Paradise continues, March, 1975: Crawl Key, FL

For the next several days, we continued to live in Peace and Harmony. There were comings and goings. We did not have many road worthy legal vehicles. That meant most transporting was accomplished by hiking. However, we managed. Fish, date and coconut palms seemed to provide for us adequately supplemented by assorted bounty that showed up. I took to beginning each day sawing open a coconut, serving the meat and milk, then carving the shell into a covered container. Mangrove branches provided more material for carving. From these issued walking sticks, pipes, and assorted beads. Some folks worked with string and twine which were in abundance from abandoned fishing gear. Macramé arts flourished. We produced assorted trinkets which we traded and gifted to one another. A Viet Nam Vet who had an artificial leg was presented with a walking stick I carved. It had a hollow center and doubled as a pipe. He asked to have carved on it “New Jerusalem.‘ I obliged. It was easy to believe we were the beginning of a new model for cooperative living.
We enjoyed good relations with the police. Every day around noon a Sheriff’s Department cruiser would pull up to our main fire pit. The genial officers aboard would engage in pleasant conversation and take in what they could see about our living situation. At first we were not engaging in any activity that would cause concern. However, due to the open nature of our community, several unsavory types climbed aboard. We did not want to be unwelcoming, but accepted all comers. Stories of unpleasant encounters in town started to filter back. It seemed to be setting the framework for our undoing. No one among us felt called to police anyone’s behavior, so we continued our community experiment in hopes that good behavior would outshine the bad. Some even brought forth the idea that what we were partaking in what was only a small part of a Grander Design. Our main focus still centered on becoming a sharing, caring, loving group of people.
One evening a large gathering assembled and musical instruments were brought out. We enjoyed a lengthy celebration of song and dance. At its pinnacle, everyone joined in a rousing rendition of “Amazing Grace.” Before we finished several police vehicles pulled up and a raid commenced. Most of us scurried away. Two were apprehended, Paul, who called himself John the Evangelist, was nabbed right off and Mickey who had a crippled leg and could not join the rest of us in running away. Apparently, Paul had a record and outstanding warrants. His behavior in town stood out and he was traced to our community. Mickey was released the next day and brought back the story of Paul’s arrest and his criminal background. There was also talk of a bigger raid to unearth any more folks we might be harboring. This raised fears that many did not want to confront. Terry left with Jennifer and Candy for Zephyrhills.
Karen showed me an alternative location down the road, across the street on Crawl Key. We walked over and found back in the forest several abandoned shelters. These were obviously the remnants of an older community. Huts were made of bamboo, thatch, and salvaged lumber. They were quite charming and offered shelter from sun and rain and had raised sleeping platforms. We met a couple living in one shelter who had been there quite a while. They informed us we were what we saw was left over from an artist’s colony that failed but left intact their structures. They said it was OK I took over one of the lodgings. Karen had already been ensconced in another. I set about house making and gathering belongings and what was left from the good spirit that had been scattered during that police raid. From across the road, I could witness the demise of Paradise.

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Easter is Approaching, March, 1975: Grassy Key, FL

Hardly anyone in our community knew what time it was, nor had a good handle on the day or month. We had reckoned it was several days after Mardi Gras and that meant we were counting down the days from forty towards Easter. Since Fat Tuesday landed somewhere near the middle of February, and that was certainly over two weeks ago, it meant we were at some point in March. Observing the moon was just beginning to wax, a pagan amongst us noted that by the time the moon became full, it would also be past the Vernal Equinox. Putting all this together, meant that Easter would arrive the first Sunday after we observed the moon going full. Since we had little to distract us, our community observed and noted the increase of the moon conjunct with the swelling of the tides and the approach of Spring. There were some amongst us who were talking about heading back North. I wondered about the possibility of exporting this Paradise community as folks headed out. It was then that a most powerful vision arrived.
The evening that the tide seemed to be at its peak and the moon its fullest I was sleeping a few feet from Jennifer’s small tent several feet above the high water mark. In a dream state I was awakened in the exact lsame ocation. I arose and sauntered down to our central campfire area. There I met one of our community, Karen. We greeted each other and decided to take up the chore of venturing to town with some plastic milk jugs to collect fresh water. This was a needed task since we had no nearby sources. We gathered up our collection of empties and headed out to the road. When we got there we were puzzled by a complete lack of traffic or other signs of human activity. After what seemed like an hour, we noticed a van approaching. It stopped and after we climbed aboard, the driver looking puzzled stated, “You are the first people I‘ve seen this morning in over an hour. What is going on?” “I don’t know. You’re the first person we have seen this morning. We’re headed to Marathon. Maybe there we’ll find out,” I shot back. We headed off toward town.
As we pulled into town, the streets were likewise deserted. We noticed a couple of others walking around looking puzzled. We all convened at the gas station were we were able to obtain water. No one among us had a clue about what was going on. After filling our jugs, Karen and I headed back to our beach. Shortly a new model car pulled over and offered us a ride. Still wondering, we climbed in and told the driver our destination. He appeared to be a middle aged, balding, round faced, business man. Without a prompt he offered an explanation of the strange events. His words, “The world has undergone a judgment. It has been divided into two, one side headed for destruction and the other towards Paradise. Those on the other side are not even aware anyone is missing.” He did not introduce himself, but I took him to be Jesus. He let us of at our road. Shortly thereafter, I awoke at my spot on the beach, with a fresh vivid memory of this compelling vision.
I stumbled down to the central campfire and was greeted by Karen, the same person who had appeared in my dream vision. She greeted me with, “You wouldn’t believe the dream I just had. You were in it.” We compared dreams and it seemed we had shared the same visionary experience. The next couple of guys who stumbled into our morning also related similar encounters in their night’s vision. Soon others were awake and business of finding our daily bread got under way. I put my story away and went into town with Karen to get some water

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A different kind of Community, March, 1975: Grassy Key, FL

Shortly after exiting the surf, from my foreseen nude swim, I wrapped a towel around me and went over to a large circle that held the central campfire for this beach commune. It almost had the feeling a downtown area of a small city. It was the area that newcomers would head to first upon arriving. It was here too that information would be dispersed and small business conducted. As a way of introduction, I took out a can of tobacco and rolling papers and set them on one of the huge logs that ringed the fireplace. I figured that sharing was the desired behavior for a community that seemed to lack resources. It worked and I was welcomed as some folks immediately set upon my offer. This behavior turned out to be commonplace, in that sharing was conducted almost on a religious level. Before the end of my first day here, another carload of folks showed up. Out stepped Terry, who I had met in Jackson Square in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. He dragged along Jennifer, Candy, and Roberta, Or, more to the point they dragged him along, since it was they who had a vehicle. We all spent that first evening near the central fire and slept scattered around on the ground except a couple of the woman reclined in their vehicle.
Just like in a city, after folks had landed downtown, they would eventually migrate to the suburbs. Here it meant setting up a site a distance up or down the shore or back in the mangrove bushes. I moved with Terry and the bunch he arrived with about a hundred yards away from downtown and we set up two tents. Along the shoreline other suburban outposts were established, most had beach frontage. Some were in tents, others in home made shelters of plastic tarps, and yet others in vehicles. There seemed to be a steady commerce of our slight resources mostly conducted in the downtown area. Work consisted of gathering food, water, tobacco, occasional other treats. Folks were resourceful in gleaning nature’s bounty. It seemed extreme, but some people would hitch to Homestead and sell blood for cash to purchase items not readily available in nature‘s store. We were able to carry out this endeavor without having ownership of the land. As yet, the trespassing laws were not enforceable without an owner’s complaint. The land we were staying on was of indeterminate ownership. The story was this beach was part of an estate that fell into no hands when heirs did not step forward. Apparently, it had been in this limbo for several years. As a bunch who did not desire to own land, we took advantage and found home. Rumor had it that an abandoned mansion in Marathon served the same purpose and offered an in town shelter for city folk.
It was a colorful bunch assembled together practicing the principles of sharing, caring and loving one another. It seemed I had finally found a group of people that were living up to some wide held religious values that had been preached but I never witnessed being lived. Together, we held this must resemble Paradise. In the meantime our numbers increased with folks who had left the struggle to survive in a winter when many brothers and sisters living elsewhere were suffering in a potent economic downturn. There was Gypsy, a young woman from California who nightly would travel into town and use her wiles to obtain a few drinks, a pack of tobacco, a sometimes small amount of cash. She often returned late at night and rouse everyone by shouting for her dog she always left behind. We put up with obtrusiveness because of her sharing community minded spirit. There was Phil, who seemed quite aloof, and preferred staying in an abandoned vehicle that even if it had an engine would not be drivable. Phil shared his living space with a collection of returnable bottles. He spent his time fishing and seemed to return daily with a nice catch, and a few more bottles gleaned from the beach. Every Sunday, Hector would show up with a host of Cuban immigrants. He would throw a large party in celebration of the beach he landed upon entering this country after crossing the Florida Straights in a small boat. He expressed genuine interest sharing with those less fortunate and understood the life style of those who preferred the path of the Beach Bum. Were it possible, I envisioned staying on this beach until living in Paradise engulfed the whole world. It remained to be determined how long that would take or how long my vigil would last.
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First Impressions, February, 1975: West Palm Beach, FL

After spending a whole evening escaping the clutches of the long arm of the law, I decided to take it easy. A day at the beach was called for. Luckily, my first ride was headed to Juno Beach. Here it is common to see many folks scanning the sand with metal detectors. Lore has it that a Spanish Treasure Fleet sank off shore in the 16th century. Several seekers swore they found gold here. It seemed a popular spot for booty seeking. I sat all morning doodling on a sketch pad. I even got to explore the surf. By mid afternoon, I was ready to resume my crawl southward. It was around dinner time passing through Palm Beach when I saw at the curb, Mike, who was arrested last night for Cannabis possession. He waved and shouted, “I got let out last night after you guys left, They didn’t even give back my stash.” He seemed in good spirits.
Further down the road, I went into a diner for a meal. As I was leaving, an elderly gentleman accosted me and berated me for my appearance and apparent lack of job. I engaged him in a polite conversation and he relented his attitude when he found I was erudite. He offered to buy me a meal. I told him I just ate. He was additionally surprised to find I could pay my own way. I joined him for dinner and afterward he offered to take me across the street to a bar. Apparently he was a well known patron and instructed the bartender to put my fare on his tab. During the evening, a couple offered to let me stay in their camper van parked across the street at a motel. They were staying in a room and not needing their camper. By the end of the evening, I decided I would feel more comfortable sleeping on the ground outdoors. It was late when I bade farewell to my new found friends and went out in search of a dark quiet location.
This part of South Florida is sparing on its dark locations. After a lengthy walk, I happened upon a golf course. By walking out onto the fairways, I could finally find a spot amongst the bushes that offered quiet and no light. I spread out my roll and enjoyed a long nap sleeping off the effects of partying. It was daylight when I was awakened by a tugging on my bedroll. As I came to, I noticed a small child prodding me into alertness. As I turned over, I noticed a young woman with a stroller, whispering to the child to come away from me. It was obvious she was frightened by my appearance and choice of sleeping arrangements. I unobtrusively shooed the child back to his charge, gathered my belongings and scurried away. I found a breakfast diner and went in to partake of their special. Before sitting down, I went into the restroom. There I observed the site that frightened the young woman. I admit I had a wild disheveled look about me. Not wanting to raise undue attention, nor disturb bystanders, I vowed to better attend to my presentation.
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But a new party is beginning, February, 1975: Jupiter, FL

After a brief stop in Gainesville to visit family, I hurried over to the east coast, headed to the Keys. In Fort Pierce, I met Jeff who had hitched all the way from California. He was headed to Miami, so we joined together. We both enjoyed traveling on the slow road, in this case highway A1A, which meandered through all the towns on the east coast of Florida. It was quite dark when we were let out in Jupiter at a lonely intersection. Besides a traffic light there was only piles of construction materials and the beginnings of a bank building. We headed over to a stack of plywood and sat down to ponder our next move. Jeff pulled out a small envelope of marijuana and asked, “Wanna smoke one?” “Well, certainly,” was my answer. Just as he finished twisting up a joint, another car stopped at the light and let out its passenger. Mike walked over to us, reached into his shirt pocket and whipped out a joint of his own and questioned, “ You guys wanna get stoned?” Again, I replied, “Well, certainly.“ Jeff showed the join the had just rolled, both were lit up and passed around our small circle.
Just as we finished, a police cruiser pulled up and the officer motioned us to come over and be checked out. Jeff and Mike walked over, I waited to gather myself together before facing an Officer of the Law. Before I got up, Jeff came back and stated, “Get your pack, we’re going to the station.” “What for?” I asked. Jeff replied, “Mike got busted for the stash he was carrying in his shirt pocket. We are taken in to be searched.” I gathered my pack and joined the other two in the back of the cop car. I wondered what to do with the small packet of good gold grass I had in my front pants pocket. When we got to the station, our escort put Jeff and I into a waiting room and went to another part of the station to book Mike. He instructed,, “Hold tight, when I get done, I will come back and search you guys.” We were left alone for what seemed a half hour. I came to a solution about the small amount I was holding. I slid open a filing cabinet and placed my stash inside.
Shortly, the Man returned and quickly pat searched our pockets but not our packs. Finding nothing, he informed us we would be taken back to the highway and warned us to be careful about who we traveled with on our journey. To the side, he warned me about my traveling buddy. Jeff was a highly decorated Viet Nam veteran who was awarded a citation for bravery in close quarter hand to hand combat. The policeman's concern was that as a Viet Nam era deserter, I might be at risk to incur Jeff’s wrath. I felt no such concern since Jeff and I had already shared our war stories. Another officer arrived to transport us back to the side of the road. As we got dumped off and settled on the curb, Jeff mentioned, “You can’t imagine the butterflies I feel in my stomach.” I just looked at him quizzically. “Take this pack over behind that sign and twist us up one; I need it,” he motioned to a sign away from the road. I took his pack, walked away and when I felt hidden, opened it up. It was crammed full of marijuana. I quickly rolled up a joint and returned to Jeff. He smiled, adding, “Can you believe, I walked into a police station carrying all that, got searched, then released and given a ride back here? I really need to smoke one now.” We got further blitzed as we sat on the curb watching the late night bar patrons making their way home.
After a few minutes, another police car pulled up. Again we were summoned to come over and be checked out. Feeling cocky and knowing that he would quickly find from our ID’s that we had already been searched in the station, I asked, “What would happen if instead of producing an ID, I told you that I was a secret agent and could not show you any identification?” Before he could answer, his radio crackled, “There is a 10-30 [ or some such number code] at the Holiday Inn.” Before answering my question he slammed his car into gear and zoomed away. Apparently whatever was happening at the Holiday Inn was of more import than two stoned hippies slumming on the side of the road. We quickly came to the conclusion that we may be pressing our luck and should likely get out of sight. Nearby was a bridge and we climbed beneath it and found dry level ground to retire for the night. In the morning when I arose, Jeff had already departed. I headed for the beach.

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The party's over, February, 1975, Lake City, FL

The Mardi Gras celebration begins the week before Fat Tuesday. By Sunday it was already getting out of hand. On a nightly basis when they mounted police swept the streets, it was not a place to be for those who couldn’t move on command. For those not ensconced in rooms it got pretty ugly. I was more or less one of the street crowd and not enjoying the scene. I had gotten a handful of coins and beads thrown from parade floats and decided I had seen enough and was ready to move on. Making my way to I-10, I met another who had also had enough and was heading in my direction--Florida. Mike was a traveling reporter for a newspaper on Long Island. His method of travel was hitchhiking. I don’t know how he filed his stories but he produced his work on a small portable typewriter he carried with him. Mike had no arms.
He was born in the 1950’s, after his mother had taken thalidomide. As a result he had hands attached to small appendages on top of his shoulders. Mike was quite adept at using his hands in this location. When I first met him, he asked in greeting, “Wanna get stoned?” When I said , “OK,” he deftly reached into his shirt pocket, produced rolling papers and a small matchbox with pot in it. He quickly twisted up a joint, pulled out a match and sparked it. All the while a brisk wind was blowing that would have given me trouble getting a match to stay lit. By cupping his hands with his back to the wind, Mike got the joint lit and so did we.
I did not witness him typing, but I am certain he was well adapted and seemed to have no limitations. Quickly he used his thumb to fetch us a ride.
A Volkswagen Beetle towing an identical one pulled over. We got into the first one with Wayne. He had just finished a thirty year career in the US Marines and was moving all his belongings to Florida. He had room for us in the lead car, the rear one was loaded with his possessions. Wayne was a professional soldier, having served in WWII, Korea, and Viet Nam. He was a senior enlisted man and during times of no conflict attended the War College, a military institution to study and learn the art of war. He was certain that all his experience taught him one thing only. Wayne reiterated several times, “All I learned is dead men stink in the sun.” We spent several hours traveling through Mississippi, Alabama, and the Florida Panhandle trading war stories and anti-war stories. It seemed an unlikely paring, one who had avoided going to war and another who immersed himself in war having a meeting of minds about war’s outcome. When we parted at Lake City, Florida we offered each other congratulations for the courses we had taken. Mike had not said much during our trip, but like a good reporter took it all in and made notes. Together the three of us made that day’s story.

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Desperate Scam. September, 1975: Huntsville, AL

Driving with Rick across the breadth of Southwest United States was intense. We were both determined to reach the Southeast rapidly. I was headed to Gainesville Florida, he to Gainesville Georgia. I wanted to get to my sister’s house in time for my birthday. I do not know what propelled Rick. He had a camper on the back of his Pickup that had a bunk, cooking facilities and a small table. Sometimes, we both shared the cab and could converse, otherwise one of us would drive and the other in back resting. We both seemed to be carrying the same types of food, namely, oatmeal, coffee, and sugar. The difference was I had powdered milk and avocadoes, he had real milk in a cooler. We agreed to use his milk in the oatmeal, my powdered milk in our coffee. He did not like avocadoes and we agreed to not touch the remaining Coors Beers I was bringing to David, my sister’s husband. I was light on money but Rick said he had enough for gas. As long as I could share the driving we would stay on the road.
In the midpoint of our second night we ran into some trouble half way through Arkansas. One of his front wheel bearings was making a loud squeal and showed signs of not being able to hold up much longer. I wondered the significance of a second wheel bearing going bad on this leg of my journey. Fortunately, we happened upon an all night truck stop having a garage which could affect a repair. Unfortunately this dipped into Rick’s cash reserves to the extent that we might not have enough money for gas. After getting under way, I pondered a solution. One that sprang forward was a tinge illegal but seemed workable. I suggested that in the morning we go into a small county seat so I could apply for food stamps. We could show the cooking facilities in Rick’s truck as home. If this worked, I would barter the stamps for gas, not quite what they were intended for, but a possible way out.
Before morning we pulled into the town square in Huntsville, Alabama. Rick slept in back, I dozed in the cab. Warmth and bustle of mid morning woke me and I found the Food Stamp office across the square. Leaving Rick to his slumber, I went over and began the process of applying for food aid. The woman handling my case was friendly and quite willing to accept my story of living in a camper. Apparently that was not unheard of in these parts and she did not even ask to inspect my facilities. However, she did ask where I was camping. There happened to be a large scale map of the county posted on the wall in her office. Upon hearing her question I leapt up and peering at the map, hastily pointed to the location of my fictitious campsite. She looked where I was pointing and quickly stated,” Oh, that’s Lester’s property. He shoots folks who trespass out there.” Immediately, I rescinded my request for stamps and announced, “Wow, then I guess I better be leaving this county and heading back north.” She agreed that would be a good idea. I returned to give Rick the flat news of my failure to scam food stamps.
After a few moments Rick hatched a scam of his own. He had been holding a quantity of “Black Beauties,” a form of speed that was popular with truck drivers. He figured on heading over to the nearest truck stop and dealing enough of these to gain gas money. I felt bad he had to part with his stash and I was not able to help. However, we drove to a nearby trucker’s haven and it took him no time to find a willing customer. Before long we headed out to finish the last leg of our cross country dash.

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Letting off steam, September 1975: Ogden, UT

I got under way from Boise headed east. Local lore included the Snake River Canyon that defeated Evil Knievel’s attempt at clearing it in a jump with a rocket powered motorcycle the previous year. I was given a ride by a band of natives in a pickup truck who provided me with another tale they thought had much greater implications for disaster. As we headed east on I-84 toward the desert they pointed back to the mountains in the west. Here they told stories of working on a project drilling large wells into geothermal pockets of super heated steam. These held dual promise and an enormous threat. Under pressure steam will absorb heat well past the boiling point of water. Deep in the earth steam can reach several thousand degrees Fahrenheit. As it comes to the surface, it releases enormous pressure. This can be used to power electric turbines. Once the heat and pressure is dissipated steam becomes water to be used to irrigate millions of acres of desert.
The wells either under construction or being proposed were a dozen feet in diameter and thousands of feet deep. The enormity of this project was mind boggling. These natives were concerned because part of this project was being conducted on tribal lands. This bunch was concerned by the possible threat contained within. They questioned what effect are we having by removing so much pressure from deep in the earth. Of course scientists promoting this project were assuring that the water being released from the bowels of the earth would naturally be replaced. These guys were skeptical. They were headed east on I-86; I wanted to travel further south on I-84. So I was let out in the middle of the Great American Desert where the highways split. There was no exit, facilities, or reststop and except for the vehicles whizzing by, no sign of civilization as far as the eye could see in any direction. While standing there I had two things to ponder. One, I would not be walking away from here and most certainly would have to rely upon the kindness of a stranger for rescue. Secondly, as I gazed at the mountains toward the setting sun, I wondered what effect removing hydraulic pressure from deep beneath an unstable geological formation would have on plate tectonics just to the west in California. My first concern was relieved pretty quickly.
I was picked up and brought to Ogden Utah, almost a hundred miles south. I found a nice platform raised off the ground so that I could sleep above the desert floor. Nearby was a store where I could use the last of my funds to get a six pack of Coors beer. I drank one before going to sleep, still pondering the enormity and gravity of the tale I heard today.

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Searching for a concert, September 1975: Boise, ID

I awoke to a brilliant Sunday morning. The air was gloriously dry, a welcome change to the constant moisture I dwelled in for the past couple of weeks. First thing, before hitting the road, I decided to get rid of my plastic tube tent that I had marinated in during this spell. I felt like dry fall weather was ahead of me and I wanted to expose myself to fresh air for sleeping. Finding a suitable place to dispose of this piece of plastic, I got underway still early in the day. I was quickly offered a ride by several youngsters who may have been kin to the group who left me off the previous night. This crew was on a desperate search to find a music concert that was being broadcast by a radio station from Spokane WA. They had spent the whole previous day driving around eastern Washington listening to what seemed to be every current popular artist performing live but not finding the location of their concert. They seemed intent on attending this festival and it seemed like a good day to roam around this high plateau country listening to good concert music.
There seemed to be no clue broadcast about the location of this concert, but I got a hint when the announcer billed it as “The Concert of the Mind,” and later on as a “Fantasy Concert.” Despite my pointing this out, my hosts were intent upon keeping up their search and hopes of finding these performers in person. We kept driving until we arrived at a brink overlooking Moscow, Idaho. Everyone was taken by a sign that announced Moscow was one mile straight below but tens miles away by switchback road that descended the escarpment. After we made our way down, my ride intendedto cross over into Oregon and continue their search for a nonexistent in real-time concert. Since I was headed southeasterly, I departed their company. We wished each other a good one. They headed west and I followed the Snake River canyon toward Boise.
I was let off in the middle of Boise late in the evening. There seemed to be no quiet dark space to spread out my ground cloth and be dead to the world. Walking about, I approached a sizeable bridge. Having had experience staying in a “Bridge Hotel,” I was familiar with the space and shelter provided below, I scurried down the incline and climbed underneath into the darkness. I felt my foot land on something that moved away and heard a voice exclaim, “There is no room here. Go to the other side. Git out of here.” Not at all feeling welcomed, I climbed back up, crossed over and found a nice spot on the other bank. It was sometime in the middle of the night I was awakened by what I most dreaded sleeping out in the open.
A blinding light and voice roused me. The voice asked, “What are you doing here, time to get up.” Coming to my senses I was confronted by fears of who was facing me and the thought that a weapon may be pointed at me. When the voice asked, “ Let’s see some ID.” I was relieved that it was likely an officer of the law who was stirring me. I still wonder if the person may be a nervous sort who may have a finger on the trigger. As slowly as I could, I fumbled for my wallet and produced an ID. As I handled it over, the light was lowered, and I could see two cops watching me. After finding I was not a wanted person, one asked, “Why don’t you go to the Rescue Mission? It’s just down the street. They take care of guys like you. It may be dangerous sleeping under here.” I politely answered, “Thanks for your concern, but I do not need to be rescued and except for you guys, I have not been bothered down here.” With that I asked, “Is it all right now that you have checked me out that I stay here?” In unison the replied, “Suit yourself and take care.” I did not go back to sleep but found some wood to make a small fire to heat some water for oatmeal and coffee breakfast.

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One last crossing, September, 1975: Blanchard, ID

For the past two months, I had been sojourning in either British Columbia or Washington State, mostly in the eastern parts. I was now intent about heading southeasterly, mostly likely to Florida. Proceeding easterly from Salmo is a road with a romantic name--Crowsnest Highway. The driver of my ride pointed out a small country road that headed south towards the border. This crossing led to the most eastern part of Washington and then Idaho. I asked to be let out here and felt hopeful I would finally be escaping the Pacific northwest. If need be, I was determined to walk the five or six miles to the border crossing.
It was mid afternoon, and ahead of me was possibly the most obscure border crossing. There was no traffic to beg a ride from and walking provided an opportunity to take in the beautiful scenery. About halfway to the border a car pulled over unbidden, One of several youngsters aboard asked, “Are you twenty one?” Quickly, I responded, “Yes, wanna see some ID?” Just as fast, the driver offered, “You’re just the person we wanted. Would you like a case of beer?” Somewhat taken aback by the offer, I replied, “ I am only going to the border just a couple of miles away, and don‘t think I want to be carrying a case of beer.” The driver assured me, “We only want you to take possession until the border. We bought a case in BC where the legal age is nineteen. Washington is a twenty one state and we cannot possess it here. So we want you to tell them it is yours and we will give you a ride to Idaho. We‘ll even let you drink a couple.” Deciding to become complicit in cross border under age drinking, I agreed and hopped in. We got to the checkpoint right away. As we sat there, preparing to answer some questions with outright lies, we met another hitchhiker headed north who was running into complications.
Lloyd had spent the summer in California picking avocadoes. He was headed home with a knapsack full of them. Unfortunately, he was not allowed to transport vegetable material across the border without license or permit. He offered to give all of them to us. I accepted and in return, offered him a beer provided he could take it across the border. The Canadian border official let him carry one back into British Columbia since it had been purchased there. The American official did not seem to care one way or the other which way the beer was traveling. He did not even ask the kids or me our ages. Nor did he ask for ID. It was sufficient that we stated we were US citizens. We were quickly on our way and the kids just as rapidly attacked my case of beer. They were slightly upset, I gave away one of their beers. They were not interested in any of the avocadoes. We worked it out when I told them I had given Lloyd the beer they offered to give to me. That worked and eventually they relented and gave me a cold one.
It was just outside Delkena when we pulled over to empty bladders full from all the beer that had been consumed. Alan, the driver was peeing on the front hubcap when he shouted, “Holy Shit, this is steaming.” Sure enough steam and sizzle was erupting from the hubcap that had been quenched with beer pee. Without touching it, I could sense its warmth and suggested the wheel bearing may be bad and possibly letting go. It was just approaching nightfall when we found a gas station. The attendant did not handle the kind of repair we needed. He did , however, send us up into the hills to someone who could help us. We found a garage/junkyard where the owner agreed to lend us a hand. While I assisted him, the rest of the crew sat in his living room drinking my beers and watching television. There was no possibility of ordering a wheel bearing tonight so the proprietor graciously removed one from his vehicle and put it on ours. For his efforts he charged us twenty. The kids shared with him one of my few remaining brews and we were underway. Soon, I was let off in their hometown of Blanchard, Idaho. I found a nice field to sleep off the effects of not having to consume a whole case of beer.

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