“Final Days”
Come morning, the hippie boy and his parents were all still asleep as Steve and I got up and stole out of the house, walking to Highway 126 and sticking out our thumbs. As it is the primary destination along that road from the coast, we got a ride right into Eugene, where we found our way to an onramp for the I-5. The hitchhiking gods were definitely smiling on us. Within a half hour we got picked up by two guys a few years older than us in an old sedan who were going to San Jose and were more than willing to take us the whole way.
I didn’t even think of mileage back then. Google mapping that route now, I find that it was around 560 miles and eight and half hours of driving time. While we must have stopped at least once, I don’t remember doing so. I just remember driving straight through, Steve and I stuffed in the back seat with assorted luggage. (I suspect now that these guys were students heading down for the beginning of a semester.) Sleep deprived after six days of beds in box cars, floors and beach, we slept a good deal of the drive.
At my request, our benefactors dropped us off in Santa Clara. While it was something like one in the morning, I led Steve to the apartment of my newlywed friends, John and Sandy, and knocked on their door, rousing them from sleep. They weren’t exactly pleased at the late night, unannounced visit, but were fine with us crashing on their living room floor. By the time we woke in the morning, John had left for work. Sandy put out food for breakfast, wished us well and then was out the door herself.
As I had to be in Tulare that afternoon to meet friend Ron, the time had come for Steve and I to part ways. He was going to hitchhike down the 101 all the way While I would start out on that road, I’d be taking it only to the town of Gilroy, from there cutting east into the Central Valley along SR-152. So as to keep all opportunities for rides open, we thought it best to split up now. On a long southbound 101 offramp in San Jose, we said goodbye to each other, took up separate positions a hundred feet apart and stuck out our thumbs. Steve got a ride first, leaving me by myself. Waiting for a while, I thought my luck had finally run out. Then I got picked up by a middle-aged woman who was driving down to Gilroy.
While hitchhiking was an accepted part of the culture, there were still things that weren’t done. A single woman picking up a man was one of them. While grateful for the ride, I knew this woman really shouldn’t have stopped for me, and was tempted to tell her that. I soon gleaned, however, that she had stopped out of concern for me. Even with my long hair and dirty clothes, I guess I looked young and clean-cut enough to not seem threatening; and still enough of a child to generate maternal concern. She wanted to know everything about where I had been and where I was going, and whether I’d be safe.
When we got to Gilroy, the woman went out of her way to drive me onto SR-152 and leave me at a spot I thought might be good to catch a ride. My luck held and I got to Fresno. Tulare just another 50 miles to go, my journey was almost over. Waiting at a southbound onramp for state route 99, I didn’t even bother holding out my thumb when a semi big rig came rumbling along. I had learned that truck drivers won’t stop for hitchhikers because their insurance forbids it. I was thus stunned when this truck driver put on his brakes, pulled to a stop right next to me, swung open the passenger door and invited me to climb on up. I did so, amazed not just at my good luck, but how high truck cabs are off the ground!
Communicating with this truck driver was difficult. Not only was it hard to hear over the engine and assorted truck noises, he had a speech impediment and was difficult to understand. Yet we somehow managed to have a conversation. When I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying, I’d pretend I did with smiles, nods and an occasional laugh. I asked him about insurance not letting him pick up hitchers. He acknowledged that was true, but said he didn’t care.
As the trucker was taking me all the way to Tulare, I couldn’t imagine a better last ride. And the view from high up in the cab was astounding. Come the exit for the Tulare motel where I was to meet Ron, the driver pulled over to the side of the road so he could easily pull back out into traffic. Thanking him profusely, I climbed down to the pavement and started walking down the offramp. The truck driver tooted his loud horn in goodbye. I waved to him.
At this point I was on cloud nine. For almost 2000 miles, I had caught numerous car rides, ridden in freight trains and in the back of a dump truck. What an adventure! Now it was ending with a final ride that was straight out of a movie! And I’d soon be up in the Sierras among the biggest trees in the world. Euphoric, I downright strutted over to the motel, expecting to see Ron waiting in its parking lot next to his beige VW Bug.
Only he wasn’t there.
I wasn’t concerned at first. For an assortment of reasons, he could be running late. So I found a place in the shade and sat down to wait. A few minutes later the door to the motel office opened. A female clerk poked her head out and asked:
“Are you Chris?”
Stunned, I said yes.
“Ron called and asked me to keep an eye out for you. His car broke down and he isn’t coming.”
My heart sunk. This was the worst possible news.
“He gave me the phone number of the gas station where he’s at. You can use our phone to call him if you want.”
Reeling, I got up and followed her into the office. I made the call and got hold of Ron, who explained how his engine blew up as he crossed over the Tejon Pass in the Tehachapis. He got towed to a gas station in Grapevine, where he was waiting for his father to come with a trailer hitch with which they’d tow Ron’s Volkswagen back to their home in Granada Hills.
After my epic semi-truck arrival in Tulare, the last thing I wanted to do was start hitchhiking again, finding rides for another 160 miles. I asked Ron: If I could get to Grapevine, could they give me a ride back into LA. Of course, Ron said, but that was a big if. Hanging up, I thanked the clerk and headed back to the freeway.
I eventually got home. I got a ride to Bakersfield, from where I called Ron again and begged him to convince his father to drive up to get me. Ron’s dad wasn’t happy, but he did it. Ron and I did get to Sequoia, just a few days later — I was able to borrow my sister’s car for the camping trip. While my arrival back home in LA was technically the conclusion of my freight riding experience, I still consider that last ride on the semi into Tulare as the climax and end.
Hands down the most daring thing I’ve ever done, my freight riding is one of the defining events of my life. I often contemplate who I would have been or what I would have done with my life if I hadn’t had the experience. I’m also grateful that it never went bad, which it very easily could have. Our piggyback car could have stopped in one of those tunnels. I could have slipped while jumping onto that moving train, falling under the wheels. I could have ended up in the box car with the hobos and fought off a robbery like Greg. I could have been arrested.
Whether a higher power was looking out for me – or whether I just got lucky with the wheel of fate – I was gifted with a thoroughly positive experience. One wonders why things go well for some people and badly for others.
As my children grew up, my wife forbade me from telling them this story so as not to give them any ideas. It was easy to obey this edict because the last thing I wanted my offspring to do was to ride freight trains, which, in the years since I did it, has only gotten more dangerous. In the concern for my children, I felt guilt over keeping my parents in the dark. In contemplating what could have gone wrong, I imagined them getting a phone call– about my death or dismemberment – and being stunned and betrayed by my secret. Even after the trip I never told either of them. Why torment them after the fact?
Until I start losing my mind, I’ll never forget this great adventure, nor stop harboring the guilt and wondering about the “what ifs.” Memory, after all, is a complex thing…
