OK, a few more.
One little pickin’ up a hitcher tale. During the summer between my junior and senior years in high school, a friend and I convinced our folks to sanction a two week fishing trip to New Mexico. We had grander plans; we wanted to go hang with the hippies in San Francisco. Outside of Las Vegas, New Mexico (where we were headed to visit friend’s GF) we picked up Jim (I still remember his last name). He was 19, and from Minneapolis. We made it up to Washington and played our way down the coast and finally made it back to Texas in time to finish high school. Jim stayed with us for 2½ months, eventually coming all the way to Houston. He was our resident adult on the good ship Ruptured Duck (my friend’s name for our vehicle, his 1963 Chevy Impala SuperSport). I haven’t heard from him since, but if you’re out there, pal, I hope life has treated you well.
Geez. Memories floodin’ the circuits. It would take a short book to chronicle that trip.
The following year I began my adult, high school graduate life with a thumb trip around the western U.S. While hippified, and I intended to maintain no permanent address until I was a rock star in L.A., I did make arrangements to be in contact with my draft board (I was still 1-S at the time); otherwise, it was footloose and fancy free.
No way could I hump drums, so I made do with bongos and some drum sticks (which came in very handy when my backpack’s tube frame broke). With bass player in tow, we headed out.
One of our first travails was the portion of the trip from Fredricksburg, Texas to Mason City, which we walked (~42 miles). When we ran out of water about halfway, I became worried. A concerned (and rare) West Texas hippie found us about one mile from Mason City and gave us water and a ride into town. We didn’t leave that town until we had a ride.
Soon thereafter, we bedded down for the night in desert scrub near a rail intersection outside of Abilene. I was awakened in the morning by a railway man who said they’d be pullin’ out soon, did we want to go? Sure enough, there was a freight idlin’ at the cross switch.
The chronology is not necessarily straightforward here. I’ll throw in the experience I had in Boulder, Colorado.
We found a park with a circuit road that, in my 30+ years later mind’s eye, was about like a high school track (¼ mile) with picnic tables at intervals. At the far side from the entrance we found a table that was but a few yards from a stream. After some time on the road, we welcomed the opportunity for a bath. So, strip down, stash everything in the backpacks, and it’s into the stream we go (slowly, as per Dolores’ experience above).
While, finally, enjoying the chance to get clean - SUDDENLY - there’s a spotlight! Cops! We creep up on the bank and watch as a Boulder cop scoops up our backpacks, drops them in his cruiser and motors on out.
Boy! Talk about bein’ down to the barest. Buck naked in Boulder! With nothing! Well, I did have my eyeglasses. We knew nobody in town. <gulp>
Turns out the cop was just being helpful. I guess he figured somebody had forgot their packs (not bloody likely in our situation - a little bit like forgetting your address). Anyway, he stopped at the entrance to the park and put them on display. We streaked and retrieved.
There’s more, but not tonight.
[sup]This whole thing would be rather spooky if you had been.[/sup][/ul]