God is my pilot, August 1966: Florence, SC

Perhaps the most fear-provoking aspect of relying on the benevolence of others for a ride, is when your pilot is heavily under the influence of alcohol. The first time this occurred, I was returning to New York from a summer semester at a Community College in Florida. There was no Interstate going up the east coast, so I was following the course of Highway 301. This was primarily a two lane road that began in Sarasota and would deposit me at the Delaware Bay Bridge leading to the New Jersey Turnpike. At around 3 AM, I was on the corner in Florence where 301 took a right and proceeded to the North Carolina border. Traffic was sparse and I felt grateful when a vehicle appeared, then stopped for me. Not too far into the ride, my gratitude turned to fear. My driver was an angry drunk.
As soon ,as we headed into the dark stretch of highway leading through the swampland before the border, he waved an almost empty bottle of whisky at me as a way of offering a drink. I declined. This launched a tirade about my lack of manners refusing a drink with him. Somehow, I managed to defuse this argument and we proceeded on. He next turned his anger at Chevrolet Automobiles for their building him a bad transmission, an example of which was on his back seat. He was returning from a stock car race, during which this example blew. He proceeded into the gloom as if he was still at the race. We soon were traveling well over 100 MPH. Luckily, except for a sharp left at Pee Dee, the road consisted of straightaways. Our ride was constantly punctuated by his stream of abuse directed at all the reasons he did not win his latest race. I was hoping we would succeed in this one.
A couple of times I would notice in the distance a set of tail lights most likely traveling at a much slower speed. Intuitively, I knew not to interrupt his focus on anger to point out this hazard. Here, I would ask whatever Influence he was under to maintain control and acknowledge none of it was under my control. It was terrifying to note I was only along for the ride as a witness. At close to the last instant, he would notice the other car, jam his brakes, curse at the other driver, veer into the passing lane, and proceed back to racing speed. I was unsure how I would exit from this ride. Eventually the lights of South of the Border appeared. This was a huge tourist establishment on the North-South Carolina border. Their road signs which seemed to stretch from Georgia to Virginia were characterized by a sombrero topped figure that repeated, “Pedro sez.” We slowed down, entered their parking lot, and my host announced, “Pedro sez, I got to take a leak.” I gathered my pack, thanked him for the ride, and wished him luck in his future races. We shook hands and parted. Whew.

Taking the back roads, May 1975: Fargo, GA

Even travel by hitching rides is speedy using the Interstate Highway system. Earlier this year, by staying on the road, I was able to get from Cleveland, OH to Gainesville, FL in little more than nineteen hours. Returning north in late spring, I wanted to test the old highway system. It was my purpose to travel slowly and savor the pace of folks who were not in a great hurry to traverse vast distances. Heading north from Gainesville on Highway 441, it took a day to reach High Springs a distance of about seventeen miles. Some folks brought me to the springs that make up the source of the Itchetucknee River, one of the headwaters of the Old Suwannee. I toted enough groceries to last for a day camping and another day of travel when I made it north of Lake City. The following day I managed to cross the Georgia border. By that evening my food was exhausted and I was stuck out on a stretch of highway far away from any apparent provisions saving those growing in the fields surrounding me. But immature peanuts and cotton did not seem edible regardless.
There also was not much traffic. Not having much choice, I continued walking, with no idea of how far it would be until a town or a country store would show up. I considered doubling back, but that would be quite a distance also and scant traffic was headed that way either. Suddenly a car came up at a very high rate of speed. I whirled around and flashed my thumb. A car load of teens whizzed past. They did not stop, but shouted loudly and unintelligibly, as they rocketed by. Their vehicle did not have a license plate and by its looks was probably not road safe. Also, something flew away from the car and landed in the road several hundred feet further up the road. I plodded on, pondering whether it was probably fortunate, I had not received a ride. When I got to the item that flew from their car, it turned out to be an intact package of fried pork rinds. After retrieving it, I thought, “ What a strange supper.” But then I noticed behind me was an abandoned farmhouse with an open wraparound covered porch. Its front yard was overgrown with ripe plump blackberries. Now it seemed an adequate feasting and resting place were in front of me. Later I reclined on that porch both sated and grateful.

At the edge, January 1975: Chattanooga, TN

I arrived in late afternoon. The weather seemed mild, especially considering two days previously I had been as far north as Niagara Falls. Having time, I decided to travel west into the city and return later to find a place to sleep. Quickly a car with a couple of youngsters stopped for me. They were only going into town to score some pot and would be returning to this same spot later. When I disclosed my plan to go into town and see the sights and then return later, they offered to let me ride with them and they would drop me back where they picked me up. It seemed like good fortune was smiling upon me in addition to an offer to share a taste of marijuana, to which I was not adverse. We had to pass through a tunnel to arrive in Chattanooga.
The tunnel offered a slight upward tilt to those traveling toward town. The view at the end of the tunnel was only of the sky. It almost seemed we were traveling down the length of a huge gun barrel heading to be shot into space. As we approached the end of the tunnel the view of the now darkening sky increased with no sign of ground. Only at the instant of emergence from the tunnel did the roadway slant downward exposing a magnificent view of a lit up metropolis. We proceeded through the city to Rossville GA, so that my hosts could conduct their transaction. They were excellent tour guides as they pointed out sites of interest, provided stories of local lore, and stopped for a quick meal at a fast food eatery. By the time they returned me to the highway, I felt ready for a good night’s rest.
Exchanging wishes for a Good Night, my benefactors deposited me on the eastern slope of the mountain we passed through earlier. Not too far up was the crest and being dark it looked like a good place to spread out my ground cloth. It was quite dark, but luckily the path was over grass and there were no obstacles to stumble upon. At the peak a commanding view of the city presented it self and I decided to stop there and set up for the night. Before going to sleep I marveled at the wonderful view and mild weather. It seemed a Blessing. Only in the morning was I able to see how blessed it was. As I arose, in the light I could see that only a few steps further, would have taken me over a brink that led at least a hundred feet down to railroad tracks. The previous night in the dark, I had no idea I was that close to an abrupt edge. I began this day with thanks to whatever impulse governed my stopping when I did.

Mardi Gras 1975: New Orleans, LA

Mardi Gras 1975: New Orleans, LA
It was the beginning of Mardi Gras in New Orleans. While it was only Friday morning of the week before Fat Tuesday, parades were scheduled to begin that evening. Preparations were underway. Truckloads of barricades were delivered and set up along the parades routes. It appeared the workers were mostly short term prisoners who were pressed into unchanged gangs. As it turned out, many of the homeless element were taken off the street, provided meals, quarters, and used in service to the festivities. Apparently most of their offenses were misdemeanors that were given sentences to be served concurrent with festival. Many of the folks I met when I first got into town, I later saw on a daily basis cleaning up the debris from previous night’s celebrations.
On one of the streets at the edge of the French Quarter, in what looked like an abandoned warehouse, several folks were steadying a stepladder. One guy was on the ladder fiddling with a light fixture. Pops and sparks emitted, accompanied by shouts of, “What’s that? Be careful.” I approached and offered to help. Having knowledge of electricity I quickly installed a few fixtures and they now had lights in their spaciousness. They were setting up a flophouse for the expected hoards who may not have resources to stay in regular hostelries. This location planned to charge a buck a night for a mattress and provide a rice and bean breakfast. For my lending a hand, I was awarded space and food for the duration. Having secured victuals and lodging, I was free to partake in the revelry.
Another sizeable contingent was squatting on unflooded areas beneath the wharfs along the banks of the Mississippi River. Their only fee was having to avoid the Navy Shore Patrol. One evening, I accompanied a couple of this band to where they received meals. They brought me to a Christian Rescue Mission on the other side of the Quarter. A group of well dressed, clean cut young people were stationed near the doorway interviewing the folks waiting entrance to a meal. One pleasant young man asked, “Do you accept Jesus as your Personal Savior?” Without an answer to this question I would not be admitted to the meal. Several couples nearby were engaged in some sort of ritual that supposedly instilled Jesus into the recipient’s heart and granted admission to the dining room. My response was, “If you are Christian, the only requirement to provide me with food , is that I am hungry. Putting any condition beyond that seems contrary to Jesus’ Message.” My host and I held lengthy discourse on the subject of Jesus' Teaching. Since I was not desperately hungry, I did not relent from my stance. After consultation with an elder, my host gave in and escorted me to the dining room. As luck would have it, dinner was finished and I could only get a cup of tea, but offered to help clean up. They declined my offer and I left to go watch that evening’s Krewe parade by throwing out coins and beads.

Wet to the bones, September 1975: Nelson BC

Wet to the bones, September 1975: Nelson, BC
By the beginning of September the rainy season seemed well entrenched. Parts of British Columbia east of the Okanogan Valley while not suffering drenching rains were cloud covered most of the time and if not actually raining there was constant moisture in the air. Having spent most of the past six weeks staying in a tent, myself and belongings were thoroughly damp. I was feeling the need to move south to a dry climate. The picking season was dwindling. This meant that any remaining work would likely not be lucrative and because of the weather carried out in adverse conditions. The small wages I made during good harvesting times was spent. So, I headed off with empty pockets, knowing I would be observing a fast of sorts until I got to warm dry weather. If I had any wishes, they would be for a can of chewing tobacco to keep gnawing hunger at bay and dry socks to provide physical comfort.
My first ride was provided by an elderly man, who expressed gratitude when I agreed to give him a hand. His story was that after a lifetime working on his own farm in Saskatchewan, he tired of driving up and down the same section planting identical crops each year. Selling his farm, he used the proceeds to move to BC and purchase an old mine. With it came large piles of tailings. These he contracted with the provincial government to crush and provide them with gravel. He had purchased a large mobile conveyer. He was going to retrieve it and needed help raising it up and hooking it to his pickup. This is the hand I would provide. On the way, he explained that he needed two workers to man the machinery at the mine over the coming winter. He would provide food and lodging for them over the winter and it was likely they would be trapped up in the mountains until the following spring. The bonus is that upon the advent of spring a sizeable pay would be due. It was an intriguing offer that I mulled over while about our task.
We were successful loading up his equipment and returned to the highway that led to the US border. I decided to follow my inclination to head south. He offered me twenty dollars for my help. I thanked him and after we parted I went into a dry goods store and purchased a tin of tobacco and pair of socks. I set off to seek warm dry weather. Often that winter I thought about the missed opportunity, because I had not taken his contact information to follow up on his offer, should my mind change.

Finding a vision, March 1975: Grassy Key, FL

Upon leaving Ontario in January during one of the coldest winters in recent history I pictured a scene quite far away. I envisioned walking beneath a palm tree, fully unclothed, headed into calm blue waters. By the beginning of March, I managed to get as far as the East Coast of Florida and shed most of my winter clothing. On the way south, many travelers heading north, lacking warm clothing, received my hat, gloves, scarves, sweaters, and a fine down filled windbreaker. In Palm Beach, a telephone lineman, not sporting good working footwear accepted my relatively new steel toed boots. I had picked up a pair of sandals and lugging heavy safety wear suited for winter or work was cumbersome. I was next given a ride by an unemployed factory worker from Indiana.
Steve, like many of the ranks of workers laid off during the recession of the mid 1970‘s, had come south to escape sustained unemployment during a harsh winter. The thinking was that if one was not working, it was a better choice to be unemployed and homeless on a beach. He was one of many, still having a vehicle, who roamed the south looking for a place to park and let the period of economic downturn work itself out. Like me, he had no idea of the whereabouts of our destination, but preferred company. We proceeded to head south on US A1A. Shortly we were crossing Miami where the highway is named Biscayne Blvd. We passed a young couple standing on the side with their thumbs extended. Without a thought, I blurted, “ That’s my brother.; Let’s stop for them.” Steve pulled over and as we waited for the couple to get to us asked, “Is he really your brother?” Sheepishly, I grinned and answered, “We don’t have the same mother.” Nevertheless, we waited until the couple got aboard. We proceeded south.
The young man informed us they were heading to a beach in the Keys where it was permissible to park, camp and even stay in your car without a hassle. He said many folks were living there in a semblance of old tent cities. We decided we would all head there. Our guide showed us to a perfect spot that because it was unmarked we would never have found on our own. As we pulled off the road and followed a narrow bumpy dirt lane down to a length of sand that was littered with abandoned vehicles, trash, and many makeshift tents, I began to recognize the setting of my forethought. We parked under a palm that looked like the one I had seen when departing several weeks earlier. Getting out of the car, I took off my shirt, dropped my pants, and walked naked into the water.

Last vestige of Winter, May 1974: Matane, PQ

It is at least a three day journey driving leisurely from Nova Scotia back to Toronto. Our week on the coast of Nova Scotia was mild, bright, and although the water was too chilly for swimming, the shore provided fantastic settings for beachcombing and hikes. Accompanying me was my daughter Natalie, and Liz a friend. We spent our nights in a tent. On our return, the first night was spent on a beach facing the Northumberland Strait between New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island. It was uncomfortably breezy during the night and we huddled for warmth but still slept fitfully. In morning light we observed a light snow cover over the whole landscape. We packed up and figured that as long as we did not camp on a beach we would make it home without more restless nights. We pressed on toward the Gaspe Peninsula.
On our map we noticed a large provincial park offered a road through it down to the shore of the Saint Laurence River. We decided that would be a good place to camp and being in a forest we could likely build a fire if needed. At the entrance to the park was a caretaker’s cabin. He spoke French and halting English, we did just the opposite. We gathered that the park was not yet open for the season, but he offered us a room in his cabin. We spent a warm pleasant evening enjoying his hospitality. He got pleasure from my daughter’s company, as at three years of age her willingness to speak French far surpassed ours. He spent hours playing with her and giving her elementary language lessons. We all slept well and awoke rested hoping to press on with our plan to drive through the park. After helping our host clean up the breakfast utensils, I brought out our map and pointed out our hoped for destination. Our host kept repeating lengthy phrases, the only word of which I could understand was “ferme.” I persisted questioning, even though I knew the park was closed could we just drive through it, si vous plais? He relented and opened the gate and sent us off.
The small dirt road ascended toward large peaks covered with evergreen forests. As we pressed on little snow covering appeared. With the increase in altitude the depth of snow augmented, It was evident that the road we traveled had been plowed throughout the winter. The banks on either side became higher than our vehicle. Suddenly, I noticed far ahead a figure walking in the chute that was our roadway. Drawing nearer it turned out to be a magnificent bull elk. When we got too close he would break into a trot. I would stop and as soon as he broke into a slower gait, I would drive forward. As I approached close again, the same pattern would repeat. With each successive try, we would manage to get closer before he needed to get space. Finally, instead of running, the splendid beast stopped and turned his head. I immediately halted and we spent a few moments communing. Eventually he resumed his saunter, until crossing a bridge he leapt over the side and landed on a creek bed several meters below. We paused and looked at one another. Liz offered, “ It was great to get to see you so close. Please take care next fall when hunters come into your woods.”
Just a bit up the road was a lodge. The plowing stopped there and I understood our host’s words that the road was “ferme.” As we proceeded to turn around and recrossed the bridge where we had bade goodbye to our elk host, we noticed the small stream trickling over a boulder. This was the headwaters of the Matane River. As we retraced our path down the mountain, we were aware that our road paralleled the growing river. We were treated to an astonishing vista as we followed the course of the river to where it emptied into the Saint Laurence. At its mouth, the river was a couple hundred meters across. By virtue of luck and bad communication we were blessed to be able to travel along this river from its source to its ending.

Easter Monday 1965: New York City, NY

In the spring of 1965 two young men left Florida after their first year at University of South Florida and hitched rides to New York City to seek adventure. I was propelled by the prospect of a romantic relationship. Patty Ann whom I had met the previous summer still appeared enticing and I wanted to see her. Both I and my traveling companion, Gaines, were likely lured by the lower drinking age in NY. Florida required us to behave illegally in order to obtain alcohol refreshment. By Easter Sunday, we were able to thumb rides all the way to Baltimore when our ride catching ability seemed to dry up. We caught city buses into downtown, boarded a Greyhound bound for NYC and arrived at Port Authority Bus Terminal around midnight. Not knowing where to go at this early hour on Easter Monday morning, we asked the agent for directions to the YMCA.

We were pointed to the subway and dragging our suitcases descended down a series of corridors to the platform. Two young men obviously fresh from the country and towing luggage with them were as likely a bizarre site to the regular subway inhabitants in these early morning hours as they were to us. Approaching us on the other side of the corridor were three black men of our age who all sported sunglasses. As if wearing sunglasses beyond midnight in a darkened tunnel was not enough, one of them reached up, lowered his glasses and gave us a broad grin and a wink. Immediately I thought, “What have I gotten into now?” With no further hitch we boarded a train for a short ride across midtown Manhattan. At the Y were able to secure small separate rooms for the night. Getting to my room, I received the next surprise of my looming venture. Upon opening my Samsonite luggage, I discovered there had been a mix-up and my bag had been switched with one containing only an elderly woman’s lingerie. Again the thought repeated. “What have I gotten myself into now?”

A new Journey Begins: Ithaca, NY

Yesterday, I went on a fishing expedition of sorts. I was not using the normal fishing gear nor was I hoping to catch aquatic creatures. I was casting about testing this area for the likelihood of good openings that would nurture my goal of setting forth my stories on paper or, at least, the virtual version of paper. I believe I have landed in an area that not only holds great spots for landing fish but is rich in prospects to support my aspirations. One shop owner described this area as, “There are not high paying jobs around here, but there is also little unemployment. Everyone works.” He additionally expressed incredulity that I would choose to leave an area noted for its ability to provide its workers with large monetary rewards. Yes, I admit that my years on Martha’s Vineyard were rewarding financially but provided me with little time to pursue my deeper yearnings. Chris, the storekeeper, also gleaned from my story, a catalogue of my skills and, unbidden, offered several suggestions of places I could perhaps find work that may well support my setting up a base at this time.

Another impressive indication that this locale contains elements that align with my stated goals are many announcements calling for writing talents. Some are ads looking specifically for writers, others are seeking individuals to teach or tutor writing, and, all the while, more opportunities present that require writing as one of the needed skills. It almost seems I have cast my line into very fertile fishing grounds and could rather quickly overfill my small boat and then have to face the dilemma of safely getting back to shore without losing my catch. So today, I will start by seeking out and attending an Easter Sunrise Service and then practice an old fisherman’s trick, spending considerable time just observing the waters before deciding where to cast.

Home at last? : Ithaca, NY

Before I began this excursion, I moved all my belongings that would not accompany me into storage just outside Ithaca. It took several trips last fall and winter to move my belongings from the Philadelphia area to there. At that time my PT-RV was being pressed into service as a PT-Moving Van. I have no explanation or reason why I choose to move all my possessions to an area where I never lived and until last summer had never even visited. When questioned, my response is “It’s a hunch or intuition.” When explaining my journey, I would often add, “For some reason all of my stuff is in storage near Ithaca.” Part of me knew I would some day return and do business with it. Yesterday morning I pulled into Ithaca for the first time since my current venturing commenced..
It was before 7:00 AM when I pulled into a parking space on one of the downtown streets. I got out of my car to see if I was blocking a driveway to the house I was standing in front of. The house was evidently abandoned and neglected. As I was peering around a neighbor standing on his porch asked, “Do you want to buy it?” I offered, “That’s an interesting question.” We proceeded to have a lengthy discussion about the benefits of living in Ithaca. He was quite welcoming, also my age and a contemporary professionally. He changed career focus and now by and large engages academically as adjunct faculty. This conservation sparked me quite a bit with ideas of how I may similarly fit into this community. Besides having an inclination to engage in restoration projects, I regard myself as a counselor, teacher and semi retired odd job specialist.
I spent most of yesterday, pondering whether I should curtail my sojourning and test the rooting possibilities of this area. This generates quite a bit of fodder for the mental grist mill. Today’s project will be to decide how to go about making the decision of which direction to proceed on my quest to find home. Could this be it, a temporary diversion, or just a pipedream? Stay tuned.