- The text bellow is an excerpt from an article I wrote for a local magazine, summarizing my cross-country hitchhiking trip and highlighting some of the key people I met across America . I made the trek from Los Angeles to Boston in the Fall of 2022-
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 the morning.
I unzipped my sleeping bag and sat crisscrossed while searching the wooden floorboards for my cell phone. I sat in a Dodge van with a modified interior. A small sink and counter were 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 I 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.
After 26 miles of walking and a 6 mile ride, I unbuckled my pack, erected my new micro tent, and quickly fell asleep on a concrete slab overlooking the coastal town of Carpentaria.
My first week on the road gave me a taste of each emotion possibly felt while hitchhiking. 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.
A Lesson in Provision
On the third day of my pilgrimage, 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. I had camped between a large dirt berm and the fence of a large pasture. 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 the unique connection were revitalizing after several days alone on the road. Their collective bond of 40+ years of friendship was a spectacle beyond compare. After several hours of chatting and drinking, I drove Susan's car, full of all of my new pals, to everyone's home and said goodbye to each one until it was only Susan and I left. I then drove us both to the coastal town of Morro Bay, where she prayed over me and quite insistently stuck a $50 bill in the palm of my hand. I watched her drive away and began the short trek along the boardwalk, past tourists and fishermen returning with their catch. I found a small dirt clearing tucked away a mile into a seaside horse trail. I set up my camp and, as the sun began to set, thanked God for his deliverance that day.
A Lesson in Patience
Though I can attest to hundreds of examples of Christ's steadfast provision throughout my journey, many of those examples came about after a long, long time of waiting. From the small town of Cayucos to the grandeur of San Francisco I patiently, and sometimes quite impatiently, thumbed for rides, 15 miles at a time. Hitchhiking truly is a waiting game and I was made painfully aware of this fact during my time on the California Coast. Long days felt longer under stagnant skies. My pack seemingly grew in weight and burrowed long, deep lines into my shoulder tissue. I struggled to keep my thumb in the air and a smile on my face. Then, like a hard rain in the Sahara, a car would screech to a halt ahead and every ounce of energy I once thought lost would come barreling through my system again. I would leap up from the mild depths of despair and gallop to the vehicle's passenger window.
This was a consistent process. Often when I was feeling least patient Christ would graciously supply me with a ride anyway. I began to understand a necessary attitude, one which did not rely on expectation or demand but rather logical inevitability. I knew I was cared for by forces beyond my control, and I knew that any ride supplied to me would be a stranger of notability, so any rage or forlorn attitude I could adopt would prove utterly useless. I began to pray while I walked and thumbed- not out of desperation, but simply conversation. I began to acknowledge God as a companion in my pilgrimage rather than a more ambiguous force in the sky. The mere consistency of impactful interactions with the strangers on the road became the mesmerism I needed to continue on in some admittedly uncomfortable times. I was, every single time, graced with a peculiar and notable ride. Through Cambria and Big Sur and Carmel I rode with poets and artists and surfers. Each ride seemed to have a completely different story with an analogous message: Patience. God gave me recovering alcoholics to teach me about patience in self-control and self-mastery. He gave me parents who wished that they could re-rear their children with a softer hand. Christ provided me with kind strangers in mountain valley cafes and interesting painters on beaches and in coastal parlors. I came in and out of dozens of lives; numerous stories, and all of which could be a novel on their own (And this was only week one).
Each night, when the sun dipped below the horizon, I would find a spot hidden from public view and pitch my tent. I never had an ounce of trouble falling asleep.
A Lesson in Perspective - A Man Named Sunny
I came into San Francisco smelling rank beyond belief. 7 days without a shower took its toll on my appearance, scent, and general dignity. I had a difficult time getting into restaurants because of the dirt on my clothes and my undoubtedly pungent aroma. This struck my pride hard. I felt ashamed and a bit angry at myself for allowing my body such an egregious downgrade. My entitled, self-important attitude lasted for an hour or so as I walked through the Peninsula city streets towards my first hostel, and then I met Sunny.
I was passing through the SanFran neighborhood known as the Tenderloin and had passed dozens of homeless encampments and individuals asking for spare change. In my hurry to acquire a shower and a warm bed, I did not see the hurting souls I passed. I was rounding a coffee shop corner and saw a man with a black knit cap and long sun-bleached hair sitting on stone steps. He held a tattered yellow book in one hand and a cardboard sign in the other. The sign said “Coffee?”
I stopped to speak with the man, who introduced himself as Sunny, and I took him inside to buy us each a cup of joe. I sat across from Sunny, with my pack resting against the wall to my right, and asked him about his situation. Each story Sunny told was more heartbreaking than the last. He spoke of his lost familial connections, his childhood abuse, his attempts at getting a job, his demonic possessions, and his uncountable debt.
“And you know,” Sunny began, “Tomorrow… Tomorrow is my birthday.”
“Sunny, that's great!” I responded. “Do you have any plans?”
He stirred a wooden dowel in his coffee and didn’t seem to have an answer. I then realized how stupid my question was.
He explained that his mother, father, friends, brother, and son had all either died or excommunicated him. The man spent his days reading library books and trying to get strangers to buy him a cup of coffee- no, not a cup of coffee. Sunny spent his days trying to get a friend.
I went on my way after praying for the man and taking his portrait. I watched him pour out his practically full cup of coffee and position himself back on the stone steps.
I walked through the narrow streets as the sun began to set. As I became lost in several backstreets I allowed my feet and mind to wander. I thought of Sunny and the thousands of souls like him. Then my eyes began to well up at the thought of my countless blessings. My closest loved ones have unconditionally backed me in every situation. I was blown away by an overwhelming sense of gratitude and perspective as day turned to night. I stayed on the streets for a few more hours and sat with a few dozen homeless folks. I interviewed several and prayed with a few before finding a small hostel and securing a long-awaited shower.
I spent the whole of the next day in and around San Francisco City. In short, it was a lesson in humanity and in perspective. A majority of my time was spent with either the local shop owners throughout the diverse neighborhoods or the homeless communities laid throughout the city. I spoke and prayed with the most inspiring street evangelists and played rummy and raised toasts with strangers aboard a Northbound ferry. I met dozens of backpackers from across the world and sailed on a schooner of a retired commercial skipper. On the evening of my last day in the city, I made the trek across the Golden Gate and began the climb through the mountain range onto Sausalito.
A Lesson in Expectations
The pace of my trip began to take shape. I recorded story after story from moms in minivans, loners in beat-up pickups, and the occasional nomad traversing the land in a retro VW Bug. I came to expect an interesting situation from every ride and unfortunately developed a slightly entitled attitude when hours would pass without a pickup. My fuse grew shorter and my mind became bitter when horde after horde of traffic would seemingly turn their nose up at me. It was in moments like this when everything inside of me wanted to scream blindly at the road, I tried to pray. I was returned to a state of grace continually by a creator that knows my human frailties all too well. After my rage would settle and I was, inevitably, picked up, I would be transformed into yet another life that sparked only compassion and intrigue. There was a lot of intrigue as my journey continued on.
I raised toasts and prayed with strangers in a Portland hostel. I walked through the coastal town of Cannon Beach- an absolute staple in my childhood. I rode with two self-proclaimed felons who pushed 105 MPH through Columbia River Gorge. I dined with other travelers and writers and artists. I rode with a man named Pluto who is actively wanted by the Dallas Mob. I rode with a world traveler who recently came from a 3-month bout in the Himalayas with an ancient monk society. I met plenty of kind police officers (A few of which gave me rides through their county). I met protective moms and bitter dads who have long since subscribed to the forces of alcohol. I met plenty of broken people and plenty of people who claimed that they were not broken at all.
Each soul I met seemed to compound upon the last, and I admit that I had a great deal of difficulty remembering each ride or telling them from one another.
I strove to make a journal entry after every stretch of driving, though some entries are ominous and practically cryptographic in length, like: ‘Motorcycle’ or ‘Perfume’. I spent a while trying to decrypt a lot of them.
The ride which took me across the Washington-Idaho border was a kind man who spoke of God and alcoholism. I only spent one day crossing Idaho and soon came into the city of Missoula, Montana. I stayed with some close family friends there for a week and used that time to write about several of my rides. The Fall colors had exploded in Western Montana and stole away many of my afternoons with long walls along the Bitterroot and backstreets. After a long spell of rest, writing, and many showers, I repacked my pack and continued my pilgrimage heading East.
I was walking through a long valley enclosed in a tall treeline when I came face to face with a mental wall of sorts. After 16 miles of hiking that day and only one short ride, I was feeling unusually destitute. Having just left the warm embrace of a friend's home, and facing the undeniable challenge of 2,000 more miles of the journey, I was feeling utterly forlorn. I sat down in the gravel and unclipped my pack and rolled onto a bed of brown grass to watch the clouds pass overhead. The sun had just dipped below the Western ridge and it cast brilliant golden beams through the trees above me. I began to pray for even an ounce of encouragement- after 4 weeks on the road it felt odd to hit such a mental barrier all of a sudden. Then, slowly, Christ supplied me with a store of energy. I began to sing hymns of praise as I pulled my pack back onto my shoulders and shakily rose to meet its weight. I carried on through the valley as darkness flooded in. As the stars began to speckle the night sky I saw a wooden lean-to building with smoke rising out of its chimney. I came into the small building and was greeted by two very old, very kind bartenders.
They fixed me a large order of sliders and fries and spoke with me while I totally devoured the meal. They let me pitch my tent behind the bar- I fell asleep with a full stomach and a grateful heart. It was common to find the most generous of people when I felt the most alone. Christ never left me down on my luck and always, in some way, provided a person or place which adequately filled me with both hope and encouragement for the journey ahead.
A Lesson in Judgement
The morning after that delicious burger and warm slumber I was picked up by a man named Butch. I ran to his truck he rolled down his passenger window and asked where I was headed. I told him as far East as he could take me, and so he offered to drive me to Minnesota. He was moving his items to his old house after a nasty divorce and confessed that he would enjoy the company. So, after tossing my pack in the bed of his truck, I hopped in the passenger seat and buckled in for a 14-hour drive. The conversation was simple enough toward the beginning. Butch is 73 years old and fought an arduous court battle with his wife. He is fairly mild-mannered and, after stopping for roadside burgers with him, I figured that he would be good company for a day and night of driving. Then, an hour into the drive, I picked up on the first sign that Butch was a prejudiced man. We were passing a semi-truck at a regular speed and as we came up to its cab Butch blurts out,
“Damn Mexicans need to go back to their country.”
I was baffled by the sudden change in mood and didn’t know exactly what to say to combat or at least engage with such a comment. Then, a few minutes later, we passed a woman in a minivan.
“These women just needa’ stay off the road, they're a liability”
It was obvious that Butch had some significant opinions about certain people groups, and I hoped that his comments were complete. I hoped in vain. Every 30 minutes or so he would make a remark about another driver or tell a story about some obscene thing he had done or said and say it all with the utmost pride and confidence. He told detailed stories of his days in high school - criminal acts that he engaged in toward women. Story after story would emerge from his mouth and leave me even more baffled than before. I attempted to ask him questions in order to understand how or why he thought this way, but there seemed no particular pattern other than unfiltered hate. As the ride went on the comments became worse. It was not the first time I was presented with undeniable racism during the trip. A few of my rides admitted to me that they had only pulled over because of my white skin. One hunter who picked me up in Oregon, after talking about the farming community, said,
“Y’know I don’t really have a problem with the Mexicans…. It’s the blacks I don’t really like”
I was presented with a peculiar problem, one many people don’t have the opportunity to combat. I was in the presence of someone who was undeniably hateful. How, as a Christian, can you refute such hatred without risking all-out war? Well, I knew that God is a God of justice. I also knew that screaming at this man would not make him any less racist. Butch is not in politics. He is not in an institution or company which can be toppled. He is just a lonely, sad old man in a truck who has nothing better to do than tell stories of lynchings with his friends. So, I began to ask as pertinent questions as possible.
“Butch, what was your father like?” I asked him. I continued to ask about his childhood, the environment he was brought up in, and the people who first influenced his outlook. During the course of 12 more hours of driving, I was able to acquire a level of understanding as to why he thought the way he did. As he dropped me off in North Dakota, near the border of Minnesota, I still felt little compassion for the man. He told me, in detail, about the terrible things he has done and it was difficult to shake those things out of my mind when looking at him. But as I shook his hand and took his portrait I couldn't help but imagine how Christ would look on this man. I gave Butch a hug before he drove off and promised to pray for him. I realized that the only way to ever change a hardened heart like Butch's is through love, which is also one of the greatest challenges, Butch being the sort of person who is most difficult to love. He helped shape the way I look at Matthew 5:43 - the Christian idea of loving your enemies is fairly easy when your enemies are more abstract. When presented with blatant hate and unjust ideas, it is a formidable adversary, one that we are called to assess with patience and grace.
I will never forget Butch, and though he was one of my least favorite strangers, he most certainly was not a meager lesson.
A Lesson in Humanity
After my 980-mile ride I spent a week traveling Northern Minnesota and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I met dozens of kind-hearted hunters, fishermen, and homesteaders. The Autumn forests were in full bloom and made for an ideal backdrop in and around many welcoming small towns. One day, while thumbing on the roadside of a large gravel quarry, I was picked up by a man named Dave who asked if I would work for him. Dave is an elderly man who lives alone in a small red house 15 miles North of Crystal Falls. He has a small black lab named BB and a hut full of 40 years of junk. He asked if I would give him two days of my work in exchange for a place to stay, hot meals, and a sum of money. I hopped on the opportunity, not simply for practical reasons, but for missional purposes as well. Dave opened up to me and confessed that he was uncertain if God existed. He said that he often listened to a Bible radio show but wasn't sure if the whole ‘Religion thing’ applied to him. I saw working with him as a chance to share the gospel in ways that he may not have heard before. I soon saw how effective a seasonal friend would be for Dave. We drove to his small parcel of land and he gave me a short tour of his home. His house was in shambles; piles of clothes rising up and bellowing over stacks of jammed boxes and old papers. His dog was entering her hospice stage of life. His brothers, both alcoholics, have disowned him. With no wife, no children, and no real friends, Dave's life is one of unretiring solitude. We worked side by side for two days and cleared only two rooms of his home. During this time he would tell me stories of his work in Milwaukie or legends from his childhood. Each night he would grill up deli ham and sliced bread and play a John Grisham movie for us. He asked me hundreds of questions about heaven, redemption, and the life of Jesus. I felt honored but nevertheless inadequate to answer many of his questions, but I did my best to give him the knowledge he was so earnestly seeking. On the third day, he drove me to the edge of Crystal Falls and dropped me off at a Chinese Buffet. We shook hands and I promised to write to him to keep in contact- his birthday was the following week and he had nobody to spend it with. I shook his hand and watched him drive away. Dave touched my heart in a way no other character from my pilgrimage had. He was honest and tragic and deeply saddening. I still pray for him and hope that he and his 14-year-old dog are faring well in a lakeside, forest-clad abode.
A Lesson in Initiative
Throughout my trip, I met countless strangers, all of whom have had a direct impact in my current way of viewing the world. The majority of those strangers were met, pursued, and analyzed because of one thing: Initiative. What I lacked in personal initiative Christ provided in courage. Through outstretched thumbs and bold approaches, I came into dozens of conversations, homes, and offices. Throughout my bold efforts to meet anyone and everyone, I came across the most beautiful of characters.
Brett, in Eastern Ohio, who invited me into his home and served me a hot meal beside his three children, was memorable in his enthusiastic generosity. Stanley, who invited me into his penthouse office overlooking the Cleveland skyline despite my undoubted stink, was especially accommodating. Keary, who let me pitch a tent in her yard and served me cold lemonade on a hot day in Pennsylvania, also made it onto the list of the sweetest people I've ever met. Again and again, I was welcomed into the homes of strangers for tea, cookies, water, and anything else a stranger deemed necessary that I consume. It was common to be booted from someone’s vehicle with a $10 or a bottle of water or a granola bar. Strangers seemed to greet me with undeserved kindness, and not a day passed without a direct sign that Christ was walking by my side. One man, whose name I was unable to acquire, dropped me off but before driving away came out of the car with me to lay a hand on my head, lift a short prayer over my journey, place $60 in my hand, get back into his car and speed off, all before I could react. Two innkeepers in Mackinaw City insisted I drink tea with them before I left the area. When I went to leave, the husband of the couple rushed out to catch me. He shook my hand and as he walked away I looked down to see $50 in my hand. Another man, named John, shot out of his room and met me on the road. He too gave me a cash gift and a swift hug before saying,
“I never got the chance to do what you’re doing here, boy. Drink it all in, for my sake if anything”
While I can accredit many of my adventures to the initiative, most of my blessings came from forces beyond my control. I was continually touched by the hand of God through the beauty and complexities of the strangers in my path. These stories and gifts will not soon depart from me.
After 7 weeks on the road, I stood on the Boston Wharf watching the sun rise over the distant shoreline. I sipped a cup of hot black coffee and slowly journaled one of my last entries of the journey. Clouds filed overhead and it began to rain. I found a small brick outcrop and laid out my sleeping bag and fell into a deep slumber. It was a deep sleep, one that I could not easily escape. As I drifted off on that last Hobo nap I thought of all the places I had traversed; small towns I will never visit again, national parks I crossed off my list, entire countrysides which go unseen and unthought of by the majority of the nation. The challenge of Hitchhiking solo across America seemed simple and doable under that brick outcrop as if I had not experienced the greatest range of emotion in my entire life. After great tribulation and grand victories, I thought only of how quickly it all passed and how seemingly easy such a feat is when Christ walks by your side. My ponderings didn’t last long that rainy morning. Within a few minutes of laying down, with my cap laid over my face, I fell into a deep, restful sleep.
