Trigger Warning
The story contains references to suicide, i don’t want any readers to be caught off guard. If you or someone you know is struggling, help is available:
Canada: Talk Suicide Canada: 1-833-456-4566 or text 45645 (available 24/7)
USA: National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 988 (available 24/7)
UK: Samaritans: 116 123 (free, 24/7)
International: Visit befrienders.org to find support in your area.
The act of hitchhiking holds a special place in my heart. Surrendering to the fates in good spirit, stepping to unknown adventure with faith in humanity. There's so much that resonates with me. i love the spontaneity and camaraderie between strangers. The opportunity for connection with people i may not have had a chance to sit with under normal circumstances.
One of the most impactful trips i've made, was by most standards, simple, and uneventful. It was also amongst the rare few where i let another join me. i was twenty-one, and recently reconnected with a high school friend after returning from years overseas. In the time after our schooling we'd both found a love for the road. Each seduced by the romance of bohemian literature from decades before, and sought meaning wherever we might find it, whatever that might be. We met for tea, and mapped out a weekend jaunt to a small town named Hope, where a cousin of his had recently moved.
The following Friday we reconvened with small backpacks and sleeping bags, found some cardboard and made a quick sign. A single word written in large block letters that was both our destination and philosophy.
Hope.
It was mid afternoon, before the weekend rush hour. Our stroll to the nearest freeway entrance took around an hour. We spent our walk out of the suburbs in good cheer and deep in conversation. Together we raised our thumbs and sign from the edge of the onramp leading West on Highway One.
Despite the lack of traffic at our entrance it wasn't long before our first ride arrived. A red Jeep Cherokee stopped and we ran for the doors. A woman around ten years our senior beckoned our elated faces inside from behind the window. Jovial we dove in, buckled up, gave our thanks, and introductions. A strange, elongated beat filled the space before a different ambience hit us like a wall. It wasn't bad, or dangerous, rather, a deep palpable sorrow.
Outside the sky began to drizzle. Beneath polite conversation a mournful Jack Johnson album crooned at a low volume. i remember my friend making light conversation with her in the front seat and watching the woman's glance keep moving from the road to our cardboard sign, facing up from his lap. After another awkward pause she opened up. The woman had left the hospital only twenty minutes prior to picking us up. A few months earlier she'd had a bad break up from her then boyfriend, and the night before he'd tried to take his life. She was still listed as his emergency contact and received a call from the hospital well after midnight. Exhaustion, and shock hung heavy around her. As gentle as we could, we encouraged her to share as much she wanted.
Their split had been hard, and she was holding a lot of conflicting feelings. Bedside to a man she hadn't wanted to see again, nor never wanted to see suffer. Holding his hand through the dark of night. Now on her way to visit his young daughter, whom she hadn't seen in months, and had to find a way to explain what had happened.
As the words poured the energy swung. There are few friends that i would trust to help hold space with me for such a conversation, and i was grateful to have one with me then. For two young knuckleheads we did our damndest to lean in, listen, let her lead, and ask only gentle, supportive questions. Best to our abilities.
Our ride ended too soon. Forty-five minutes later we stepped out of the car at her exit's off ramp, hugged, and gave our thanks. She drove off with a sad wave that has remained imprinted on me to this day.
We brushed ourselves off, crossed the street to the onramp and threw our thumbs up, ready for whomever was next. After countless cars passed a minivan pulled over. The sidedoor's hinges begged for lubricant as we wrenched it open. Inside discarded fast food paper bags, napkins, and candy wrappers carpeted the floor. A loud heater welcomed us as we jumped into the complete opposite end of energy. Behind the wheel was a father in his late forties on his way to his daughter's sixteenth birthday. He had just clocked out from work, and was beside himself with excitement for the night-ahead. The man's pride was uncontainable, and we listened with glee to stories of his daughter growing up for the next half hour.
Night had fallen by the time we left his car. We were under an hour from our destination, though far enough from the city where cars passing would be few and far between. The rain started to come down harder. In the knick of time an enormous semi-truck stopped at our side, saving us from a massive cloud burst. Its air-break's hissed, and diesel engine purred.
Inside was a nineteen year-old French Canadian with a thick accent, asked us to take off our shoes before settling in. He was headed back to Quebec, halfway through his first cross country delivery. His English was as bad as his exuberance, and joy unscalable. With our high-school level French, and a lot of charades, we pieced together that our friend had been working as a mechanic on big rigs since he was fourteen. Saving until he could afford a truck of his own. Now here he was, following a dream, in a pristine tractor trailer, on the road, working for himself. His cabin set exactly as he liked it, everything in order, the dashboard meticulous. We high fived, snacked, and listened to the radio right to the entrance of Hope.
Above the exit a large illuminated sign sat, a beacon in the dark. We dropped from his cab chorusing our gratitude, waved him off, and laughed at his loud air horn accented goodbyes. From there we hiked through the dark into the small cozy town. With nothing but a scribbled address we mazed through the streets until we found the right house, and knocked.
The cousin and her friend welcomed us with a beautiful vegetarian spread and warm home. We shared our stories, and the variety of company we'd just had. My friend made the observation that each time we stepped into a car was like walking through a portal, submerging into whatever was going on with each driver. Their day, their history, their personalities. You could feel it in how they kept their vehicle, and the music played.
Somewhere while passing the breadbasket i knew i was addicted. It wasn't the free rides, it wasn't the freedom, but something about the unabridged raw connection. The stark honesty, and safety strangers felt confiding in someone they'd likely never see again. Companionship, built around the uniting commonality of simply going in the same direction at the same time as another.
Our weekend would be filled with beautiful nature, fantastic conversations, stunning hikes, and complete misadventures headed home. Riding with reckless drivers at breakneck speeds. A rectified offence of not being picked up by fellow skateboarders, and long laugh when they returned a quarter of an hour later apologizing. Learning the lesson of speaking up when you're being taken you off course by ending stranded kilometres away from the highway we were meant to be on. Getting rescued after soliciting rides in a donut shop. An invitation and evening to the friend of a driver's house to watch pay-per-view fights, have pizza, and a gracious drop off to our homes safe and sound. While each day brimmed with its own joys and lessons, nothing compared to the contrast of Friday's drivers.
Thanks for reading!
-Mr. Write