Standing at the bottom of an entrance ramp to highway 39, a two-lane blacktop in North Carolina, I guessed that it was nearing 6:00 in the morning. I had been there since the first glow of dawn appeared on the horizon. A few trucks had gone by, and a number of cars. The drivers peered at me intently, but none slowed or stopped. I just wasn’t getting rides in this spot. It was a typical morning, looking to get some momentum going. NC 39 is a predominantly two-lane rural highway that travels South from the Virginia state line, meandering through small towns ending in Selma, NC, where it connects then with Interstate 70. Standing around at the bottom of the ramp, I had already read all of the graffiti on the railing, adding my name, state of origin and destination. Between passing cars, I sat on the guardrail and outlined each of my shoes with pebbles, leaving my mark. I took sips of water from my canteen, not wanting to waste it so early in the day. Waiting and waiting. Just a typical morning of hitchin’.
Finally, a thirty-something guy stopped and I hopped in. He was affable and conversational. A happy-go-lucky guy! An easy ride. “I’m John and I’m just going up the road a piece, but at least I’ll get you a bit further down the road!” he said, “How long you been waitin’?” “Since daybreak” I replied. “I usually don’t have to wait this long, especially in the morning.” “Well,” John said, “That’s a rough spot to hitch. I’m headed to work, and it might be even worse where I drop you off!” “Really? Why’s that?” I asked. “I’m a guard at the Franklin Correctional Center up yonder!” Oh boy, I thought, it’s gonna be one of those days.
About 30 minutes later we rounded a bend that entered into a large valley. In the distance I could see some bright lights nested into the base of the slope of the valley. “That’s the penitentiary,” John announced. Then we passed a huge highway sign on the side of the road that read “Don’t Pick up Hitchhikers”. John drove past the road to the main entrance and the service road he used to get to work, dropping me about five miles past the pen in the hopes of improving my chances of getting the next ride. I waved my thanks as John spun his car around on the gravel shoulder and honked his horn to wish me “good luck”. As the sound of John’s car receded, I was left in the quiet of the morning. The few cars I saw I assumed were late arrivals coming to clock in for their morning shift, or the overnighters heading home. Now, I was clearly in the vastness of rural North Carolina. After a while the wind through the grass was the loudest sound I heard. I resigned myself to walking for a few more miles, assuming that drivers would heed the warning sign and no one would pick up a scruffy kid like me so close to a penitentiary.
Like life, hitchhiking is most often mundane, sprinkled with a few moments of wonder, terror, and joy. And while it is typically the unusual or pinnacle event that we remember and recount in our lives, it is in the quiet blandness where we find peace. In between rides, the points of continuity on the hitchhiker’s journey are finding food, a toilet, and somewhere to sleep. Most of the time is spent walking, sitting and standing. Alone on the side of the road, there are times when you are yearning for a ride; times when you fixate on the desire of reaching your destination; times you dream of being off the road; times when you long for the familiar laugh of someone who knows you.
On that early morning, as I realized that I was destined to walk for a good portion of the day, I relaxed into the present moment. It was a cool but not cold morning. Unusual for Northern Virginia I speculated. The quiet; the gentle wind; the sound of birds waking up; the wind whistling through the barbed wire fence along the road; the sound of my boots grinding in the gravel, on the asphalt, brushing through the grass. I walked without rushing, there was no hurry. There was no one within 1,000 miles of me that I knew, or who knew me. The best thing for me to do was to channel the American spiritual guru Ram Das, who’s 1971 best selling book I had read cover to cover. It was entitled Be Here Now.
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I walked. My pace, unhurried. I saw the glaze of ice on the crown of the road. The droplets ran toward the gravel as the air warmed. I lifted my gaze and scanned the horizon. This beautiful valley surrounding me, shrouded in grey light before the Sun rose over its ridge. The dew dripped off the knee-high weeds on the shoulder of the road. The rustle of moles, and voles, and mice, waking, or nesting. The night birds, making one last circle in the sky before resting. The road was silent; no cars. I lay down in the middle of the road, perpendicular to the center lane markers. My head to the East, my feet to the West. My outstretched arms extend North and South. I was alone. It was quiet. I was at peace. No obligations. No responsibilities. Nowhere to go. Nothing expected of me. No sounds in my head pulling at me, pushing me to “Do!”, “Know!”, “See!”, “Hear!”, “Buy!” Such a rare and unusual feeling. Such quietude. Such freedom. All choices were mine. The choice as to what to see, hear, do, think, be. This feeling was both disorienting and welcomed. I felt calm yet the excitement of the newness of this experience. Who am I without being prompted to do, to be, to see, to hear, or buy? What do I want to do in this life? Where do I want to be? Who do I want to be with? Sitting up, I noticed the first rays of sun had broken the valley ridge to the East, casting its light on the opposite ridge. The sound of an approaching car in the distance prompted me to move my pack and myself out of sight, lying in the ditch until it passed. Returning to the shoulder of the road I sat and quietly watched. Was present. The sun slowly crossed the valley toward me. Linear time had fallen away. I wasn’t waiting, I was being. After a while, I was bathed in the warmth of the morning sunlight. I stood, clear headed and calm, and began walking.
As I walked, I realized the type of freedom I had never felt before. I had no expectations and no one had expectations of me. I thought about the few women I knew that hitchhiked, or hopped trains, realizing their bravery and courage. So few people are afforded the luxury of freeing themselves from the yoke of our culture of capitalism and fear.
As I walked, I wondered if I really needed to go South. Wouldn’t heading West be okay too? Or North and back home? Had I found what I was looking for on this trip? Had I found an internal quiet that would stay with me for days, weeks, months, years? What was I doing on this quest? Why was I living my life subservient to the incessant need to push, and strive, and excel? I walked. I thought. I let go. Deep in thought, I heard the occasional car pass by. I reflected on my friendships, past and present. I reflected on my erratic upbringing, whose impacts lingered. I wondered what my life would be if I lived it responding to the inner peace of being in the moment. Moment after moment. Not desiring what I don’t have; not desiring what I am conditioned to want; not wanting what I am prompted to believe I need. I walked. I felt the wind. I heard the dew drops fall off the leaves of the cottonwood tree, warmed by the Sun. The asphalt underfoot. The gravel underfoot. The grass underfoot. I walked as the Sun crossed the sky.
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Almost every day the stifling heat was thick with humidity. When it got warm, I would take the blue handkerchief out of the back pocket of my jeans, douse it with water from my canteen, and tie it around my neck. This cooled me for a while. My beat-up fedora helped as well. In the 1980s, not many cars had air conditioning, at least not many that picked up hitchhikers. With the Sun well established overhead, I followed the road around a bend and into a small town. I washed up at the gas station and continued on to find the diner.
All heads turned as I walked in, grimy, gritty, and toting a backpack. I listened to the resonance of the bell on the door, startling as it was the loudest thing I had heard in hours. As I fended off the stares, I remembered that I had cut my hair for this trip, shorter than I normally would wear it in the 1980s, above the ear and tapered at the neck. I hope that this would allow me some anonymity. Unfortunately, the pocket t-shirts in muted Earth tones, the shorts, work boots, and short hair didn’t provide the invisibility that I had hoped for. Emerging from the serene introspection of my morning walk, and escaping from the rising heat of the day, I interpreted the looks as a combination of disdain or dread, sprinkled with a flash of potential for exploitation. Same shit, different day.
I sat in a booth with a window view of the dusty gravel parking lot. I wolfed down a chicken salad sandwich followed by four glasses of water. I surveyed the room to assess whether or not to leave my pack in the booth as I went to the bathroom, or to take it with me. Not seeing any other transients or likely trouble-makers, I left my pack and brought my canteen to fill with fresh water. A couple of chin-up nods, mostly glares, and some toothpicks lustily rolled between stained teeth, accompanied me on my trip to and fro. Paid up with a healthy tip on the table, I headed back into the heat. The bell above the door rang again just after I left the diner. I thought it must have caught in the wind and turned to close it. Instead, I see a man with a 5 o'clock shadow in a pressed shirt and rayon pants had followed me out. “Which way you headed?” he asked. “South” I replied warily. “I’m going that way, want a ride?” Given that the entire diner was likely watching this exchange, I figured there’d be witnesses if I disappeared. “Sure,” I said. I threw my pack in the back of the red pick-up truck and climbed into the cab. “My name is Glen. Where you headed?” He sounded friendly enough. “New Orleans to see a friend.” I offered. “Where you coming from” Glen asked. “Minnesota. I’d never been to the South and thought this would be a good way to meet people and see the land.” Glen suppressed a wry smile before adding, “Sure is pretty country out here. I’ve never been North” Glen said. “I’m sure no fan of the cold!” The small town fell away into the past as our casual chit chat continued into the rolling hills of North Carolina. After a while, Glen offered “Only thing that would draw me to the city would be the variety of people I’d get to meet.” Glen paused and took a long look at me before continuing, “Out here, we’re all more or less the same…” I took the bait and replied, “Yes, we do have a variety of people in the city. And for the most part, we accept each other.” I knew he was starting to hit on me. “It must get lonely out here.” I offered, “While I am fairly conventional in my way of life, I support and accept all types of people.” Of course I didn’t divulge that I was a modern dancer and choreographer that had lots of friends that were Gay and had lost many, many colleagues to the ravages of the AIDS epidemic. This exchange was followed by a long silence as the center lane markers rolled by and the puffy clouds started to fill with afternoon humidity. We drove for about an hour before Glen announced, “Well, this is my exit…” as he pulled over at the top of the ramp. “I hope you find a friend” I offered as a cordial goodbye to Glen. Our eyes locked for a time longer than expected, finishing our conversation with things left unspoken, but clearly communicated. I walked across the intersection and back down the ramp and Glen crossed the overpass and back in the direction we had just come from. We both took to the open road while we searched for a way to better know and accept ourselves by meeting others.
This is another post in a series recalling my adventures hitchhiking the roads of America from 1967–1987. These uncensored and lightly edited stories reflect on my journeys exploring the country and learning about people while trying to discover myself, all while riding in cars with strangers. Join me on this uncharted adventure.
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I’m glad that lying down in the middle of the road marking all four directions ended up philosophical and not scrambling for safety.