Hitchhiking Home from Alberta: Day One
Posted: Wednesday, January 11, 2012
by Jack H. Schick
On my last day in Canada, I had breakfast with Christine at the kitchen table in her parent’s house in Picture Butte, Alberta. Soon after, she headed off to school. I’d been visiting for a week. She and I knew much more about each other now. Two years before we’d spent no more than hour together when we chanced to meet at a campground near Yellowstone Park. As a sixteen year-old boy encountering a pretty, fifteen year-old girl is apt to; I’d become infatuated with her. I’d gotten her address and we became pen pals. I vowed that I would see her again. She’d always doubted it, but after a three day hitchhike from Pennsylvania, there I was. But now, it was time to leave.
Mrs. L. dropped me off at the Interstate exit on the south side of the city. I felt sad as I waved goodbye. It wasn’t long, though, before I was back in traveling mode and was focused on the long journey ahead of me. In about half an hour I got a ride with a Canadian student who was returning to Montana State at Bozeman. I was elated. It was a good, long ride of over 400 miles. I couldn’t have hoped for better luck on the first ‘hop’ of my return trip. The weather was bright and warm. The roads were clear and smooth.
The border crossing was uneventful. We didn’t get out of the car. We gave the man in the booth our ID’s. He asked me if I was bringing anything back into the country. I said, “I’ve left a few things in Canada, but I’m bringing nothing extra back.” He laughed, “That’s the way it usually goes,” and waved us through.
Many hours later I was in Bozeman. My plan was to cut through Yellowstone then cross Idaho, intercepting Interstate 80 at Salt Lake City. A guy headed for Rock Springs, Wyoming, took me in through the northwest entrance of the park. We traveled the lonely road through the thick woods on that seldom used route for over an hour before he dropped me off at the West Yellowstone junction.
I couldn’t help thinking about Christine again. It was there, in the country’s oldest National Park that I’d met her, almost two years before. I suffered a tinge of sadness and regret. I knew I’d continue to write her, for a while at least, but the chances of seeing her again were slim. I took the photograph of her out of my wallet and stared at it a while. She was older now, didn’t look exactly like that anymore. But now, she was much more than a dream. She was much more real than the girl who wrote and told the tales of high school days to a boy from far, far away that she hardly knew. Or, maybe she wasn’t; maybe even now she was destined to always be no more than a sketchy vision, a dream that I would remember for the rest of my life.
It was late afternoon. I waited patiently for a ride into Idaho, but no one picked me up. One young, effeminate guy stopped and said, “I’m not going anywhere, but I have a place to stay here. You’re welcome to spend the night.” I was suspicious of his motives and declined, saying, “I’d like to get to Idaho tonight. Thanks anyway.” Finally, as the sun was settling, red and yellow, behind the thick pine forest off west, an elderly couple stopped and offered me a ride. They were interested so, as we rode together of a few hours, I told them the story of my trip so far.
They took me out of the park’s west entrance and all the way to Idaho Falls. It was after ten o’clock, when they dropped me off near the barricaded end of unfinished Interstate 15. I thought about finding a place to camp, but I was in a populated area and it would be difficult to find an appropriate place. I had enough money to get a motel room, but still had a long, long way to go and wanted to save it. I decided to try to get one more ride before I called it a day.
Soon, a beat-up pick-up truck stopped for me. There were two huge, obese men and a pip-squeak of a little boy in the front. I threw my pack in the back and squeezed in, in the middle. It was cramped and uncomfortable. I felt safe because of the boy, but I was very uneasy, pressed tightly between the large, odd looking men. “You don’t want to get on the Interstate,” one of them said. “Nobody takes it at night. You want to be on the ‘old road.’” We headed off in that direction. I was a little concerned, but imagined they might know best.
They took me about ten miles through lonely farm country, on the ‘old road,’ and dropped me off at the end of a lane that led back to their farm. I was tired, but kept walking for a while, looking for a convenient place to roll out my sleeping bag. For some reason I developed a concern about rattlesnakes, assuming that all of Idaho was a lava field infested with them. I was afraid to just find a spot and lie down near the road. No cars passed me. A few miles off to the west I could see the Interstate. There was almost no traffic there either, but I guessed that any there was, was probably at least going somewhere. On the ‘old road,’ it was most likely only local traffic. I was beginning to rue my decision to take that last ride. It was eight miles to the next exit.
The moon was out, almost full, and the night was surreally bright. The air was still. The night was silent except for the pat of my feet along the asphalt. The silvery moonlight starkly contrasted with the varying depths of shadow and inspired in me an eerie, almost frightful feeling. I peered into the brushy road side cover as I passed, imagining movement that wasn’t there, seeing someone, or something, crouched and hiding, when I was absolutely alone. The funk sent chills through me. My nerves were sharp and edgy. I was sleepy and wanted to stop for the night, but was too uncomfortable and afraid.
As I continued walking south, I noticed, far up ahead the silhouettes of two people walking toward me. I craved human company, but thought it best to avoid them, alone on the ‘old road,’ late in the night. A single track railroad grade ran parallel with the road. I hopped down into the ditch, made my way the few yards through the sagebrush and up onto the grade. I crossed the track to the far side and lay down in the shadows, waiting for them to pass. I heard them talking, but couldn’t make out the words. I imagined them drunk and violent and was relieved when they were gone.
It was nearly midnight. I’d been on the road for over 14 hours. It looked like I’d not be getting another ride that night, no cars had passed in a long time, so I decided to sleep right there. Elevated, in the bright moonlight on the railroad grade I felt safer. I fooled myself into believing I’d hear it and wake if a snake slithered across the stone fill toward me. It was lumpy and uncomfortable, but I managed to quickly fall asleep.
A few hours later, I was awakened by a strange rumbling sound. I lifted my head and saw the light of a train coming. I scooted down the side of the grade a few yards and waited. It raced past at terrific speed, sending small stones, twigs and dust swirling past. The rattle and clack-clack of the railroad cars continued for a long time. When it was finally past, I resituated a little further from the tracks and soon was back asleep. It was the only train to pass that night.
This Article has been viewed 391 times. (Not updated in real-time.)
Top-level comments on this article: (2 total)I don't like snakes either....this story is great and I can't wait until the next part...thanks.Thanks, as always for reading and commenting
and so the journey home continuesThanks, Pal. See ya soon.
We want your comments! If you can read this, you don't have javascript enabled, so you can't use this comment system. Please enable javascript.