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.