to Portland. His grandfather was a Wobbly. I crashed that night along the road and woke up to a local homeowner’s friendly wave.

It took me nine more rides to get home. Highlights were a sunset in the redwoods, and University Avenue in Berkeley, the capital of West Coast hitchhiking. On the corner with me were jugglers, tumblers, and beautiful teenyboppers passing joints from hitchhiker to hitchhiker. I rode with ironworkers, fishermen, divers, welders, female grooms (horses), and the son of an Argentine millionaire. My fellow hitchhikers were French, British, and itinerant farm labor. I slept in the redwoods, and in an artichoke field near Salinas. I took a bath in the Eel River. I came home. The nicest thing about leaving home is coming back again.

Hitchhiking is as wonderful as ever. Trains, planes, and buses are crowded with sourpusses. Hitchhikers meet the nicer people. My fellow countrypeople have reassured me about America.

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