I sat, with a rueful spirit, between a woman and a man, both of whom were more muscle-bound than I could ever hope to be. They chatted with one another in German and often stopped to translate for me. A man with a barrel chest sat behind the driver's seat of the small Prius, and in the passenger seat was a young woman who did not speak. They pitched forth new topics of conversation that would send the entire vehicle into an uproar of passionate discourse. Though I often did not understand what it is they were saying, I enjoyed every second of it.
30 minutes prior I was in sheer destitute. I sat on muddy gravel, picking at pieces of slate, tossing them onto the much too-empty two-lane highway. The morning was spent thumbing, but after a few hours without a car much less a ride, I retired to the ground for a short rest. I was just south of Ragged Point on highway 1. A thick fog had rolled into the pasture land and my senses were quickly dulled by the monotonous sound of the ocean and the constant howling wind. A deep chill had set in me, one that could not be shaken, no matter how many jumping jacks I did. In the distance, through rare clearings of fog, I could make out the shape of the Padres Blancos lighthouse. I knew the land around me was beautiful on a clear day, and I was sorry I could not have seen it more clearly. I think dozed off against my large pack, my cap pulled far over my eyes when I heard a distant motor. I leaped to my feet as a blue Prius screeched over a distant ridge. It was momentarily lost below a dip but soon came onto my stretch of road. I hopefully raised my thumb and the Prius was immediately and successfully hailed. Gravel flew as I began a quick sprint to the passenger side of the car.
“Hop in!” the driver said, “and throw that bag of yours in the trunk!”
After securing my pack in the back of the small car I began the cumbersome process of introduction and seating. The Prius carried four passengers and piles of duffle bags. After a few moments of squishing and pushing I was finally situated in between the two passengers who sat in the rear. They all spoke in thick german accents and provided me with a Gatorade and granola bar. I asked them about their travels and the man to my right filled me in.
“We are Ironman competitors,” he said, gesturing to himself and the woman on my left. “We come to California to compete in the world championship but it uh… get canceled”
“Lena,” said the beefy woman on my left, swatting the shoulder of the meek woman in the front passenger seat, “Is our physical therapist. She make sure we stay healthy and fed” “And Stefan,” she continued, “Is our coach. He trains us, makes us ready to eh… kick the ass. But now the tournament is cancled! We were eh very bummed but we decided, ay, America is beautiful, so we stay until our flights next week”
“So now,” began Stefan the driver, “We sightsee! We see big eh rock and uh sea lions and Los Angeles. We drive on and on, next we go to east to the little town of Fresno!”
They seemed to be in incredibly high spirits considering their unfortunate situation. They passed bags of chips around and continued to ask me about my hitchhiking trip. A question tugged at me and after a few minutes of pleasant chatter, I spoke up.
“So, why Fresno?”
“We hear it is the place to be!” said Stefan, “And we hear about restaurants and wine there… we are big eh, what is the word?” he stopped for a moment to confer with his companions in German then, quite excitedly, he continued on.
“We are big foodies!”
“Big food people.”
“Das klingt gut” agreed his group.
I decided not to tell them about the cesspool that is Fresno. Who am I to judge how another, especially a foreigner, may see the lands I have traveled? Considering their overall enthusiasm I would not be surprised if they rocked Fresno harder than LA or the Bay Area. Their avidity stuck with me for the remainder of the day. They dropped me off at a dirt pull-off near a sign which read ‘Pfeiffer Beach’. I continued on foot until I found a small gas station. I bought a cup of coffee and sat on the curb, looking for possible rides. Within a few minutes, a large black van pulled into the parking lot. A man exited the van and walked into the snack shack, soon emerging with a 24-pack of Miller Lite. I approached him and asked for a Northbound ride. He agreed to take me.
“So, why exactly are you doing this? The man, whose name is Jason, asked me. I sat on a carpeted seat that was tattered and torn by years of use. The interior of the van was decked out with posters, postcards, and a long rack that housed three surfboards. Beautiful coastal sights of deep gulches and wide bays and high ridges rapidly passed us by. I answered his question with some blanket statement about expanding my horizons, and he accepted it without further inquiry.
We spent an hour talking about his art business, one that is based entirely around the practice of harvesting driftwood and carving them into statues. Jason drove me into the heart of Big Sur and left me with an interesting conversation to think about while I walked. It was midday and I had many miles ahead of me. I found a campsite and spoke with a National Parks officer named Bill.
Bill was a complex character, and I will not attempt to fully summarize all of my analytics regarding the strange man. We talked for 20 minutes or so about his life on the quant Californian coastline and the legends he’s collected throughout a full career working for the Parks. He was no older than 60 and had a large belly that bounced when he laughed. A wispy gray beard covered the lower half of his face and neck. Oddly, he pulled out a small disposable vape. Something about a pink Novo in the hands of an alleged mountain man was offputting. A pipe, sure. Handrolled cigarettes, absolutely. But a cheap nicotine device? It absolutely threw me off.
After my pleasant stop with Bill and his golden retriever, Stacy, I continued on, back towards the road, in search of another ride. I had my eyes set on Monterey Bay.
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