In all likelihood, becoming impatient for the arrival of my two hitchhiking companions, in Brandon Manitoba, so we could all continue our cross-Canada trip together, and deciding instead to strike out on my own, was not the wisest move. Lengthy road travel is inherently dangerous and – I wouldn’t hesitate to say – markedly more so for the solo hitchhiker. Hippies, hair, hostels and hitchhikers populated the landscape in the late 60’s and early 70’s, and it was not uncommon to find long lines of 20 – 30 youths stretching out down the highways and byways, outside cities and towns all over the US and Canada, looking for a lift. Competition for rides was often fierce, and the longer you were on the road, the more strategic & creative you became. For drivers it was a smorgasbord of choice, but hitchhikers did not share this luxury. On the road, the driver chooses you, and now, because I became tired of waiting around, I was hitchhiking solo.

My two high-school friends from Victoria – Mark & Shawn – and I, had already been on the road for 4 weeks, and learned early-on that hitchhiking in threes was not as easy as twos, and definitely not as easy as solo thumbing. For this reason, we all took turns travelling in groups of two – or alone. As three 17-year-olds, who were on their first major excursion away from parental guidance or the structure of school, there was much to learn, and the road had much to teach. As a consciousness-expanding experience, my 55 days on the road delivered in spades – from the sublime, to the profound, to the cautionary.

After three days of waiting for Shawn in Regina, Mark and I were becoming worried. The hostel was good, food was plentiful, and we passed our days hanging out in the park, panhandling, and listening to other hippie kids jamming. But it was unusual that Shawn had not shown up to join us after we left him in Calgary – for what should only be a one, or max two-day trip, especially as a solo traveller. “Maybe he got stoned and is lying in a wheat field looking at clouds,” said Mark. “Ha Ha! maybe,” I replied, “at least we know that with his bristly red hair and pudgy body he hasn’t met a girl!” Mark and I both laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, as both of us were still virgins, hoping – vainly – that this might be one of the lessons we’d learn on this road trip.

We decided to treat ourselves to an inexpensive Chinese buffet, but that turned out to be a mistake, as the food didn’t agree with Mark’s stomach, and by the time we returned to the Hostel he beelined for the toilet with a nasty bout of diarrhea. This hostel had a lounge with a TV, so I grabbed a few cookies and a coffee from the kitchen and went in to watch Kwai Chang Caine in Kung Fu – to continue the Chinese theme of the evening – only to discover Shawn, sitting on the couch, eating cookies and watching The Price is Right.

“Shawn! When did you get here man, Mark and I have been worried about you. Let’s change the channel, Kung Fu is on.” “Yeah, I just got in about an hour ago…no, no! Don’t change the channel, I like this show.” I frowned disapprovingly. “What kind of guy prefers The Price is Right, over Kung Fu?”, I thought to myself. “What happened to you? What took you so long to get here? We’ve been waiting for three days.” “I went to Edmonton to see a cousin,” he replied. “What?? We all agreed to hitch to Regina and meet here at the hostel,” I fumed.

Just then Mark walked in, looking a little pale and sweaty. “Shawn!” he said, “Jesus dude, good to see you, we thought you might be dead.” “Shawn decided to take a little side-trip to Edmonton, to see his cousin,” I said, still quite pissed off. “What? You ass, we’ve been hanging here for three days in Regina, waiting for you…you were hitching solo, you could’ve been here in a day.”

Realizing that his friends were angry with him, Shawn held out a peace offering. “My cousin sells pot and gave me a couple of doobies, do you want to go and get high?” “Hmmm,” I said, “as long as it’s not shit…and we can change the channel to Kung Fu when we come back.” “Ha Ha!” laughed Shawn, “it’s pretty good home-grown, and I won’t care what we’re watching when we get back…I’ll be baked.” Mark, the affable, easy-going member of our little group chimed in, “Sounds good, let’s do it!” We exited the hostel into the warm, dry prairie night, wandered over to the park, grabbed a bench and lit up. The rest is mystery.

The Regina hostel, which was situated at the University, offered one of the best breakfasts we’d had, anywhere on our month-long journey. We rose early the next morning to load up on 2 sausages, 2 eggs, 4 pieces of toast & jam, choice of drink, and a bottomless cup of coffee –before we headed out on the next leg of our hejira. The youth hostel in Brandon, Manitoba was our next destination, and for this leg of the trip, it was decided that Mark & Shawn would travel together, and I would go solo.

( “cooking for the group”, photo courtesy of Dianne Wells, from “SHUSWAP INTENTIONAL COMMUNITIES IN THE 1970S”)

Brandon should’ve been a fairly easy, day’s hitchhike. It was only 220 miles away (360 km – Canada doesn’t go metric for 3 more years – April 1, 1975 – Happy April Fool’s Day Canada) and, factoring in a certain amount of time for roadside lounging and creative thumbing, we expected to get there in the early afternoon – about 4 or 5 hours. The boys and I walked from the hostel to the Trans-Canada, I gave them the ‘pole position’ and wandered further down the road to take up my solo spot. Here’s an excerpt from the journal I kept of my trip:

Aug.3 “it was the last I saw of them…”

Travelling with a companion is wonderful – the camaraderie, shared experience…the added safety. But solo travel has a completely different, subtle, set of life-lesson benefits…and dangers. As a solo traveller, you aren’t friend-focussed, and get to absorb each of your experiences more fully and completely. You live in the now, and can give all your attention to your surroundings – natural and man-made – without the distraction and barely evolved thoughts of your 17-year-old friend. Travel is faster, decisions are easier, drivers are more generous and open – sometimes perilously so…and there’s no one to complain about your harmonica playing when you are stuck at the side of the road for hours at a time.

It was 1972 and not all parts of the country were as friendly and accepting of the hippie hitchhiker way of life. The prairies have always been a bit conservative, and, as it turned out, Regina was, on this day, just such a place. I waited by the side of the road, first standing with my thumb out, then sitting with my thumb out, then lying on the gravel with my head on my backpack lazily offering my thumb to the indifferent cars passing by. It was August on the prairies, and it was hot, and there was no shade, and sunscreen was barely in the public consciousness, and certainly not in mine – but luckily, I had an orange, which I’d taken from the hostel that morning.

“Man, this is brutal,” I thought, as I peeled my orange, “this has to be the worst place I’ve ever tried to catch a lift.” I had a watch, so I knew I’d been there seven hours already and was starting to get hungry and thirsty. I knew also – from experience – that hitching from a gas station improved ones’ chances of getting a lift, and that food and water would be available. I also knew – from experience – that most prairie towns had gas stations, somewhere along the highway, entering and exiting town…usually within a couple of miles. There was no Google Maps, all I could see ahead of me down the highway was prairie and a few distant farm structures, but I had confidence in my experience and assessment. I would walk.

Walking felt good, it felt affirmative. Small fluffy white clouds floated overhead, as I walked past fields of wheat and hay, and scattered herds of cows, or cattle, heads down, munching away. I continued hitchhiking as I walked, my back to the sparse traffic passing by, with my left thumb out in a kind of “I don’t really give a shit anymore” kind of way.

Sublimity without Sublimitations

After half an hour, or so, of wandering east along the shoulder of the Trans-Canada, I spied in the distance, what looked like a familiar oval Esso sign perched on its tall white pedestal. “Perfect,” I thought, “a popsicle and a bag of chips would go down nicely about now.”

I strolled into the gas station, bought my popsicle & chips, removed my backpack from my sweaty back, and sat outside in the shade, leaning against the coolness of the concrete wall near the front door of the station. Bliss. It was the days of the full-service station. Cars and trucks pulled in, lanky attendants ran out to fill tanks, squeegee windows, and ask to “check your oil sir?”, before drivers wandered in to pay their bills at the cash register, in this mostly cash-oriented world we still inhabited.

As I sat there, enjoying this cool, shady pause, a middle-aged man driving a 60’s four-door Chevy Nova, pulled into the station, gassed up, and was heading in to pay his bill when he noticed me reclining against the wall with my backpack. “You hitchhiking?” he asked. “Yeah,” I replied, I’m trying to get to Brandon.” “We’re heading east,” he said, “gotta stop at Qu’Appelle for a bit, but we could get you as far as Moosomin.” I didn’t know where Moosomin or Qu’Appelle were but anything going east was getting me closer to my destination. “Sure, great, thanks!” I said, “Grab your stuff and hop into the back seat,’ he said, “my son Charlie is up front.”

I exchanged hellos with Charlie – who appeared to be in his early 20’s – and soon, driver Dave & Charlie and I were on the road, heading east. With all the windows rolled down, we exchanged pleasantries, and shared info about ourselves as the prairies rolled by. Charlie, as it turned out was indigenous, and Dave & his wife had adopted him as an infant, when Charlie’s parents died in a car crash. Charlie was a member of the Nakoda First Nation, from the nearby Assiniboine 76 Reserve. Dave & Ingrid raised him on their hobby farm near the town of Moosomin, and were now dropping in to pay a visit to their friend Peter who lived in the small town of Qu’Appelle, knew Charlie’s family, and was a direct descendent of Chief Sitting Bull.

Qu’Appelle was a relaxing 45-minute drive down Highway 1, about halfway between Balgonie and Indian Head. For a time, when the CPR arrived in 1884, it was known as Qu’Appelle Station to differentiate it from Fort Qu’Appelle – another small prairie town just 20 miles north, in the Qu’Appelle River Valley. A surfeit of Qu’Appelles…the name of which is a corrupted version of the French, “Qui Appelle?”, or “Who Calls” which refers to a stanza from the Pauline Johnson poem, “Legend of the Qu’Appelle Valley”:

I am the one who loved her as my life,

Had watched her grow to sweet young womanhood;
Won the dear privilege to call her wife,
And found the world, because of her, was good.
I am the one who heard the spirit voice,
Of which the paleface settlers love to tell;
From whose strange story they have made their choice

Of naming this fair valley the ‘Qu’Appelle…

Like most small prairie towns, Qu’Appelle was full of single-story ranchers laid out on a gridwork of broad gravel streets, fringed with well-kept grass lawns, shaded with cottonwood and poplar trees. We pulled into Peter’s driveway and found him sitting comfortably on a lawn-chair in the shade of some cottonwoods. Several other chairs were laid out in anticipation of our arrival, as well as a white plastic table, topped with some plates, a large green watermelon, and a carving knife.

Peter appeared to be a man in his 70’s, clean shaven, with long white hair pulled back in a ponytail, and, as he rose to greet us, he said, “Charlie, why don’t you go and grab another chair for your friend, there’s some in the garage.” Soon, we were all sitting on the folding aluminum lawn-chairs, under the cooling shade of the cottonwoods, slurping on large triangles of watermelon, and spitting seeds onto the grass. My role was mostly one of listener, as these three friends caught up on the people, places and things which kept their lives entwined, while families of swallows and starlings, chirped and chatted from the trees overhead.

Peter’s slightly overfed golden Lab, “Willie”, lay sleeping on the grass to his left, while the faint hint of Jackson Browne’s, “Doctor my Eyes”, drifted out the kitchen window from the radio. I happily accepted another piece of watermelon and just closed my eyes for a moment, taking in this gentle sublime experience. “Gotta be grateful,” I thought, “a little over an hour ago, I was stuck on the side of the road baking in the sun.” Bliss.

Our visit wasn’t terribly long, as Dave & Charlie had to get back to their hobby farm near Moosomin to do chores. Hugs and gratitude were exchanged with Peter, Willie got up to join in the affection and seek out ear rubs & treats. We said our goodbyes, and “Nice ta meetya’s,” hopped into the Nova and, waving, drove off.

Moosomin was only another hour or so down the freeway, taking us through the hamlets and villages of Indian Head, Dingley, Sintaluta, Wolsley, Grenfell, Wapella & Red Jacket…and some of these “names on the map” were little more than that – settler communities that had long since been abandoned, leaving nothing but a few dilapidated wooden buildings and neglected cemeteries.

Before heading south on Route #8, at the Moosomin turnoff – which would take Dave & Charlie to their farm – they offered to buy me a burger and fries at the roadside café attached to the Shell station. Now, having an illustrious relative such as Chief Sitting Bull, is one of those seductively impressive things, but, as a young, financially challenged, and hungry traveller, an offer of free food, on the road, left me genuinely delighted, and grateful.

After sharing a bite of food, I thanked them profusely, and we said our goodbyes. They headed off, in a cloud of dust, as I found myself a good hitchhiking position at the exit from the station. At least, I hoped it was good. There was no line-up, but the sun was starting to get low on the horizon, and I still had about an hour-and-a-half drive to get to Brandon. Eventually, a trucker stopped on his way out of the station, rolled down his window and said, “I’m goin’ to Winnipeg, where ya goin’? “Brandon,” I replied, “trying to get to the Youth Hostel before closing.” “OK, yeah, I can get you there – hop in.” And we were off.

I arrived late at the hostel, and likely only got in because the two hippies who were running it were staying up playing “Go”. It had been a long day, and Mark & Shawn had not shown up – which wasn’t surprising given how shitty the hitchhiking out of Regina was. As an avid chess-player I stayed up awhile trying to understand “Go”, before crashing-out on one of the lower bunks in a 6-person room.

There was no compelling reason to go to Brandon, except as a place to reconnect with my travelling companions. As a young traveller, eager to get all the way across Canada and set foot on Prince Edward Island, hanging out in any small prairie town – for any extended period – was tedium. From my journal:

Aug 4. Ate breakfast, went downtown, sat outside City Hall, met some people, got lost, finally made it back to the hostel for soup, tried to watch Straw Dogs at the Drive-In, too many mosquitos.

Aug 5. Had a bath, some chick gave me a belt. Went back downtown.  Re-read Dirty Harry, nothing much happened. Met a neat Japanese guy named Takashi Sato*, talked a while.

Aug 6 – nothing much happened – I went to the cop shop to get info.

(*Takashi carried the game of “Go” in his backpack, and – quite patiently – gave me my first lesson)

Almost four days of waiting and no sign of Shawn & Mark. The trip to the “cop shop” was my attempt at seeing if there’d been any nasty accidents or incidents involving my pals. When nothing turned up, my worry turned to suspicion that perhaps Shawn was pulling the same stunt he did when he left Mark & I in Regina for 3 days. There were no cell phones, or convenient ways to keep in touch. My impatience was starting to max out – I decided to hit the road on my own the next day.

No, this isn’t me, I’ve selected a group of representative photos from the internet as – surprise surprise! – I didn’t have a camera. (Photo by Dick Darrell, 1973 Toronto Public Library)

My 17-year-old self, had little or no fear. Was this self-confidence, or naivete? Perhaps it was the result of growing up in a safe, loving environment, or maybe my earlier hitchhiking experiences at 15 and 16 made me believe I was “seasoned”, or perhaps it was typical of the majority of young teenage males, everywhere. In any event, when entering into the wider world of unknown risks – strangers, places, situations…and lengthy road trips – having at least a modicum of cautionary consciousness can be lifesaving.

After eating as much breakfast as the hostel workers were willing to dish out, I gathered up my backpack and walked the mile or two to the freeway exit heading east. Surprisingly, as bad as it was leaving Regina, my first ride out of Brandon turned out to be the longest, sweetest, and most benign of my entire trip.

The quintessential flagship of the hippie armada was the 60’s Volkswagen Van, adorned with a few painted flowers, peace signs, and Anti-Vietnam War stickers. Bill and Carol – a 20-something couple from Milwaukee – pulled up in just such a van, rolled down the window and asked, “Hey, where ya goin’?” “Trying to get to the Maritimes,” I replied, “Prince Edward Island.” “Well, we’re not going that far, but we can get you to Sault Ste. Marie.”

(Photo by Anne Betts from: “Travel in the 1970s: What’s better? Then or now?”)

I wasn’t exactly sure how far the “the Soo” was, but I knew that I’d just struck hitchhiker gold – I was going to be with these people for a few days, and cover a lot of ground. I hoped they were… nice.

I climbed in and exchanged introductions. Bill and Carol had been on a road trip across Canada for the last several months, and were now heading back to Milwaukee before continuing on to Miami Beach, Florida, for an anti-war protest at the 1972 Republican National Convention later in August. Ron Kovic*, a paralyzed Vietnam war vet, was going to be leading the protest, and Bill and Carol wanted to lend their voice to his “Stop the Bombing, Stop the War!” chant.  Bill wasn’t a draft dodger but had managed to escape call-up due to a previous injury which left him with a slight limp, and Carol was his college grad, hippie girlfriend.

(*Ron would go on to write his memoir, “Born on the Fourth of July”, in 1976)

“How far is Sault Ste. Marie?” I asked. “It’s about 1000 miles,” said Bill, “the roads are pretty windy…lots of lakes and trees…and our van only goes about 50 miles per hour, so we figure it’s about a 3-day trip – including food stops & gas.” “Great,” I replied, “thanks a lot for picking me up, this’ll save me from a lot of hitching – I had to wait almost 7 hours just to get outta Regina, and I’ve heard horror stories about people getting trapped trying to leave small towns in Northern Ontario…especially Wawa, it’s supposed to be the worst place to get stuck in Canada.” “Yeah, replied Carol, “we’ve heard about Wawa, it’s got a really bad rep…there are stories & legends…don’t worry, if you stick with the Bill and Carol caravan, we’ll get you well past Wawa before we head south at the Soo.”

If you think that driving through the prairies is boring, because of the long straight highways and endless miles of grain silo silhouetted horizon, it has nothing on the mind-numbing similitude of the roads through Northern Ontario’s boreal forest. Repetitive variations of lakes, rocks, rivers, and coniferous forest, pass you by, like natures treadmill, as you worm your way through the largest forest in Canada. Villages and towns are infrequent und unsatisfying. Road signs remind you that you really aren’t making any progress at all, and have another 500 hellish miles to go, to get to Thunder Bay.

Despite the monotony of the vistas, Bill & Carol were cool people to travel with, and we spent our days sharing stories and observations from our travels. Rather than sleep in their van they chose – most nights – to stay at Youth Hostels, which were inexpensive and included breakfast. There was always some kind of social activity, so we hung out together, listened to jam sessions, played games, or watched TV. Hostels were great places to “get the buzz” about hitchhiking conditions, places to avoid, or places to find the cool scenes that were happening in the cities and towns across Canada at that time. Eventually, after another 8-hour day on the road, we arrived at the hostel in Thunder Bay.

Because so many hostels were run by American draft dodgers, or conscientious objectors, Bill & Carol’s planned journey to the protest march in Florida was of special interest. “I went to as many protests as I could in the late 60’s,” said Frank – a long-haired, bearded Hostel worker – “before I got called up and had to split…I was even at the Democratic National Convention protest in Chicago in ’68…that was crazy.” “We’ve been to quite a few too,” said Carol, “last year’s rally at the National Mall in Washington was the biggest…so cool to have all that anti-war energy coming together.” Wanting to show these older, cool hippies, that I fit in and had a political consciousness too, I said, “I went to an anti-war protest last year in Victoria…well, it was actually a protest against the underground nuclear testing in Amchitka, Alaska, but we all chanted, “Stop Amchitka! Stop the War!” My pronouncement was met with mild disinterest, and a few “Oh,cool’s,” Hardly anyone knew where Victoria was or what Amchitka was about, but Carol chimed in, “That was put on by Greenpeace, wasn’t it?” This seemed to resonate with all the hippies in earshot. “Greenpeace, they’re great, “said one, “Yeah…direct action, that’s what we need,” said another, “Didn’t they go up there to protest by boat?” said Frank, “man, that shows a lot of initiative.” “Maybe we should get boats and sail to Saigon to protest this fucking war, “said another, frizzy red -haired hippie, which drew a few laughs.

(Photo by Jeff Debooy, At the Winnipeg Youth Hostel, 1974. University of Manitoba Archives)

Just then Takashi Saito walked in, saw me, and said “Is it time for your next Go lesson?” “Ha Ha! Takashi! sure,” I replied, “let me just grab a coffee and a couple of cookies and we can set up on that table over there.” I left the Americans to their political discussions, although a few, who’d heard about Go and were curious, joined Takashi and I to watch this ancient Chinese game, which was just becoming popular in North America.

We got up early for the anticipated 11 or 12-hour drive to Sault Ste. Marie. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I was travelling in the slowest vehicle on the Trans Canada Hwy. Perhaps some of the villages between Thunder Bay and the Soo would be interesting – Loon, Pearl, Bowker, Ouimet, Cavers, Pays Plat, Ripple, Batchawana – unfortunately very few of them are on the Trans-Can, and require time-consuming side-trips to find out…so, in no particular order: Lakes, Rocks, Rivers and Trees, rinse and repeat.

There are a few larger towns – Nipigon, Schreiber, White River, and of course, Wawa – which give a brief visual relief from the ol’ green, grey, and blue, and a welcome place to stop, see human beings, gas up, pee and eat. Day three of my trip with Bill and Carol took longer than we anticipated, and a decision was made to camp at the Batchawana Bay Provincial Park, just north of the Soo…from my journal:

Aug 9 – Just north of Sault St. Marie… ate supper – sauerkraut, wieners…stole beer from an abandoned car*, slept outside that night (soaking wet, dew)

Aug 10 – Dropped off in Sault St Marie, sorry to see Mike and Carol leave, you kind of get attached to them after a few days. Got a ride with some old people to Sudbury, which is an awful place. Largest smokestack in the world, everything is dead for miles, got a short ride out of town, and, by now I was starving. The next ride was short, but the guy gave me supper, so it was OK. Another ride to North Bay. Bus takes you to the hostel met a guy I’d met before.

(*Upon re-reading my journal, I’ve noticed the occasional reference to petty theft. It seems to be singularly opportunistic stuff – garden raiding, taking coins from fountains, or “from an abandoned car” and the like. This, combined with occasional panhandling, and gratefully accepting free meals, was my way of keeping the wolves from the door, and seemed quite typical of other young hippie travellers I met.

As you leave North Bay, enroute to Ottawa, the trees, lakes, and rocks slowly give way to the farms, towns, and villages, of Southern Ontario. You enter the most densely populated area of Canada, where traffic increases substantially, as does the variety of vehicles, drivers…and their chosen speeds. Getting rides becomes easier but the distances become shorter – Petawawa to Pembroke, Pembroke to Cobden, Cobden to Renfrew, in short, half-hour hops and stops.

“Be Careful What You Wish For”

It was a hot day, a beautiful day – blue skies with light fluffy clouds, and a gentle easterly breeze to remove the worst of the day’s heat, and I was stuck, at the intersection of Hwy 60 and the Trans Canada just outside of Renfrew. It was mid-afternoon, and I knew that my destination for the night – Ottawa – was a tantalizingly short 60 miles away – about an hour’s drive – but the rides seemed to have dried up. Luckily, I had a chocolate bar in my pack for a snack. “What is it about people from Renfrew?” I thought, “haven’t they ever seen a hitchhiker before?”

Cars, trucks, semis, vans, and motorbikes whizzed by with seeming indifference. Some drivers nodded, a few children waved, while others indicated – with their thumb and forefinger – that they were only going a short distance. As I stood there, at the side of the road eating my Milky Way, a red 4-seater Mustang convertible, driven by a guy in his late 20’s – wearing sunglasses and looking very cool and self-satisfied – with one hand on the wheel and the other, casually resting on the recessed window ledge, cruised by. It was one of those dream cars that – on a hot sunny day like today – generated a strong vision & desire to catch a lift and arrive in Ottawa in style – looking hip and windswept.

Trying to catch his attention, among the 2 or 3 other hitchhikers in line, I smiled and waved, I danced a little jig, and I even put my hands together in prayer-fashion with my thumb out…all to no avail. He smiled and waved at all of us and drove, casually and confidently past. “Damn,” I thought, “that looked like such a sweet ride, how cool to show up in Ottawa, driving past the Parliament buildings in a convertible enroute to the Hostel.” I continued to watch his red dream-car glide down the highway until it became a speck, turned a corner, and was gone. Sigh.

My luck finally changed, however, and before long, I was at the front of the line as the other hitchhikers received rides.  Then, a farmer pulled up, with a truckload of baled-hay, and offered me a lift…it wasn’t a red convertible, but beggars can’t be choosers, and he was heading in the right direction. Stan was on his way to his farm outside of Arnprior – about a 20-minute drive down the pike – so I gladly hopped into his truck.

I left the passenger window open so I could feel the cool breeze against my skin on this rather humid, late-afternoon in mid-August.  About halfway to Arnprior we rounded a bend near the Calabogie Road turnoff to Glasgow Station, and could hear the faint sounds of sirens, and see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles heading towards us in the distance – in the westbound lane of Hwy 417 – likely coming from Arnprior. Just ahead of us, on the eastbound shoulder, a few cars had pulled over, and, as we approached, I could see people climbing down the embankment towards a car which appeared to have skidded off the road, flipped a few times, and now rested – upside down – with steam and smoke coming out of the engine compartment, and the motionless body of a young man trapped underneath. It was the red mustang.

Stan slowed down and pulled over to see if we could help, just as the Ambulance crossed the meridian – momentarily stopping all traffic – joining those of us parked on the eastbound shoulder. As we climbed out of Stan’s truck, a police car and a Fire Truck arrived – ostensibly to help with the physical logistics of the accident – while the emergency medics were valiantly hauling out a stretcher and bags of medical equipment to attend to the injured driver. But it was fairly evident – judging by the position of the car on top of the driver – that their efforts would be futile. The windshield had been sheared off, leaving the convertible flat, and it had come to rest – upside down – on the driver’s head as his body lay on his back, face up, on the ground.

“Jesus, that’s pretty nasty,” said Stan, “I don’t think there’s much we can do here, it looks like the emergency crews have it covered.” “Yeah,” I concurred, “poor dude, I watched him drive by before you picked me up…I dreamed of getting a lift into Ottawa in that convertible” “Well,” said Stan, “it just goes to show ya, ‘be careful what you wish for’,” “Yeah, no kidding,” I replied, reflectively, as I climbed back into the truck.

Stan turned the engine over, put on his blinkers, and crept out slowly, into the seemingly random chaos of life and the open road.

Even in my pre-budgetary, maximum earning capacity existence, I knew that I had to be conscious of my finances if I wanted to make it all the way to P.E.I. and back to Victoria in one piece. I’d left home 35 days earlier, with $120 cash and a small amount of hashish to sell on the road, and I wasn’t even halfway through my trip – with only $55 left. You do the math. Although the wolves were not at the door, I could hear them howling.

I’d already rejected the idea of picking tobacco on one of the many tobacco farms in southern Ontario, to make a bit of cash, as I’d heard it was hellish. “Hmm,” I thought to myself, “unless a good work opportunity presents itself, I can probably make it with a bit of panhandling, and looking pathetic & hungry for the occasional meal hand-out.” There it was – the young hippie business model.

Not lingering in any one place and making miles was the other half of the equation.

Unless faced with a compelling reason to stay in one city or town or situation, I’d keep my thumb to the wind and keep moving.

My stay at the nation’s capital was – consequently – fairly brief: the obligatory tour of the parliament buildings; the as-to-be-expected overindulgence at the hostel’s breakfast table; and the unexpected windfall discovery of an unattended coin fountain, which I liberated of excess coins*. I was palling around with a young fellow-traveller at the hostel named Allan who was heading to his home in Arvida, Quebec. As we were both travelling – roughly – in the same direction we decided to hitchhike to Montreal together. (*When I found myself working in Ottawa 10 years later for the Feds, I went back to that fountain and replaced every coin I took…honest)

Safety in Numbers

The distance from Ottawa to Montreal is not far. Traffic is heavy, rides are plentiful and within short order we’d landed a lift with a young Québécois guy named Olivier driving a light blue late-60’s Impala. I hopped in the front passenger seat and Allan slid into the back. The Impala was running a bit rough and coughed up a cloud of smoke every time Olivier stepped on the gas – which was quite frequent – as we sped east on Hwy 40, known locally as the A. Félix-Leclerc.

Olivier seemed friendly enough, and it didn’t take long before – in his heavily accented English – he took his eyes off the road, and leaned over, to ask me salacious questions about my sexual experiences with women. “So, Georges,” he began, “I bet a good-looking young guy like you ‘as ‘ad a lot of sex with the pretty girls…eh? I bet you like it, eh?” he continued, throwing it out to Allan as well, “And you too, eh?” addressing him through the rear-view mirror. Now, as a virginal 17-year-old male, I wasn’t about to broadcast my lack of experience with women, so I nodded knowingly, smiled, and agreed with all of his crass questions…as did Allan.

The uncomfortable & suggestive line of questioning continued, when suddenly we all heard a distinct flapping noise coming from the front left tire as we sped along. Olivier chose to pull over on the side of the road on the Ile aux Tortes Bridge to have a look. Even as a non-driver this seemed dangerous and crazy, as cars & semi-trailers barreled by within a foot or two of our position. It turned out to be rubber hanging off the tire, which Olivier decided to cut off with a Swiss army knife that he had in his glove box. Having recently witnessed a horrific car accident I was not – shall we say – comforted by his actions. “Do we need to hit a gas station to get a new tire?” I asked. “No, no,” he replied, “still a lot of tread on dis one…c’mon let’s go.”

Perhaps Allan was a little more savvy – or frightened – than myself, and could see what was coming. As we entered the city, he asked to be dropped off at the nearest Metro station, ostensibly to go visit friends in Laval, whereas I was trying to get to the Loyola Hostel. I was sorry to see Allan leave – safety in numbers, as they say – but was feeling a little less nervous about dying in a horrible car accident on the freeway with a blown- out tire, as we entered the much slower traffic of the city.

Enroute to the hostel, as I stared out the window, absorbing my first views of Canada’s largest city, Olivier took a break in his one-sided sexual inquisition, leaned in close and said, “Hey Georges, you don’t got to stay at no hostel man, I got friends with a place near here, you could stay there…for free.” Now, despite Olivier’s creepy obsession with my non-existent sexual life, the offer of a free place to stay overrode my apprehensions, and growing urge to ‘get out at the next Metro Station’ like Allan. “Sure, great,” I said.

We took a hard right off the A20 near Dorval, where his “friends” lived. From my journal:

“…it was a house in the slums where he said I could stay. No one was there and it was a shambles – garbage, days-old dirty dishes, mattresses, and clothing strewn about. A real pig sty. So, we left, and he started to drive me to Loyola Hostel. he began asking a lot of very personal questions again, but I was distracted, looking out the window, not paying much attention when suddenly, he reached over and grabbed my crotch. I pulled away from him and he was smiling so I thought he was just joking, that I had “missed something”. Then he stopped the car and asked me if I wanted the 5-mile ride to the hostel, when I said, “yeah, sure” he replied, “you have to let me feel yours first or I won’t give you the ride”.

“Hmmm,” I thought, “walk 5 miles or let this creepy dude touch my penis? Well…5 miles is quite far.” No, no, dear reader, I did not even ponder that.

In a fit of rage, I ripped open the glove compartment and reached for the Swiss Army knife that I knew he kept there…no, no, no – this too did not happen, I wasn’t a violent young man. That would come later…much later.

I don’t remember exactly what I said – this being my first experience with an unwanted sexual advance, from a member of the same sex – and my journal doesn’t record such minutiae, but it was probably something like, “I’m outta here dude, I’ll walk!” I grabbed my pack opened the passenger door and stepped out onto Rue Sherbrooke, and started walking east, as Olivier and his smoky Impala sped off.

My resilience, and ability to quickly get over such indignities and potentially dangerous situations was reflected in my next journal entry:

…so, I walked the 5 miles. Not a bad hostel, all the toast you could eat.”

All the toast you could eat. Dodge a bullet, eat toast, carry on…

It was mid-August, and several dynamics were at play. I was running out of money, and time. I’d been on the road for almost 40 days, and, although my destination – Prince Edward Island – was but a few days travel away, I still had to make it all the way back to Victoria to begin my last year of High School in September – a few short weeks away…and I was down to $40 cash.

Being imbued with a completely unrealistic, 17-year-old sense of optimistic stupidity, and an almost Darwinian lack of self-preservation skills, I said to myself, “Yeah, I think I got this,” and headed out.

Given my limitations of time, distance, and finances, I knew that I had to keep a move on. With luck, I figured I could cover the 700 plus remaining miles to P.E.I. – and Cavendish Beach, where apparently “I had to go” – within three days of very steady hitchhiking…and luck – that much-wished for, yet often unattainable attribute. And then, turn it around for the 3,544-mile return trip to Victoria – within 10 very brisk days. Perhaps I would stop somewhere and allow myself to smell a flower, or fall in love, but if I got trapped in the hitchhiker hell of Wawa or Regina on the return…all bets were off.

The urban core of any major city is not friendly to the hitchhiker, so I extricated myself from Montreal via a series of buses and Subway trips until I was on the outer edge of Longeuil – a suburb of Montreal across the St. Lawrence River – heading east on the 116.

The trip to Quebec City turned out to be surprisingly brief – a series of short hops, between quaint historic towns, with amiable and benign drivers who luckily all spoke enough English to usher me right to my destination. Quebec City is a gem, and if I weren’t in such a hurry, I might’ve stayed longer, or, if the hostel weren’t such a dump, I might’ve put in an extra day to hang around with my new friends from Connecticut, who were pretty wicked guitar players. From my journal:

“Got a ride right to the hostel. Met two guys from Connecticut and swam in a 4-foot-deep kiddie pool in our clothes. The hostel was, quite likely, the worst I’d seen – an old, converted prison which looked like it hadn’t been cleaned up since the prisoners were released. Walked around that night through old Quebec and saw the sights, then back to the hostel for a jam session – I played some harp.”

As Jack and Sam – my two new American pals – were also heading to P.E.I., we decided to travel together. Together, however, is a relative term. As previously mentioned, getting a lift as a threesome was difficult, so we decided that – once we were over the St. Lawrence and back on the freeway – we’d split up and meet in Fredericton, New Brunswick.

We knew it was going to be a long day. Fredericton was 400 miles away, and what should be a six-hour trip, can easily double – or worse – depending on the vagaries of the road. So, we got up early, wolfed down a greasy breakfast and headed for the free ferry across the St. Lawrence to Levis. The ferry to Levis is one of those sublime visual treats where you get to savour – for a brief time – the unique architectural beauty of Quebec City, from the panorama of a river crossing.

We walked the 15 or 20 minutes to the freeway, wished each other good luck, and said a few, “See ya in Fredericton’s,” before splitting up and spreading out, into parties of one down the road. It would be many days before I saw Sam again, but Jack would re-appear several times – as so often happens in this random and unpredictable world of plans made before the advent of cell phones, and connectivity.

As last in line, I was the last to get a ride, but it took me right into Rivière-du-Loup before lunch – which was almost one third of my expected journey. I’d been on the road long enough to know not to get my expectations too high, and that past performance was no guaranteed of future progress. As I was dropped off at the junction of the A20 and the A85, just outside of Rivière-du-Loup, I could see a line of dozens of hitchhikers stretching far, far down the road in the direction I had to go. “Shit,” I thought, “so much for my early lead…oh well, lovely day for a walk.” Which I did. There’s really no choice, road etiquette demands that the newcomer go to the end of the line – like any human “line situation” – although sometimes fate can work in your favour.

(“Hitchhikers on the Trans-Canadian Highway.” Source: University of Manitoba Archives & Special Collections, Winnipeg Tribune Fonds, 1972. )

I was about halfway down the mile-long line, walking with my back to traffic and my left thumb out (this was ok…everybody did it) when a hot, blue, late-model Chevelle pulled up, and I heard Jack shout, “Hey George, hop in, this guy’s goin’ right to Moncton.”

Jack was hanging out the front passenger window, grinning, like a big puppy dog. I grabbed my pack, and slid into the back seat, waving and smiling at the nearby hitchhikers as they stared – grumpily – at my sudden good fortune. “Hi, I’m Steve,” said the driver, “Jack recognized you, so I thought I’d stop and give you a lift. I wish I could take more hitchhikers but we’re already kinda full…I’m going to Moncton, does that work for you?” Moncton was much further than I expected to get on this day, and I wasn’t about to turn down a good ride, “Sure thing,” I said, that’d be great.” He popped it into 1^st and we roared off, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

It was 4 hours to Fredericton, where we were supposed to meet Sam, and another 2 to Moncton, so we had time to relax, sightsee and get to know Stephen, our driver. He lived in Moncton, and his father ran a Chevy dealership – which explained the nearly new Chevelle we were travelling in – and Jack talked about the year-off that he and his buddy Sam had taken to travel North & Central America before starting their studies at the University of Bridgeport, in their home state of Connecticut.  When Stephen found out there was a third to our little hitchhiking group he agreed to stop in Fredericton, at the Youth Hostel to see if Sam was there to join us, or if we wanted to be let off there to wait for him.

Eventually, Highway 85A – heading south from Rivierère-du-Loup – turns into Hwy #2 when you cross into New Brunswick, which is a continuation of the Trans-Canada #1. It’s a flat land of trees, muskeg, and farms which roughly follows the St. John River until we would part company several hours later at a bridge crossing near Burpees Corner outside of Oromocto. Passing towns and settlements with names like Saint Jacques, Madawaska, Irish Settlement, Maliseet and Kilmarnock remind you of the French/Acadian, Irish, and Scottish settlers who arrived in the 1600’s and 1700’s to reside among their Mi’gmaq, Wolastoqiyik and Peskotomuhkatiyik predecessors.

By the time we arrived in Fredericton it was mid-afternoon, and Sam was not waiting at the hostel to greet us. I’d already decided to carry on with Steve to Moncton – whether Sam was there in Fredericton waiting to join us, or not – but wasn’t sure what Jack’s plan was. “Hey guys, tell you what,” said Steve, “I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m starving, why don’t we take a break for some food…wait another half hour for your friend, and if he shows, great, if not I gotta carry on.” It was a reasonable suggestion, made better still by his offer to buy us a burger and fries from the Mom ‘n’ Pop Café next door to the hostel. “Sure man, thanks!” we both chimed in. It was nice just to get out of the car and stretch our legs after this 5-hour trip…and eat a free burger and fries.

By the time we wolfed down our food and went back to check for Sam at the hostel, I wasn’t surprised to discover that he hadn’t showed up. I announced my intention to carry on to Moncton with Steve, and Jack paused reflectively for a moment and said, “Yeah, I think I’ll join you, I wanna get to Prince Edward Island too, and Moncton’s damn close.” Jack was an easy-going, good guy to travel with, and I was happy about his decision, and glad for the company. “I’m going to leave Sam a message at the hostel though, so he knows what I’m doing,” continued Jack, “we’ve been on the road for a long time…I’ll probably catch up to him on the road, at some hostel or something in the next couple of days.” It sounded like a plan. Jack wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to the rather stoned-looking, long-haired & bearded, draft-dodger dude running the hostel, and we were off.

Three more hours of lazily rolling past mixed deciduous and coniferous forests, farms, and quaint historic towns, and we arrived in Moncton. Steve quite kindly, drove us right to the hostel, we said our goodbyes and thanked him profusely for the lift. We arrived just in time for a bit of late dinner and hanging out with the other transients sharing stories from the road. According to my journal, the hostel was “nice”, and breakfast was “good” which is pretty much a five-star review from my 17-year-old self.

We got up early, ate breakfast and hit the road. Although we were close to reaching our destination – P.E.I – and could smell the ocean (which was only 20 minutes away from Moncton) we weren’t quite as lucky with the lifts, and did a lot of walking and accepting short hops between towns. All drivers kept their radios on, so, reception and tastes permitting, we were treated to an early 70’s soundtrack of “Alone Again (Naturally)” by Gilbert O’Sullivan, “Lean on Me” by Bill Withers, “I’m Still in Love With You” by Al Green, and dozens of other hits of that era.

Our journey skipped, hopped, walked and drove between a variety of small towns, and hamlets – Shediac (Canada’s Lobster Capital), Shemogue, Port Elgin, Tidnish, and Pugwash, in a variety of vehicles and situations –  a bread truck, a semi-trailer, a farm vehicle, and an Edsel, driven by a couple of “old fogeys, whom I sweet-talked into giving us a ride” according to my journal. Eventually landing a lift with a “French chick” outside of Tatamagouche who drove us all the way to the ferry terminus at Caribou.

We paid our 60-cent fare, boarded the ferry, and wrote post cards to our families, while enjoying the sights during the 75-minute trip across the Northumberland Strait. Both of us agreed that we were only going to spend one night on Prince Edward Island – set foot on the island, plant our flag, and announce “Mission Accomplished” to the media. Jack, like me, was running out of cash, and was slowly making his way back to Connecticut to begin College in 2 weeks.

Jack noticed a car with US plates, befriended the couple that was driving, and managed to get us a lift off the ferry to Charlottetown, the capital of P.E.I. By now, it was mid-afternoon and we still had to reach the hostel near Cavendish Beach, which, according to my journal required more walking, “Walked & walked… asked lady for water. Asked for ride to nowhere then walked some more.” Apparently, while we were walking through “nowhere” we did some garden raiding and stole a handful of Russet potatoes that we would later bake at the hostel and eat on the beach.

The hostel was camp style, which meant that we slept in tents. But it was a gorgeous spot within walking distance of the world-famous Cavendish Beach. We finally landed a lift from a “nice guy and his girlfriend” who took us right to our destination. After checking in and stowing our gear in one of the shared tents, we cooked up our spuds, added them to an already overflowing plate of hostel food, wandered down to the gorgeous white sandy beach, and ate dinner while staring out at a slowly rising, waxing, crescent moon.

“Well man, we did it,” said Jack, as he reached over to shake my hand. “Yeah, this was worth all the walking today, I’m glad we made the effort,” I said, “and how about these potatoes?” I added emphatically. “Mmm…damn good,” he replied, “especially with all that melted butter.” “Yeah, I think we might’ve cleaned them out of butter,” I said, “it’ll be dry toast for breakfast!” We both laughed. It had been a long day, an arduous day – with full bellies we made our way back to the tent hostel, with the sound of guitars, and someone belting out, “Brown-Eyed Girl” there to greet us.

We got up with the first rays of sunshine permeating our tent. An ominous mix of dark clouds – hinting of rain – shared the sky with white, but no less threatening, Cumulonimbus clouds and the lightning and thunder they sometimes carried. We ate breakfast quickly as we wanted to hit the road to begin our respective trips home. It was August 17^th – it had taken me 42 days to reach P.E.I., and I knew that I was looking at – at least – 10 days to get back, with luck, determination, and stick-to-itiveness. Jack was facing a more leisurely 2 or 3 days to get back to Connecticut, and seemed more inclined to take his time on the way back – especially if he reconnected with his travelling companion Sam.

I was down to less than 130 pounds on a 6-foot frame, with shoulder length, straggly, strawberry blonde hair.  “Lanky” would be a kind descriptive epithet, “skinny” was probably more accurate. Because of my appearance people were starting to take pity on me and would walk up – unsolicited – and give me small amounts of money or food. Even Jack, before we hit the road that day gave me two tins’ of food that he was carrying. Maybe he was just lightening his load for the trip, or maybe he witnessed me exiting the shower that morning looking like a Kwashiorkor victim.

The Sinister Samaritan

It seemed like our luck had changed. We got a ride right to the ferry, we didn’t have to pay on the return trip, and some people we met on the boat offered to drive us right to Moncton. A fortuitous start to the trip home.

It was the golden era of hitchhiking. It was a time of peace, love, and liberation. You could still smell the incense and patchouli oil wafting in the breezes, from the “Summer of Love” a few scant years before. There were dangers – predators such as I’d experienced in Montreal, or accidents such as I’d witnessed – but this was still the early days of fighting for peace, justice, and the environment. These benign social efforts were “the movement”, this and a ubiquitous network of hostels made hippiedom & hitchhiking unavoidably appealing. We were everywhere…what could go wrong?

For some reason, Jack and I decided to split up, and hitchhike separately when we left Moncton. We were aiming for Fredericton, and the hostel there, as Jack wanted to see if Sam had shown up and received his message. Jack got the first ride, then I got a lift with an older couple that was heading west down a more rural route – highway 106 – which wasn’t the Trans Canada but was going in the right direction. The 106 was a slower route but quite beautiful, following the meandering Anagance River through rich farmland. They dropped me off at the intersection with Route 890, in Petitcodiac – a small farming town – and gave me sandwiches and $2, which I gratefully accepted. As I appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, I decided to eat a sandwich as I walked, keeping an eye on the foreboding clouds which now hovered overhead.

And then it began to rain. I continued walking, passing farms and long, non-descript driveways, while becoming increasingly wet. Ahead, through the downpour, I could see a large tent on a roadside property, that had “Jesus Saves” written on it, beside a small, white, rundown house. I ran under the tent to seek refuge from the rain…shivering while still nibbling on a sandwich. An older man came out of the house, walked over to the tent, and invited me inside to get warm and dry off. More grateful acceptance.

Inside the house, I met his blind wife, pregnant 16-year-old daughter, and their adopted black daughter, who also appeared to be about my age. The women seemed slightly uncomfortable having a soaking wet vagabond in their midst – especially the blind wife – but I soon allayed their concerns with “my friendly manner and engaging stories.” Leo, the kind man who invited me in, ran a small farm with a roadside stand, and a Full Gospel Assembly from the tent on Sundays. As we sat and visited, they asked if I was hungry – which of course I always was – so Leo asked his adopted daughter, Melanie, to boil up some corn so we could all enjoy a cob or two.

The five of us sat, eating corn, and visiting, and then, as the storm abated Leo asked if I’d like a ride back to Hwy 2 (the Trans Canada) as the 890 would take me in the wrong direction. I gladly accepted, being relatively dry now and full of sandwiches and corn. I said my goodbyes and thank-yous’ to the women, then went outside and hopped into Leo’s truck – continuing down the 890 until taking a right on the aptly named Cornhill Road, and then up Creek Road to Hwy 2.

The intersection of Creek Road and Hwy 2 was truly in the middle of nowhere – at least 10 miles away from civilization in either direction – but I assured Leo that I was fine, and, worst-case scenario, I could haul out my sleeping bag and sleep under the overpass. I’d had worse…and I still had half a sandwich.

I stood there trying to get the attention of passing cars for an hour or so, but was having very little luck, when a 30-something, single guy in a mid-60’s dark green Rambler pulled up, rolled down the window, and said, “Where are you going?” “Just Trying to get to the youth hostel in Fredericton,” I replied, “Great, I’m going that way, hop in.”

Kevin was about 35, and was driving back, from Moncton, to the small cabin and property he inherited from his parents, somewhere between Oromocto & Fredericton. He seemed quite amicable and was interested in my road stories, and also shared a few of his own. Apparently, he really liked to help hitchhikers in need, and was very generous, often buying lunch or dinner for those he’d picked up and even going so far as to pay for a plane ticket home for one young guy he’d met from Saskatoon, who needed to get home in a hurry.

“Wow, that’s super generous of you,” I said. “Aw, I don’t mind,” replied Kevin, “I’ve got enough money, and it makes me feel good to help people out.” We carried on with small talk, on this rather non-descript section of the Trans-Canada – that has often been designed with rapid A to B functionality in mind, rather than as a scenic and leisurely jaunt through cute villages, farms, and “roadside attractions”.  We rolled by turnoffs for places with enticing names – Washademoak, Pickett’s Cove, White Cove, Mill Cove, then gliding over the Jemseg River Bridge and once more over the St.John’s River which I’d just traversed a few days prior on my way to P.E.I.

“Hey, y’know I’m getting a little hungry,” said Kevin, “I know a pretty good roadside diner in Oromocto, how about I buy you dinner?” “Oh, wow man, that’s super generous of you,” I replied, “and I rarely say no to a free meal, but I just had a couple of sandwiches and a bunch of corn with a family I met.” He seemed a little disappointed so I added, “But I haven’t had dessert, maybe a slice of pie would be good.” “Ha ha!” he laughed, “pie it is, I know they’ve got some really great homemade apple pie.” I was anticipating eating at the hostel later, but I could never say no to pie.

Gretchen’s Diner was a busy roadside café populated by locals, travellers and long-distance truckers all stopping in for some of Gretchen’s regionally famous home-style cooking. While Kevin loaded up on generous helpings of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and green beans, I tucked into a large slice of apple pie a la mode and a coffee. After discovering coffee on this cross-Canada trip, it too became an essential ingredient of living.

By the time we wrapped up, paid up, and headed back to the car, it was early evening, with the light of a waning day spilling through the nearby trees. Pulling out of the parking lot, Kevin said, “Y’know, my place isn’t too far from here, I’ve got lots of room, why don’t you save your hostel money and come and stay at my place?” This took me a little off guard, as my experience in Montreal was still fairly fresh in my mind, although, Kevin seemed more genuine and was not as creepy as Olivier. Maybe my judgement was clouded with pie and a free place to stay, but when he mentioned, “a couple of cold beers in the fridge,” my wariness crumbled and I said, “sure, ok.”

We left the Trans Canada, hanging a right onto a small rural road – the 102 – crossing the Oromocto River, meandering past a local airport, the “Jesus Reigns Forever Church of New Brunswick”, and the assorted farms, subdivisions, and small businesses that populated this slower byway between Fredericton and Oromocto.

It was getting dark, and the headlights shone on the metal mailboxes perched on top of white wooden posts at the entrance to property driveways – as they do all across rural Canada – until, after a 10, or 15-minute drive, Kevin turned right onto a long, dark, curving dirt driveway. The headlights further illuminated fences, a garage and a few other outbuildings, as we bumped along, until we pulled up in front of a white mid-century farm building.

“Well, here it is,” said Kevin, “home sweet home…grab your stuff and come on in.” I grabbed my pack and joined him on the porch as he fumbled for the keys in the dark. As lights were turned on, a hungry tabby greeted us at the door,. Kevin’s place was a typical 2-bedroom cabin, with a small foyer for coats and shoes, leading into a living room with the usual collection of chairs, bookshelves, memorabilia, side tables and a large stuffed couch. I rested my pack against the wall and chose one of the comfy chairs near the brick fireplace. “Can I get you a beer?” he asked, “Sure, that would be great,” I replied. Although I was only 17, I was no stranger to alcohol, having discovered the joys of drunkenness 3 years earlier in Victoria.

He handed me a beer, placed a bowl of pretzels on the coffee table, turned on the radio and, beer in hand, sat on the couch facing me. We continued with our various conversations and observations, drinking beer, and munching on pretzels. I had enticed ‘Chi-Chi” the tabby to sit on my lap and was enjoying some quality cat petting time, when Kevin – after I was almost through my third beer – yawned and said, “Well, I think it’s about time we go to bed.” “Yeah, I’m getting kinda tired,” I agreed, “I’ve got my sleeping bag, I can sleep right here, on the couch.”

“No need to sleep on the couch,” he countered, “there’s plenty of room in my bed.” I looked at him to see if he was kidding. “No No,” I said, “I’m totally fine sleeping here on the couch, it looks quite comfy.” “Don’t be silly,” he said, “I’ve got a big queen-sized bed, it’ll be comfortable for the two of us.” “Uhhh, no,” I said, once again, “I’d rather just sleep on the couch…or the floor, I’ve got a foamie.”

Kevin’s easy-going demeanour darked somewhat. He furrowed his eyebrows and stared at me silently for a minute, as if he were assessing what to say in response to my rejection of his “kind offer”. “Ohhh,” he began slowly, pausing and nodding slightly, knowingly, “so that’s the way it’s going to be, eh?” “Ok,” he said, with resignation and disappointment in his voice, “get your pack and I’ll take you to the hostel.”

In the last 5 minutes, I’d realized what Kevin’s entire goal for the last 4 hours had been – to slowly manipulate me into bed with him. A well-crafted trap of kindness and camaraderie sprung upon my unwitting, trusting, and naive 17-year-old self. I grabbed my pack and headed for the door.

The ride to Fredericton was blessedly short, which spared us both the awkward silence which had descended upon us. We were only about 5 miles from the hostel, and although it was past 9 pm, I knew the hostel would still be open to welcome travellers, like me. Kevin pulled up to the curb in front of the hostel and, as I was about to get out of the car, said, “Here, this is for my ‘amusement’,” as he handed me a 5-dollar bill. I may have just dodged another bullet, but I was not about to pass up a much-needed cash infusion – I grabbed the $5, stuffed it in my jeans, and got out of the car.

I felt an uncustomary sense of relief as I walked through the doors of the 2-story brick heritage hostel building in downtown Fredericton – even more so when I heard a familiar voice behind me while I was checking in at the main desk. “Hey man, looks like I won the race today,” it was Jack, “Ha Ha! What took you so long? I’ve been here for a couple of hours!” he continued. “Uhh, I got a little side-tracked,” I said, “I’ll tell you all about it over a cup of coffee…where’s the kitchen.” “Right through those doors and through the common area,” he said, “Sam’s in there watching TV, he got here the day after we did and has been hanging out, getting high, and playing shuffleboard.” “Oh, cool,” I said, “I’m glad your buddy made it, safe ‘n’ sound…let’s find a fourth and we can play doubles.”

As I headed for the kitchen, I glanced around the room filled with assorted hippies, travellers, and transients. I smiled and waved at Sam, and then out of the corner of my eye, noticed two fellows hunched over a coffee table engrossed in a game of Go. “Takashi! Hey, good to see you,” I said, delighted and surprised to bump into this fellow traveller, whom I hadn’t seen since Thunder Bay – ten days ago. “George! Nice to see you too, are you ready to be beaten at a game of Go again?” he said, laughing. “Ha ha! For sure,” I said, “but only if you let me beat you at a game of shuffleboard!”

It felt good to be hanging out with these friendly familiar faces.

Epilogue…I survived the rest of my journey home and made it back to Victoria safe & sound within 10 more days of very dedicated travel – and a few more near misses and life lessons from the road.

And Mark & Shawn? From my journal: “August 19… phoned parents and found out that Mark & Shaun took 1 week to get to Brandon then turned back.”

I’m glad I chose not to wait.

(Cover photo: “Hitchhiking on the Banff-Jasper Highway, 1973. Photo by Bob Olsen, Toronto Public Library”)