The Summary of a Pilgrimage

   - 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.

On a San Francisco Ferry

     The sky was windswept and the Ferry Terminal was tragically empty. Void of any workers, skippers, or passengers, the place seemed to dawn a particular sort of sadness, one only found in places that should, in their rightful state, be full of noise and bustle. I waited for the number 14 Ferry which would take me across the San Francisco bay, Southbound to the iconic Ferry Building. While I waited I buried myself in a pitiful state of limbo - I felt no compulsion to listen to music or read my book. I had no desire to buy a snack or print in my journal. The dry wind and the bland sky and the gray concrete seemed to dominate my entire persona for about an hour, then I heard the skipper blow the Ferry’s horn. 

     “That should be us!” yelled a man in an orange vest who stood patiently by a long metal gangway. He swung his arms back and forth rhythmically, toddling his full belt and dangling plastic name tag. 

     I quickly stood up and heaved my 40 lb Jansport external frame backpack and bounded across the empty square. My pack jostled and jumped as I began my climb up the steely ramp. The attendant in orange called after me, 

     “You hikin’?” 

     “Just traveling through” I called back to him.

     “Well, careful of all the people onboard, don’t want to knock anybody overboard today, eh?” 

     He finished his remark with a smirk and a chuckle to himself; he was downright amused and I soon realized why. I quickly saw that there were no other attendants, no passengers, not even a skipper onboard. The Ferry could have been operated by an Artificial Navigator and I would be none the wiser. 

     A significant uneasiness came over me as I scoured the upper deck for even a trace of a soul. I passed the hundreds of empty chairs and tables and stopped by a large porthole to look out into the bay. The sky had transformed as the evening sun began its daily ritual. An orange hue had replaced the gray, streaky clouds and harsh midday sun. The wind seemed to have died down and a pleasant breeze made a few trees in the port dance. 

     I was desperate to cleanse myself of this uneasy feeling. I traveled to a lower deck in search of people and eureka! A small minibar was nestled in the forward Starboard corner of the deck. A young, short woman stood behind the counter. Her face was hidden behind a long, angled slant of hair and it was obvious that she had no intention of making any daring sales pitches. Infact, as I walked to the bar, it seemed that she did not hear me. Not wanting to startle her, I began a painstaking process of making just enough noise to alert her to my presence, but not too much commotion as to completely scare her. I scuttled my hiking boots on the polished floor. I shifted my weight to swing the cords and zippers of my pack. I even coughed a very fake cough and cleared my throat in one last comedic effort to make myself known to her. Finally, I approached the bar and rested my hands by the register. Still, she did not raise her head from its steady position. I could see that she was listening to music. I brought out my debit card and gently tapped it on the counter. I tapped it again, this time a bit louder. Finally, having done what I could to avoid a deathly scare, I spoke up. 

     “Hello ma’am, sorry, I was hoping to buy a drink, if you wouldn't mind” 

     Instead of a drastic reaction or a frightened  jump, she simply looked up at me, took one earbud out, and with a half-hearted attempt at customer service asked me, 

      “What would you like?”  

      I quickly felt embarrassed by my long ordeal of spacial awareness. A suspicion in me arose that, perhaps, she had heard me coming from the moment I entered the lower deck. My theory was that she was simply waiting for an inexcusable order that she, in her position, could not ignore. Somebody walking and stifling and clearing their throat like a fool, however, can be ignored with the excuse that they have not directly asked for a use of your services. I quickly scanned the small menu and ordered a ginger beer. 

     I did not attempt to make any further conversation with her. The interaction seemed stale and, though I yearned for pleasantries, pleasantries seemed like the last thing this young woman wanted. I opened my ginger beer and found a booth by a porthole on the lowest deck of the Ferry. Within a few minutes, the Ferry let off a blast from its horn and it began moving out of the small harbor. 

     I heard laughter from one of the upper decks and soon a man and a woman clambered down the steep stairwell and came into view on the far side of the room. They were both dressed well and walked in sync like some couples do. The man was lanky and wore brown corduroy pants with a high-collared windbreaker. The woman, similarly tall, was dressed in tan khakis, a blue blouse, and a patterned peacoat. They stopped at a few portholes to observe the passing landscape. When they came within a few yards of me I asked them how their day was, and within seconds they were sitting at my table, each with a plastic cup half full of my ginger beer, brimming with questions and brightened eyes. 

     “So you’re really like, out on the road, with your thumb in the air?” The woman asked. 

     “Sometimes I make a sign but, yeah, that sums up my days pretty well” I responded. 

    They each asked about the details of my travels and about the thesis behind my pilgrimage. We covered lodging, clothing, hygiene, safety, first aid, and a myriad of other topics which inevitably arise when talking about hitchhiking. 

     They both sat on the opposite side of the table and leaned in towards me as they asked their questions. They were worried and excited for me and made their feelings known often. The woman, named Carole, was motherly towards me and I did my best to reassure her about my safety similarly to how I reassured my actual mother. The man, named Jason, was filled with questions about the cities I have been to and offered me keen advice about the cities I will pass through moving forward. Soon another man and woman approached the table. This couple was  Gerald and Sue, close friends of Jason and Carole. The group was traveling into the city to attend a baseball game and I was fortunate to have crossed their paths. Soon Gerald and Sue were filled in on my situation. Carole spoke about me like I was her son at Harvard. I asked the group about their livelihood, children, and lifestyles. 

                                                                Carol next to my pack 

     All four were Real Estate Agents and had all met at the same firm 40 years back. Gerald and Sue were married the year after they met, and Carole and Jason followed suit two years later. The group has been close friends ever since and travel often in and around San Francisco city. 

     Sue and I went to the Mini-bar to buy some refreshments. This time the girl behind the counter was slightly more receptive. I bought two cans of GingerAle and Sue bought two boxes of red wine. We came back to the table and within minutes we were laughing, jeering, and belching like family.

     Gerald and Jason told stories from their time at the firm; the pranks they would play on one another and the trouble they would self-prescribe. Sue and Carole told me details about their children and their endeavors. I spoke about my childhood, my homeschooling, and my faith. 

                                                          Gerald (Left) Jason (Right) 

     This group of 5 lit up the dreary Ferry Deck, and as the sun began to set the interior hanging lights of the ferry turned on, completing the cozy optics. This cast a gleaming warm light on everyone's faces as we continued to pour wine and soda. I stole a long glance out the window; we were passing Angel Island. Gerald schooled me on its rich and perverse history.  How it was a place of immigration; a resting place for many foreigners as they sought a new life for themselves. For over a century, instead of the Manhattan skyline and the great Lady Liberty, many immigrants seeking work and refuge in America were met by the Grand Golden Gate and a dozen small, wooden buildings on Angel Island. In 1942, Following the attack on Pearl Harbor, over 700 Japanese-Hawainn Immigrants were taken from the Pacific Islands and kept on Angel Island in America’s first Japanese-American Internment Camp, known as Fort Mcdowell.

Gerald had a deep voice; a professor's voice, one which commanded the attention of all within earshot. He was well-read on the history of the grand bay and continued to inform me about the convoluted history of the small, green island we passed.  

     I did not know this prior to this Ferry ride with Gerald and his crew. To me, Angel Island was simply a lush green hideaway on the North side of an angry, tattering bay. For a while, as we passed the island, we were protected from the brewing seas and subjected to a spectacular view of North San Francisco. 

     Our vessel had one stop. The skipper announced that we would soon be in the port of Sausalito. The two couples and I joked that there was no reason for the stop. The ship was empty and we expected it to stay that way on the seemingly slow weekend eve.

     We bumped the dock and lines were quickly fastened to the Stern and Bow by attendants onshore and the attendant onboard I had met earlier. I saw a horde of people all dressed brightly standing about on the dock. There seemed to be hundreds of them. 

      “We’d better make some room” chuckled Jason. 

      Once the gangway was laid down the crowd of people began to ebb and flow. A steady stream of sweaters and wool hats and colorful sports jackets flooded into the lower decks. Most of them were young. Many were seemingly well off. Nobody was alone. They traversed the ship's interior in groups of 4 or 5 or 6 and made no effort to quiet their conversations, jokes, and songs. 

     A warm buzz hung over the youthful crowd. It was as if the fairest of a fraternity retired early in the night and paid a courteous visit to a local restaurant; they were boisterous but not disrespectful; lively but not destructive. Each person carried a brown package with them. Some were smaller and in the shape of a cylinder. Some were massive crates that tipped haphazardly over their courier. I saw the name in purple font on the side of the boxes: Francino’s Winery and Brewery. 

     “They’re drunk!” Cried out Gerald, doing his best to be heard over the rising commotion. 

It was true. I took a moment to analyze the crowd as an entity as I saw that no one person was walking as they should. Each individual clung to another. Some stood valiantly and tried to care for their companions, but quickly fell into laughing fits over jokes that weren't all that funny. There were hundreds of people in their 20s wine drunk enclosed in a moving vessel and it presented me with perhaps one of the most unique optical experiences. My crew, who had resupplied the table with cold beers and another box of wine, were quick to jump into the party. 

     “What's your name?” Asked Sue. 

     “Where are y'all coming from?” Inquired Jason. 

     “There’s room enough at this table!” Offered Gerald 

     “You guys better not be driving after this” Chastised Carole. 

     Soon enough our table was crowded with 4 additional people. A Consultant from the upper-east side, A copywriter who resided in the tenderloin, A law student who was attending Berkley, and a business student who was attending Mills. 

      I managed to comprehend through slurred speech that the crowd of people had just come from an annual wine festival in Sausalito. The Festival was fairly exclusive and offered thousands of complimentary tastings. Because of the excessive amounts of alcohol, most of the attendants planned on relying on the Ferry and Transit system to deliver them home on that busy Friday night in the city.

      There was about an hour left in the journey and the energy had only increased. The buzz in the room had transformed to a fiery passion as groups broke out speakers and others began to open more bottles of Red. The poor girl behind the mini-bar was barraged by dozens of drunken college students in search of water, plastic cups, napkins, snacks, and the no-longer-existent supply of mixed drinks. 

     Each group that passed our table was drawn in for a short while and, if they understood any of my new friends, quickly learned that I was hitchhiking across America. The two couples I had met bragged about me to anyone and everyone. Toasts to strangers were made in the heat of the moment and I wouldn't be surprised if a few people pursued proposals that night. Bottles traveled through the crowd freely as dozens of corks fell to the ground. 

     If someone's cup was empty then it was a crime; a crime well tended to by anybody who held an open bottle or anybody who possessed a corkscrew.  

       My massive pack, which sat beside me, drew a crowd and I mesmerized many by unfurling my U.S Map and laying it flat on the table. The map was scored and marked according to my travels and it was signed that night by over a dozen strangers. I heard many, 

     “I have a so and so who lives in Idaho… here's their number”

     Or 

     “If you’re passing through Pleasantville, you have to see this waterfall”

     Or 

     “Oh, you’ll be in Seattle? You absolutely have to eat at…” 

I was given recommendations, accommodations, advice, and many other assertions on the Ferry that night. Some of which I wrote down, many of which I forgot, and most of which I left unpursued. 

      I was speaking with a day trader about Nancy Pelosi when a girl, no older than 25, crashed into me. I lifted her shoulders and tried to get her on her feet but to no avail. I took a look at her face and held her hand, all I could make out was “I’m so scared. I’m so scared”. I wasn’t certain where she came from nor did I see anybody who seemed to recognize her. I gave her a dented plastic cup of water and told her that everything would be ok. She rested against the wall and my right leg as I struggled to find her group. I asked her if she had taken anything and she stammered that she had, infact, taken about three bottles of wine. A girl and guy who looked similar in age to the drunken girl pushed their way through the crowd and helped the girl to her feet. Before I had a chance to speak to these people the girl who fell into my lap was whisked away as quickly as she came. She was lost in the crowd and I did not see her until an hour later, once we were off the Ferry. 

     Many more toasts were raised and songs sung. Like a blanket of tolerance, though, the ship went silent as drastically as it became a party. Many people dozed in their seats and a few even laid down on the floor - whether that can be blamed on the wine or seasickness or exhaustion, I do not know. I theorize that it was a combination of all three. The table behind us was out cold. Each man and woman had a baseball cap, scarf, or glove propped over their eyes. They rested into one another and it was a magnificently cozy sight to see. 

     As the Ferry began to approach the center of the City the last light of day was lost below the horizon. The only light was the glow that radiated from the city and the dimmed bulbs of the Ferry. The city skyline was a fine sight; a hopeful image for me as I prepared for a long night in an unexplored metropolis. A sleepful, peaceful attitude had taken over the inhabitants of the vessel. Within minutes we were docked and many groggy, grouchy folks began to stir and make their way down the ramp, into the Ferry building. 

A Photograph taken immediately after de-boarding

      I stayed aboard for a while to say goodbye to my merry crew. Carole, Gerald, Sue, and Jason all gave me intentional hugs and offered sincere, earnest words of encouragement and affection. They departed from me and I watched them go as I prepared my pack for departure. While I did so I saw the Skipper come to the lower deck and I engaged in a short conversation with him. He was an older gentleman with a well-trimmed, gray beard and intense sunken eyes; exactly the sort of fellow you’d expect to be a captain. Before I departed I asked him about the passenger count:

      “326 souls aboard, son, including yourself.”

      “Thank you, sir!” I said back to him. 

      “Well, now it’s about 3 souls on board. You’d best be on your way. Now, listen here-'' he stooped in and dawned a serious look “you be careful out there, alright? Lots of crazies out on the road”. 

       “I will, you have my word.” I said, then, in a foolish moment of attempted honor, I saluted the man as I stepped down the gangway. He saluted back and left me with a smile and a very intelligent, very sober conversation to think about. I heaved and secured my pack to my back and began to navigate my way through the city. On the subway clear to Oakland I saw little sleepy people with their hands around brown wine boxes. Some boxes were seemingly full of bottles, and others were practically empty. They were dispersed into the city and I suspect that many of them are still, charmingly, hung over.

 

Monterey Bay

I stood beneath a large canopy of Fir trees which blocked the midday sun and provided excellent shelter from an unusually windy afternoon. Gusts blew along the pacific and, combined with the surf, met the rocks and cliffs of Big Sur with absolute hostility. Tourists were pulled into various small, tucked away parking lots, and brave beach bums un-mounted boards from the roofs of their various vehicles and began towards the craggy shore. I  shuffled pine needles with my feet and made small, neat mounds next to my monstrosity of a pack, which was laid frame-first in the dirt. I keenly listened for the sound of an approaching car, which I often mistook for the whooshing of waves, and did my best to stick a sorry smile on my face and a sore thumb out towards the small, two-lane highway. Each car that passed me, though, only seemed to speed up or pull into a campsite parking lot. That is until I met Louis. 

     Louis picked me up towards the Northern end of Big Sur National Park. He drove a beaten minivan which was filled with musical equipment, boxes of food and camping supplies, and a weeks-worth of drive-through wrappers. He took a few moments to clear a space for me in the passenger seat, afterwards I hauled my pack into the already overcrowded backseat. I climbed into the cockpit, arranged my camera and cell phone, and shook the hand of the man who sat to my left. 

      “-Nice to meet you, Matthew. I’m Louis. Where are you headed?” 

     I responded with an answer which had already become my typical line. “North!”  

     Louis spoke in a slightly Canadian accent, bending and softening certain vowels, and it did not surprise me when he shared his eventual destination. 

     “I’m headed back to Toronto. I started my trip  down on the Baja Peninsula, surfed there for quite a while, and now I’m headed home.” 

     Louis shared his passions, hobbies, and interesting lifestyle which consists of copywriting for various companies in the Toronto area and long bouts of cross-country road-tripping. He told me about his ex-wife and child who died in the spring of last year. He was articulate and opinionated but also very curious and open-minded. He told me about a time when he and a close friend of his hitchhiked across Asia and became stranded on a small, uncharted island. 

     “Our guide,” he began, after pausing to recall, “Told us that he would be back in 3 days. He told us that we could catch the best waves in Indonesia on that island. When we got there, it was a lake.” 

     “Not a single wave?” I asked. 

     “Not one. There was one surprise, though!” He looked over from the driver's seat “The guide abandoned us.” Apparently, 5 days went by without a return boat in sight. Louis and his friend had only enough food and water for 3 days. They considered swimming in the direction of land. Then, on the 6th day, the skipper returned, only to deliver them to an ATM and drain their only funds at gunpoint. 

      “All things considered” Louis continued “We didn't mind being mugged, all we cared about was getting some food and water.” 

     Louis had many fascinating stories from his exotic life and as we plunged in and out of the various coves of Big Sur he told me many of them. We discussed politics, art, and parenthood; all themes brought into the conversation by Louis with intent and charisma. He was good company to me, and as we barrelled into downtown Monterey I was sad to depart from him. 

      Louis dropped me off at a stop sign 6 blocks from Cannery Row and the main boardwalk. The sun and sky was incredibly brilliant and I enjoyed a short stroll, downhill, towards the bustling beachside. 

     I took photographs of the vibrant flowers in the flowerbeds of many front yards even though I knew that they would turn out to be mediocre pictures. I stopped to read the various plaques dedicated to John Steinbeck and Ed Ricketts and the other literary and scientific giants which emerged from this particular corner of California. I found a small restaurant and ate a large plate of fresh tortillas and pinto beans and a heap of Carne Asada. I paid a visit to a market and restocked on water and granola, not long after washing up in the bathroom of the market. I passed a charming gallery that was half underground and was filled with many people, all of whom looked interesting, but I deemed my framed pack and disheveled demeanor to be too cumbersome amongst the blown glass and delicate paintings, so I continued on without stepping into the gallery. 

      I walked down Cannery Row and wanted to spend my precious bills on every donut, oyster, and grilled cheese I saw. I wanted, very badly, to stay in Monterey, but it was almost four o’clock in the afternoon, and I wanted to reach Santa Cruz before nightfall. I made a two-hour urban hike through 3 miles of snaking neighborhoods before reaching an onramp which put me on the very large, very crowded Highway 101. 

      Hitchhiking on such a busy freeway was certainly intimidating, but to my rueful surprise, a large rig hauling a camper pulled onto the shoulder almost immediately. I ran to the passenger seat and climbed into the large Ford F-250. The man in the driver's seat introduced himself as Andrew. Andrew looked to be in his late fifties and had worry marks and smile marks and wrinkles all over his arms and neck.    He was driving home from a day at the beach and felt compelled, ‘By the voice of God’ to pull over when he saw me. He told me about his wife and his addictions and his hobbies, all of which he explained with an impressive and articulate vocabulary. 

      “I want to tell you,” Andrew began after a methodical pause “I’ve been to heaven. I’ve seen the pearly gates and there isn't a thing prettier or a voice sweeter.” 

     Andrew told me, in vivid detail, about a concussion he had suffered two years prior. He spoke about a slippery floor and a sharp kitchen counter and a long, uncomfortable bout in a rundown hospital. 

     “In that moment,” He continued “I could feel the darkness grabbing at me- tearing at my clothes and limbs, ardently trying to pull me into the grave. Then-” He smiled, taking a moment to reflect or pray or perhaps both, “-the voice of God spoke to me. Christ spoke to me, Matthew, as clear as I’m speaking now, and he said ‘Not yet', and the darkness let me go, and then I awoke in a hospital bed and my wife was next to me, crying”

     Andrew teared up as he spoke and a tear escaped the sunken skin around his eyes and rolled down the right side of his boney cheek. He asked about my journey and asked If I write poetry. 

     “I try, though I am not very good” 

     “Well, you should keep trying,” he responded. 

     Ever since then, I have tried, consistently, to write poetry, no matter how awful it may be. 

     Andrew also asked me if I plan on writing a book about my hitchhiking trip. I explained that, while I may not write a book, I hope to write about many of the people I meet while traveling. 

     “Please write about me, Matthew. I want my story to be out there. I want the world to know that I have seen true darkness and true light. I want the world to know that I have seen God’s face” 

                                                                      Andrew, age 63

       Andrew prayed for me as I looked out at the fields of produce and the distant peaks above Carmel. The highway split into a Y and Andrew took a route into the small town of Castroville. Castroville rests in the crux of Interstate 1 and highway 156. I informed him that I was headed back to the 1, and he told me that I should walk through the small, dreary town and take in ‘The sights’. I did not argue. 

     He dropped me off in the parking lot of a Motel 6. I watched him maneuver his large rig and pull out onto the highway, back the way we came. The sun was beginning to set and turned the stucco surfaces of the businesses and houses around me to pure gold. The only thing between the town of Castroville and the Monterey shoreline was 2 miles of strawberry and lettuce fields and a large, unaesthetic petroleum plant. I began walking along the main street, trying to make it to the Northern onramp of highway 1. I stepped through overgrown lots filled with abandoned cars and spoke with a Latin barber on the steps of his small, empty shop. I bought 3 oranges from the back of a Toyota tacoma. The man who sold them to me did not speak English but was close to the kindest person I met throughout my entire trip-- his smile was radiant and he offered me the third orange for free. I soon traded weeds and gravel and split cement for the smooth pavement of the interstate. The sun was a perfect sphere and was only moments away from meeting the horizon. I thumbed frantically, hoping to get a ride before dark, and within a few minutes, I heard honking from behind me. A large white sprinter van was pulled onto the shoulder and I sprinted after it, praying the driver would wait for me. The driver did wait for me and emerged from the driver's side when I came within a few years of the van. He was young and well-built and had a kind look about him. I shook his hand and he introduced himself as Gavin. 

     The young man gave me a brief tour of his live-aboard van, which was decked out with a bed, sink, bathroom, bike rack, and plenty of storage. We sat in the cab for a short spell, chatting about our previous paths and our eventual destinations. Gavin has lived a nomadic lifestyle for over four years and was on his way to Seattle when he picked me up on the coast of California. Soon after the tour, I found a seat in the cab and we began driving. As the last light of day crept beneath the horizon Gavin and I talked about hitchhiking, biking, backpacking, and our various takes on many of the challenges which arise while on the road full-time. I had much to learn from this young man, and I did my best to ask him as many questions as possible. We drove for 35 minutes before he dropped me in the heart of Santa Cruz. We took a brief moment to exchange information before Gavin climbed back into his van and continued his own journey. 

                                                                        Gavin, age 33 

     I had my heart set on something which, at the time, seemed incomprehensibly wonderful: Taco Bell. After finding refuge in one for the better part of an hour I  began the arduous task of locating an inner-city camping spot. Santa Cruz took a dangerous turn after dark. The wholesome light of dusk was replaced by a starless, bleak night sky, and I was, for the first time on my trip, afraid. I held my knife and flashlight tightly as I navigated various homeless encampments along the banks of the Saint Lorenzo river which snakes down from the Sierra Azul mountain range and empties into the Monterey Bay. I crossed a footbridge and had no luck on the West side of town. The city of Santa Cruz reminded me of a much smaller Los Angeles. It was grim but also alluring in certain areas.   

      The town was, to me, oxymoronic: at the same red light, I witnessed two dodges revving their engines at one another and, in the same panoramic view, two gentlemen on bicycles, wearing knit sweaters, chatting about the waves they had caught early that morning. I passed an ice cream parlor with warm light and outdoor seating and parents who had toddlers running freely, shrieking with joy. A few minutes later I heard nearby gunshots. 

      There was a health market that advertised cheap produce and so I entered into it. It was cramped in the best way; filled to the brim with boxes and bags and packs of every nut, granola, grain, and fresh fruit a progressive cross-country cyclist could need. It was also exactly what I needed that night. The young man who worked behind the counter was fulfilling a difficult sudoku puzzle when I first entered. He was incredibly kind to me and we spoke for over 20 minutes about my trip and his aspirations of becoming a professional surfer. He chatted freely with the few customers who came into the store and called most of them by name. I cannot remember the name of that young man, but I doubt I will ever forget him. He discounted a jar of peanut butter for me and sent me back into the dark fray of the night with a few apples and a bottle of homebrewed kombucha. 

      Outside that same store, I met Garrett. Garrett was a local with a large beer belly and long, curly hair. He was curious about my pack and offered to walk with me along a neighborhood that runs parallel to what he described as ‘The Goonies’ or ‘our skid row’. 

      “You don’t want to walk through the goonies with a pack like that, man,” Garrett explained. “Cops stopped going there a while back. Only respond to murders and crap like that--I doubt you’d make it two blocks without getting mugged. I’ll show you the way I take it at night.” And he did. Garrett led me through 5 blocks of convoluted neighborhood streets, all the while educating me on the history of Santa Cruz. He was incredibly proud of his hometown but was also prone to outbursts of anger when the topic of homelessness, drug abuse, and the city council came up in discussion. We parted ways on Southview street and I continued, alone, back onto highway 1, which was perfectly deserted. I pitched my tent on the shoulder of Cambrillo Road, over Moore Creek. The occasional car would set my tent ablaze with light. I heard coyotes in the hills of the greenbelt nearby. The occasional siren or gunshot could also be heard, though it only took me a few minutes to fall into a deep, uninterrupted slumber.