The Southern Coastlands

I awoke to the feeling of pure and utter pain. Soreness had gripped my feet, thighs, and shoulders. I spent at least 30 minutes slowly stretching my various damaged tendons and muscles. Gradually I came to my senses and unzipped my sleeping bag. I hoisted myself into an upright position and found the zipper of my tent flap. After pushing myself through the tent's small opening I carefully began to stand. My legs screamed in agony as my eyes adjusted to the early morning light around me. The sound of waves crashing against rock was jarring to my tired senses. I had pitched my tent on a small concert platform 15 feet above the waterline. Wave upon wave surged beneath the platform and sent tremors of energy through the ground after each large swell. A fog had snaked in around me through the night and made my 6 AM awakening mysterious and peaceful. Through a part in the fog, I could see the lights of Carpentaria - The small surf town rested only 3 miles North of me. I broke camp for the first time and painfully pulled my gargantuan pack onto my back. Each step along the gravel bike path which ran to the seaside of Highway 1 was a challenge in some way. I tried to focus on the stretch of land ahead of me, but the pain from either my shoulder straps or hip supports put me to the ground at times. After a brutal morning in the muggy fog, I walked into downtown Carpentaria. There, on the county line, I met a man named Micheal. 
      Micheal was sitting on a large rock, humming to himself, and packing a small metal pipe. I approached him and asked if he minded some momentary company. I positioned myself on the rock to his right and unclipped my hefty pack. After a brief introduction, Micheal began telling me about his life. He began with his interesting and notable high school experience then, before lingering long on his adolescence, switched to a monologue about his botched college experience. He then told me about his Grandfathers influence in Santa Barbara County. He spoke of engineering, architecture, culture, faith, and mental health. He then told me about his personal relationship with his father. 
        "He was a better man than I'll ever be" He began, "My father never fought with anyone. He was patient and kind- But not soft! He was a strong man, and he taught me more about life than any other person or teacher, or tutor. He was also a smart man, like me" 
         I asked Micheal about his living situation. He told me about what homeless life is like in Carp, and his qualms with the local government. I asked him about faith and he professed to have a personal relationship with Christ. He began taking long pulls from his silver pipe while telling me about his first spiritual encounters. I took various portraits of him before I went on my way. As I heaved my pack onto my back and shook his hand Micheal pulled me in close, grabbed my forearm tightly, and said, 
         "Don't forget me, Matthew. Too many people forget too many people" 
         With that he let me go and, after promising to remember him, I continued walking towards Main Street. 

    

                                                                      Micheal, Age 72 

      I found a Subway and gulped down 6 cups of Powerade. I scarfed down a large sandwich while considering my next moves. I found a local coffee shop and spoke with various locals about my future travels, their life in a small surf community, and any key advice they had for my coastal pilgrimage ahead. 

      My goal was to make it out of Santa Barbara County by nightfall. I took a bus to the edge of central Santa Barbara and began a long hike up the foothills of the Chumash mountains. After accidentally cutting through a private vineyard and fleeing two plus-sized pitbulls, I hid in a large greenbelt on the side of the highway. The road which cuts through the mountain pass is a narrow two-lane highway. I needed a ride to get through the pass. So, after scratching my way through barbed wire and malicious rose bushes, I found a dusty pull-off on the side of the road and began thumbing. After a few hours, I was picked up by a Latino man driving a Rolls Royce. The man spoke little English (And I speak little Spanish) but we managed to make pleasant conversation about his work in the motorcycle business and his little life in Solvang. I rode with him for 30 minutes and he dropped me off past a roundabout just South of San Olivos. I hiked along highway 154 for 2 hours before briefly stopping for strawberries at a small roadside stand. The man who sold me the fruit seemed utterly confused as to this dirty, young man in the middle of nowhere, on foot, though he did not question me. I thanked him and munched on the delicious berries while the sun met the horizon, turning the rolling pastures around me to gold. 

       I found a grassy clearing between a high-fenced cow pasture and a large foliage-covered berm which hid me perfectly from the road. I pitched my tent on the soft grass and had little trouble falling asleep. 

After awakening to the sound of cows and distant hens, I unzipped my tent flap and stuck my head out to greet the beautiful morning. Cows milled not 10 feet from where I camped and watched me curiously as I rolled my gear and packed my bag. It was a sleepy Sunday morning in the northern section of Santa Barbara county, near the vineyard town of San Olivos. A quick scan of my maps guided me to a nearby church and, after reading under a large oak tree near the chapel to pass the benign dawn hours, I soon found myself in the cozy embrace of a small baptist congregation. The behemoth pack on my back and my generally disheveled look made me stick out like a sore thumb among the well-dressed, wrinkle-faced attendants. I was warmly met by every member of the church before the sermon had even begun. During the service, I sat next to a retired Army Ranger who told long stories of his youth and how he too hitchhiked long distances. After the service, each member made sure that I knew how cared for I was by our father above and by my newfound family in San Olivos. Several older folks sat and prayed with me before I left.  Many of the deacons made sure my pockets were crammed with cookies before I made it through the door. A woman named Susan offered to drive me an hour North after her weekly wine-tasting meeting with her best friends that afternoon. She invited me along to a large country club overlooking rolling vineyard hills and distant cattle pastures. I sat with 4 elderly women as they peppered me with questions about my family, travels, career plans, and personal spiritual walk. They bought me a tri-tip sandwich and countless cappuccinos as they sipped on glass after glass of Red. their spunk and unique connection was revitalizing after several days alone on the road. Their collective bond of 40+ years of friendship was a spectacle beyond compare. Each member of the group brought their own individual sense of humor and perspective to the group dynamic. I was brought to side-splitting laughter after countless stories of collective tomfoolery. After several hours of chatting and drinking, I drove Susan's car, full of all of my new pals, and dropped them off at each of their homes until it was only Susan and I left.

                                 Susan (Second from the left) and the 'Church Winos' 

         Susan then drove me an hour North to the town of Morro Bay. During our drive, she told me about her grandkids, political views, and stories from her own childhood. She left me in a Vons parking lot after a long prayer, a sturdy hug, and an insistently placed $50 in my palm. I watched her drive away before entering the grocery store and restocking on my food supply. I slowly hiked down the hill to the boardwalk and sat with a few different homeless folks and made dawdling conversation with them. I stopped in at the Coast Guard station to speak with some of the officers there. 

         I sat on a pier and watched sailboats set their anchors and baton their gear for the night. There was a time, during my younger childhood, when I lived in Morro Bay. we Moored a wooden yacht there and I spent my days exploring the beaches, paddling a small rowboat around the bay, and irritating the local fishermen. As I sat on that pier, some 6 years later, I reflected on the undeniable beauty of the local landscape. Morro Rock, rising high against the golden horizon, shaded me as I walked North along the coast, exiting downtown. I followed a sandy horse trail for a few miles before setting up camp behind a large line of trees. I munched on a loaf of bread and sipped on lemonade before falling into a worriless sleep. 

         The following morning I continued along that same horse trail until I reached the highway. I rode with a local artist who told me about his years as a marathon runner. I met him in the parking lot of a large beach-side campsite. He and his wife talked with me for 20 minutes before the man, named Ian, offered to drive me a few miles up the road. 

         throughout that morning I was picked up and dropped off four times before my ride with Jacob. 

         Jacob was an enthusiastic man who greeted me with a friendly smile and a strong handshake. We snaked through the treelined roads of Santa Rita. He told me about his near-death experiences and his work history. He shared that he was a recovering alcoholic who prioritized treating others with the golden rule. Jacob told me that he had a deep faith in Christ and was willing to become a martyr for him. He shared advice about love, lust, and life in general, all in a 20-minute ride. He dropped me off in the town of Cambria near the short but lively mainstream. 

                                                                         Jacob, Age 48 

       I found an old cafe in Cambria to recharge in. I ordered a large cup of coffee, plugged in all of my equipment, and cleaned up in the pristine bathroom. I made a temporary home in a far corner of the cafe. It was a traveler's joint, with dozens of road-trippers coming in and out every hour. Various strangers stopped to speak with me when they saw my impressive spread of camping gear. Many of them sat with me for a few minutes to ask about my pilgrimage and tell their own accounts of the journey I was about to undertake. I was given names of shops in San Francisco to check out and numbers of people who would host me. One couple, Tim and Linda, spoke of how they met. 

       "She was a firecracker, and I couldn't get her out of my head" Tim shared. They told me stories of their travels in Ireland and Northern Europe.  

       "Married 53 glorious years," Linda said. "I never thought we'd both live this long" 

                                                                         Tim and Linda 

         I was graced with many kind people in the town of Cambria. After a full day in the cafe, I knew it was time to continue on. I tried to hitch a ride, but with no luck. So, with the wind to my back, a fully charged phone, and a diverse playlist, I secured my pack on my back and began a rueful journey on foot along the beautiful coastlands. I cut through a large sheep pasture and found a path down to the beach. I hoofed over sand and rock for the better part of an hour before finding myself in the cozy embrace of a small pine-lined bay. A single schooner was moored in its center. I walked inland towards the highway, and after finding a clearing in a thick of woods, I pitched my tent and hunkered down for the night. 

Setting Forth

-------This is the story of how I hitched across America. I acquired dozens of stories while on the road, and many of them can be found on this blog site. My faith in Christ and in humanity was tested often and was rarely beaten by the seemingly predominant forces of hopelessness and mental decay. A rhythm I found myself ruefully singing was one of Christ's deliverance and ultimate provision. Every stranger I met while on the road has had a direct impact on the way I look at the world today. You can find many of their stories here-----

     I awoke and instantly wished that I was asleep again. When you are asleep you can, for the most part, hide from the world around you. The ignorant bliss of extraordinary dreams take hold and, war or famine, the world passes on beyond the security of closed eyelids. For me, on one brisk October morning in Idaho, that was not the case. The cold mountain air had seeped through the seams of my sleeping bag and maliciously settled on my skin. I tried to bury my head deeper into the hood of my sweatshirt in an attempt to flee the wicked hand of frost, but it was no good. I sat upright and fumbled for my water bottle which had developed a thin layer of ice near its opening. Once my eyes adjusted to the glaring morning light I began analyzing my surroundings - curious, during my sleepy morning sluggishness I had nearly forgotten where I was. This happened often during my journey. At night Weariness would drag me swiftly to sleep and momentary amnesia would fog my brain during the first few moments of morning. 

      I unzipped my sleeping bag and sat criss-cross while searching the wooden floorboards for my cell phone. I sat in a Dodge van with a modified interior. A small sink and counter was positioned to my left, with a miniature fridge nestled securely underneath. The walls of the van were covered with various wallpapers and pieces of magazines. Loose wires hung from a long since abandoned light fixture in the ceiling, in its place was an LED lantern. I rubbed my eyes and watched plumes of dust follow the soft beams of morning light which entered through the few windows of the van. 

     I had slept on the floor. Though the plywood planks which constituted a bed for me seemed all too comfortable, I knew it was time to arise. I found my boots which were laid haphazardly near the passenger seat. I laced them with lethargic fingers. I buttoned my undershirt and adjusted my jacket. The sliding door swooshed open with a loud, rusty complaint. Walking around our spacious meadow camping spot, I tried to stomp feeling back into my numb toes. 

I took in the chilly early morning air and enjoyed the smell of pine and cedar. Then, as a proverbial bull enters a figurative china shop, I heard the tumultuous clamor of empty beer cans and rusted camping equipment. I jutted my head back into the van as a burly figure propped himself up on a cot stationed not two feet from the length of the floor I called my bed a few minutes earlier. Quilts and clothes tumbled around him as the man swung his large legs to the side of the fixed bed. He hung his head in his hands, rubbed his eyesockets hard, then looked up towards me. 

     “Morning, er, eh, It’s Matthew, right?” 

     “Yep! Matthew. Morning, Brett!” 

     On October 8th, 2022, I slept on the floor of a van owned by a man I had met six hours earlier. He had picked me up while I was hitchhiking on the highway in North-West Idaho, just outside of Coeur D’Alene. After joining him and some of his companions for a kayaking expedition in a small lake near the Washington border, my ride, a man named Brett, asked if I would join him and his cousin for a camping trip that night. I said yes. Two hours later I was dozing off inside of his rust colored van with him fast asleep, snoring loudly, a couple of feet to my right. The next morning I treated Brett and his cousin to burgers in a small dive five miles from our campsite. Though they were both hung over beyond immediate repair, they were in high spirits. They offered to drive me thirty miles East and drop me off in the small town of Kellog. Brett sang loudly to his highly damaged radio and peppered me with thoughtful questions about my travels and the land I would soon travers. 

He left me at a small gas station near the practically abandoned highway 90. After a firm handshake, a promise of prayer and continued contact, Brett and his cousin went on their way. 

     I examined the new terrain. Wooded mountain ranges rose high and proudly to my right and to my left. I stood in a large gravel pulloff fifty yards from a small gas station with a singular pump and disheveled siding. The highway entrance lurked twenty yards opposite to the station. I heaved up my tall Jansport pack and secured its many straps before walking to the small forlorn building and pushing myself through the screen door. I bought granola and beef jerky from a tight-lipped old woman. Before I left I turned back to her and asked, 

       “Do you have any plain pieces of cardboard or trash that I could take off your hands?”

       “Oh, Plenty” She responded. 

   She disappeared into the back and returned soon after with an empty ‘Green Giant Produce’ Box. She held it out to me and I gladly accepted it.

      Back outside unclipped and slipped off my pack before removing a large sharpie from its outer pocket. On a piece of cardboard, In the biggest, boldest lettering I could manage I wrote MONTANA. I examined my handiwork with pride. The sun poured on me from directly overhead. I checked my phone, it was almost noon, and there was no time to waste. I weaseled my arms through the straps of my pack, grabbed my new sign and, with a piece of beef jerky already in my mouth,  carried on towards the highway. 

Setting Forth 

     In July of 2022, within the confining walls of a small law office cubicle in LA, I decided to hitchhike across the United States of America. It had been in my mind for years, the idea of hoofing it across the great unknown in search of sights unseen. Ever since I first watched ‘Into the Wild’, a story of one man's journey from white collared servitude to the great unknown of the Alaskan frontier, I had envisioned myself doing something similar. In the Spring of 2022, while I was fitting my graduation gown and failing the SATs, my head was reeling from all of the possibilities laid out before me. I knew, for quite some time, that I wanted to take a gap year. How I would fill that gap year, however, was the question of the season. I danced between ideas of European expeditions and south-east Asian crisis intervention. I sought something meaningful; an opulent journey that would teach me real world lessons from real world people. I knew that God had many lessons in store for me, many of which could not be taught to a busy 17 year old tying down long work weeks and stolen social gatherings. I longed for a clear mind and a willing heart to the many truths Christ had drawn for me. I yearned to capitalize on my youth and inclination towards discomfort in the much greater scheme of gained hindsight and know-how. Though I wanted to tell strangers about Christ, Christ took it upon himself to teach me countless lessons through the strangers he put in my path. I drew inspiration from the great vagabond stories which have long since impressed on my brain, and considered hitching my way to the East coast. 

       By midsummer, it was decided. I would quit the two jobs I was working at the time, buy the necessary equipment for 2 months on the road, and begin a pilgrimage on foot.

      I was renting a room 30 minutes outside Los Angeles  from close family friends throughout the summer. I worked as a barista in a WestLake Village hotel and as a part time file clerk for a workers compensation law firm closer to the city. 

       I spent the late spring and summer with my close friends, enjoying warm nights and meals shared in good company. I was grateful for my postgraduate living and working situation, but with my diploma secured and the heat of summer rising, I knew it was time for me to move on, alone. 

     I purchased a large Jansport external frame pack from a family friend and mentor. For two weeks I planned my route and focused on precise documentation and meticulous budgeting. After securing conclusive goodbyes and necessary closure with my loved ones in So-Cal, I set a departure date and broke in my new hiking boots. I left on one crisp early morning in late September. A friend drove me 15 minutes from my summer location in Thousand Oaks, to the beginning of Santa Rosa Valley. The sun had not yet risen and so, after hugging and thanking my dear friend, I lit my headlamp, pulled it tightly over my brown baseball cap, and began on foot along the shoulder of Santa Rosa Road.  

       My first day on the road can be summarized in one word: Walking. I was picked up once, in the city of Camarillo, by a young Marine who spoke passionately about his travels during his deployment. He dropped me off in Downtown Ventura, and I continued walking to the coast. I will never forget my first ride, nor how utterly excited I was to be in the car of a complete stranger. It filled me with hope to know that maybe my plan of hitchhiking to the East Coast city of Boston wasn't such an impossible feat. My optimism quickly faded as I trudged on in the midday heat. I hiked for 7 miles along train tracks which run parallel to the coast. I watched surfers clamber over large boulders and  families gather in the shade of their RV’s. I stopped occasionally to speak with various families and beach bums who asked about my pack. I found comfort in the momentary company of these strangers and in the short-lived shade of their beach vehicles.

     After 26 miles of walking and a 6 mile ride, I unbuckled my pack, erected  my new micro tent, and quickly tucked into my sleeping bag which was laid over a large concrete slab, 15 feet above the waterline, overlooking the coastal town of Carpentaria. After the painful task of removing I boots I went through the even more painful procedure of dressing my blisters with moleskin. I had no energy to journal about my first day on the road, and I most certainly had no energy to plan for the next morning. So, with one day under my belt, I zipped my sleeping bag and quickly fell into a deep slumber.