8/29/09: The Canadian Express: Bozeman, Butte, & Boise

Considering its beginning and end, this was one of those monumental days.

I was lazily unrushed after waking up, tinkering around taking pictures of everything from my nest to an inchworm that had found refuge on my water bottle. I've seemed to learn to tune in to my senses, and when I suddenly felt an urgency to pack up, get coffee, and out to the ramp, that's exactly what I did although, after five hours of nothingness the night before, I had no logical reason to be in a rush.

Saturday, however, was NOT Friday.

I was at the exit ramp no more than five minutes when Don stopped in front of me. This was the first time I can recall a car doing this. The second thing I noticed was that this fancy van had Ontario plates. These were both good signs. He had obviously picked up hitchers before, had a smile painted on his face, and I have had phenomenal success with foreign rides dating back to Florian (German) and Eric (French) in '08.

I instantly knew I was going to like Don. He was an original 60's hippie and on his way from Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario to Nevada for Burning Man; a pilgrimage he made every year. There are two Sault Ste. Marie's. One in the upper peninsula of Michigan, and the other directly across the border. This gave us the immediate connection of familiarity, since I had visited Sault Ste. Marie, MI. When Don asked why I was going to Bozeman (my sign), I replied, "Because it's on the way to Boise." His reply changed the entire complexity of my immediate future. He too was going to Boise to meet friends, then continuing on to The Burn... and I was welcome to ride along the entire way if I liked. He had been driving a long time, and simply wanted some conversation to help pass the time. Billings to Boise? In one ride? Holy Shit.

The offer was incredible, but I still wanted to try to connect with Michele in Butte first, if I could. I was in no hurry to get to Boise because no one knew I was coming, and I had no idea when I would ever be back to Montana. I sent an immediate text and email to Michele, hoping she happened to get to the Continental Divide to get cell service by the time we were to Butte, a couple hundred miles away. If I heard nothing from Michele by then, I'd be contacting my sister, Lynette, to tell her that if she was around we could finally meet each other face-to-face for the first time! I had not set a time for my arrival, not knowing myself when I would get there, and hadn't talked to her in a couple months. She simply had no idea where I was.

The ride thru Bozeman to Butte was one of the best to date. Don and I chatted about everything from history, to politics and sociology, to spirituality and conspiracy theory. He was an extremely intelligent, insightful, and aware individual, and it seemed that we always had something to add to the other. I was particularly interested in his political views, since he was Canadian, and was intrigued that he had extensively studied Roman history and viewed the US as running the same road. He found the entire health care "reform" debate laughable, and the opposition to socialized medicine as a simple case of special interest trying to keep control of the coffers. Being Canadian, however, he seemed convinced that government was the answer to most problems, which of course, with me in the car, led to healthy debate! The more I have discussed these topics, the more convinced I am that the best solution for this country, right now (in lieu of a clean swep of all politicos) is the neutering of government, and limiting its influence to as great a degree as possible.

Don was also a musician, and claimed to have been in a rather successful local band, The Pavement Artists, in Sault Ste. Marie. We also shared an acquaintance there: City Commissioner Ray Bauer, who was once in radio and the man who hired me at WRKR in Kalamazoo. We had a very nice discussion on music, and I don't believe there was a lull of more than a minute.

Around Bozeman, Montana becomes Montana. The Rocky Mountains come into view, the climbs become steep, and the views incredible as you approach Butte and its statue of Mary watching over the small city. Don stopped at a Flying J south of Butte as both a pit stop, and a favor to me to give Michele a few more minutes to get my messages. We got snacks and coffee, and stretched for about 45-minutes before accepting fate and moving south toward Idaho, and VERY familiar grounds along our new road: I-15.

I soon received a call from Lynette thru our sister, Shelly, and let her know that we planned to be in her backyard in just a few hours. I hated that I was giving such short notice, but she and her husband seemed happy to (finally) have me. I quickly thanked God, and as we crossed into Idaho, Don and I had resumed our chatathon.

Idaho Falls came and went, and soon I saw familiar sights. My 2008 route had taken me across southern Idaho, and as we passed through Pocatello I began to point to significant spots that I had enjoyed so much... although at the time, I sometimes didn't realize it! "There was the spot where Z had picked me up... I crossed the Snake River here... I slept there." Pretty soon, as dusk approached, we happened to gas up at the Flying J that made them my favorite truck stop: Jerome/Twin Falls. The spot where Jack dropped me off. This was, obviously, quite cool for me and I came to realize how much I had enjoyed Idaho, and the unexpected nostalgia last year's trip had generated! I was very glad we did this in the daylight.

Around 10pm, with Don fading, we were entering Boise in an intense, but dry, lightning storm. Don and I found the spot where Lynette had asked us to meet her, and after grabbing a shitty, expensive espresso all that was left to do was wait for the moment when I would finally meet the last of the still "unknown" sisters...

7/10/08: A Tale of Two Idahos

Impatience & Indecisiveness: My Achilles Heels.

I got up at about 8:45, saw that the Hippie had moved on and began to contemplate the day. Should I get in touch with the SOS Staffing people? Should I hold out for a ride with a truck? Should I hitchhike out of there today? I remembered all the warnings about eastern Idaho, and knew that if I were to hitch out of there, I should be fussy and wait for the right ride. My indecisiveness did not last long, and it went the same as it did in La Grande; I really was not interested in putting the trip on pause to work.

I headed out toward the on-ramp after lingering inside for a bit. All of my success from Wednesday, and the fact that I had gotten nearly 200-miles made me a bit cocky; at least overconfident. When I got to the ramp, I had only just set up shop when I saw a truck dropping off another hitcher and coming back onto I-84. Sure enough, he stopped. Remember the plan: Pocatello or Bust? Well, this chap was only going 10 miles up the road and I got in. Like a damn fool.

He was in his late 40's with a straggly beard and a very direct disposition, which of course I liked. The trip was quick, uneventful, and he dropped me at state highway 50, which goes toward Eden. “Eden my ass”, I thought. I would soon come to discover that there is no Eden in Eastern Idaho. Nevertheless, I did find an Oasis. The Travelers Oasis. A nice, if slightly cheesy, truck stop with all sorts of greenery hanging inside.

I grabbed some coffee, made up my very first sign, which said something like “Montana or Colorado” (indecisiveness) and cracked open a can of cheap Walmart salmon while sitting outside, again hoping to strike up a conversation with a driver to conveniently complete my odyssey to Pocatello. While I was sitting there a 20-something guy comes over and hands me a 6" Subway-type sandwich. Another example of a random act of kindness. That or I looked like a pathetic creature sitting on the steps eating canned food!

I found a nice shade tree to escape the sun as the day got hotter, propped up my pack with the sign on it, and continued the massive update of the journal. A nice way to spend a couple of hours.

A couple hours was long enough. Back to the coffee machine I went and then to the ramp. I was there quite a while, a sign of things to come. After a couple of hours, and many pictures of the thermometer across the road rising to 94, I finally got a ride sometime between 3 and 4:00.

Paul was another with a long straggly beard, his being snow white, and looked to be in his early 60's. I wondered if this was what Moses had looked like. Another nice guy; another guy going 10-miles. He offered to take me toward the Rupert exit but by now, the feel had definitely changed from the western part of Idaho.

You can see the reactions people have to you when you are sitting by the side of the road. In Oregon and western Idaho people were just friendly. They would wave; give you the thumbs up or peace sign, or just smile. Here the looks began to change to something akin to terror! I heard several doors lock when they would have to slow down to get on the freeway. Most were afraid to make eye contact! Those are the best.

“If I don’t acknowledge I see him then he’s not there!!!”

The disdainful looks I understand. They are probably muttering beneath their breath: "Get a job, freeloader! Praise Jesus.”

But the fear! Where does that COME from? I had A LOT of time to think on this!

I was reminded of the people I’d seen in Twin Falls who were riveted to Fox News and the ‘impending war with Iran!’. They had similar looks on their faces. Or “Easy Rider” when Nicholson’s character tells Fonda and Hopper that the Rednecks weren’t afraid of them but of what they represent: freedom. If you have not seen that movie in a while, and you can stomach the cheesy music, check it out again.

I can’t quite figure it out: Why are conservative areas also the most fearful?!? These big, tough, gun totin’, God fearin’ ‘publicans and their 1950's looking wives were literally scared of my scrawny butt sitting on an exit ramp! Why are liberals, or those in areas that are more liberal, more inclined to offer rides? Are conservatives just easier to control and manipulate with fear?

Fear da fags.
Fear da coloreds!
Fear da A-rabs...Mexicans...Muslims...WMD...Gay Marriage...Iran...Obama...

Fear of anyone who is NOT afraid? Perhaps they are just caged by this fear, and aren’t as free as they think. I know firsthand: Fear is its own prison. However, Nicholson’s character also said:

“Don’t go telling these people they aint free, or they’ll get busy killin’ & maimin’ to show you just how free they are.”

In case you self-righteous Libs are patting yourselves on the back, I have met Conservatives over the last couple of months that make more sense than ANY of you have. I have seen the same looks from the hybrids who drive by with the back window FILLED with the stupid “I’m a Hippie” bumper stickers usually highlighted by the now-ubiquitous “COEXIST”.

I am concerned about the Agenda Dogs who lap up whatever fear Rush, O’Reilly, or Hannity happen to put in their bowl. The left has their own Agenda Dogs; they tend to go into multisyllabic verbal seizures whenever you ask them to elaborate on or dissect the Noam Chomsky quote they just regurgitated and just love to throw around the term “World Citizen”, complete with the upward inflection on cit-uh-ZENNN. These people piss me off more than the Neocons.

“Santa Fe, Hello!! You’re on the air!”

I’ll save the rest for another day and digress, but sheep are sheep; regardless of the herd.

That may have merited a Rant Alert, no?

Paul dropped me at the top of the exit leading to Hwy. 30 toward Rupert. I continued down the interstate hoping to catch a quick ride from someone coming up the other side.

Nope.

By 6:30 or so, the reality had set in that Todd screwed up. Todd should have held out for the ride to Pocatello and now Todd was going to pay! I wanted more coffee and a break from the frustration, so I made my way down toward the Love’s truckstop at the head of the ramp. On the way I saw that there was an irrigator overshooting the fencerow, and was almost spraying the pavement.

YES!!!!!

I hadn’t had a shower since Saturday, was sticky from being in the sun all day (I hope?) and before I’d really thought it through I was setting the pack down, pulling stuff from my pockets and aligning myself to be doused.

And doused I got!

I severely underestimated how much water these things put out! It was like standing beneath a waterfall. By the time I realized how much water I was being hit with, and not without great joy I might add, I realized that my boots were filling with water! I immediately thought about the beach in Santa Barbara, the creek in California, the blisters that had resulted from the wet boots/socks AND how long they took to dry! I was a bit concerned, and would be a bit more so after my little piece of irrigation-heaven finished. I even figured out that I could wash the nasty shirt I was wearing! I was now clean & fresh, and ready for Prom! Thanks Massengil!

It’s all relative, right?

I got to Love’s, and had long since realized that I was now spending more money on coffee than even cigarettes so I bought a 32oz mug to replace the 16oz Pojoaque mug I’d been carrying since the beginning wayyy back in Colorado. With this, I could get more coffee for less because of the ‘refill’ prices. A good buy it turned out. I also scavenged for cardboard and made four signs that I figured I would rotate. One said “Wont Kill You” from the cinematic classic ‘Joe Dirt’. Another said “Freshly Showered in an Irrigator!!”, the next: “Passed ID Checks in SIX States”... yeah a slight stretch; it was only one state, but a little white lie never hurt anyone, right Forrest? The other sign was more straightforward: “Helena, Denver, I-70, I-80, OR I-40" If I could have written “OUT of Utadaho”, I would have.

It didn’t help. Apparently, they did not find my humor to be innovative. My spirits were still remarkably high; I had just simply accepted the fact that this was about to get more difficult than I had grown accustomed to. I knew this day would come, and besides it was not THAT bad. My negativity was more directed at the perceived authors of my newfound plight: the Mormons!

Another hour or so went by, and I had finally had enough of this locale. I packed up my clever (to me) ‘Communication & Interaction Aides’ and started down the interstate toward...well, anywhere but there...with the defiant anger that has served me quite well in the past.

Once I tapped into that I had a remarkably good time, chatting with the dogs that frolicked along the fence with me, then the cows that followed as though I were their Messiah (Todd Joseph Smith? Brigham V?) staring at me strangely, even creepily, the whole time. I even got some excellent sunset pictures and scared the wildlife while singing along to “Friend of the Devil”. Enough to scare Satan himself.

It was almost completely dark when I came to an overpass, completely exhausted. I hadn’t been paying attention to how far I’d gone, or to eating. When I finally sat down, I discovered that I had lost some coordination. I was dropping things, stumbling, forgetting to do simple things, like unbutton my shirt before removing it. I had been here before. On my bike trip. This is affectionately known as ‘bonking’; when your body REALLY needs fuel, and lets you know. I ate a can of something--the ‘beef’ byproduct stew I believe--and immediately felt better. I began looking for places around the overpass to sleep, but finding none, feeling much better, AND urged on by the fact that it was so much cooler and easier to walk at night, especially with the moon, I kept going.

Just ½ mile up the road, over a little hill, I spied lights! Another telltale sign of a truckstop! I had visions of the by now utopian-in-my-mind Flying J back in Jerome. I resolved to try my best to get there. I had no idea how far off the lights were and, remembering Fruitland, prepared for a haul. It was quite a ways up there, no doubt, but since my food and rest, I was feeling great except for the foot and middle back pain that’s a sure sign of poor packing. Probably from carrying the canned food. So I walked, passing a “Last Services” sign that read something like 29 and 42 miles, depending on which way you went on the upcoming I-84/ I-86 split. Now my truckstop had new significance.

I had no idea how far I had gone when I again came to the Snake River. Large river, that Snake. All along I-84, the shoulder had been at least 12 ft wide. When it came to bridges however, Idaho reclaimed its shoulder space. Maybe 3-ft. now, and it was dark. Not a good combination. The good news was the traffic was light since it was approaching midnight, so I dug the headlamp out of my pack, turned on the red night vision beam and waited for the traffic to break long enough to get across...at least a significant distance. The light must have worked. No one hit me. No one even blew their horn. The other good news at getting across The Snake was that now I was essentially at my destination. The flamboyantly gaudy sign advertising an RV park with "GRASS!" and a "STORE!" along with other precious goodies; I began to wonder if I had indeed found Eden in Idaho!

I bypassed the closer Shell station, which looked closed anyhow, for the surefire supplier of ALL my vagabond needs. And "GRASS!" With glee, I approached my second Oasis of the day to find...

It was closed.

Fuckers.

Why...in...the..HELL...would you have a sign that would attract people, or a bug the size of MOTHRA, to a place that was CLOSED!

Fuckers.

I wanted to defecate on their steps. But, finding that beneath me, I instead sat down, took my boots off, and relaxed. A car soon pulled in with Montana plates...also lured like bugs by the misleading Interstate Light Show. They were a nice couple, I chatted with the guy for a couple of minutes while his girl took care of business. They were headed west though, to JEROME. In my fatigue, I confused Rupert and Jerome or you can bet your butt I would have gone BACK there and taken my a day mulligan.

In addition, to make my night perfectly complete, the local Fifeian sheriff showed up. He rolled his window down, and with an obnoxiously stern look and an overly-dramatic tone meant to let us know he was on the ball said: “Ev’ry thing Awlraht?”

I wanted to defecate on him.

I just nodded; refusing to look over for fear that my frustration and annoyance with him would get the best of me. My new Montana-friend handled the verbal interaction quite nicely, however, and Sgt. Fife left to polish his metaphorical ‘Lone Bullet’. At least in my mind he did.

After the Montanans’ left for the true hospitality, and open stores, that is Jerome, I yet had to deal with one more piece of drama. Teenagers. A couple of carloads pulled in while I was sitting there, alone, and I believe they were quite curious about me. I was quite ornery, if you haven’t noticed, and was in no mood for any Redneck Juvenile Fun. I did everything I could to look menacing, even eyeballing them periodically while they sat there. That was probably stupid, but it worked. They left without bothering me, therefore, I must be ONE menacing mutha. That, or I was just playing the role of Paranoid Bitch again. Perhaps a new topic to vote on? You Read, YOU Decide! I am frightened of that, actually...

I left on a hunt for the night’s nest and settled on the space Rich and I had used in La Grande: between the highway and the ramp. It was down in a depression, had some smallish bushes to conceal me, and best of all, it was close to the Shell station and coffee when I woke up. I lay there for a while contemplating the day before dozing into an exhausted, deep sleep.

7/9/08: Fruitland-Twin Falls, ID-Jack

I got up early again, seemingly falling back into the routine of rising between 8:15 and 8:45. I packed up to the curiosity of the many onlookers who were passing through the driveway between the Shell station and I. Then it was off for the morning ritual of coffee, and to get a feel for where I was, and GOING, in Idaho. I knew next to nothing about the state; did not even realize how close I was to Boise.

A significant thing had happened between when I'd gone to bed and gotten up in the morning. I realized that I was now OUT of Oregon, which posed a slight problem. Remember Wyoming? Destinations? Just where the hell was I going anyhow?!?! Time to try to figure that out.

I sat down in the same booth as the night before, began drinking the coffee, borrowed the Rand McNally Atlas off the rack and began looking ahead. I saw two very foreboding sights: Wyoming and, in particular, Utah.

Let me be very clear: I hate Utah.

Utah is the place where thought goes to die. I’ve heard only horror stories about Utah from those who’ve tried to get thru it, either backpacking (desert) or hitching (cops & Mormons). They, to a man, have told me to go around it, rather than set even a foot inside Utah, thereby risking being kidnapped to 1850. You risk being harassed incessantly. There is even a law on the books in some town where it is illegal to speak ill of the Mormon Church! Really? In 2008? Let’s just say it would be an act of utter desperation for me to even consider navigating Utah’s theocracy.

With this in mind, I began considering different routes. To avoid Utah and Wyoming:

* South immediately into Nevada via highway 93 toward Vegas and Bullhead City
* North immediately via 93 toward the Bitterroots into Montana & I-90 or US-12.
* Continue up 84 to I-15 into Montana, OR
* Continue up 84 to Pocatello then pick up US-30 to I-80 thru Wyoming (ugh!)

I liked the idea of US-12 because it goes all the way to Michigan through my hometown of Jonesville. Laina is returning to Michigan at the end of July to see family, and I also noticed that it crosses both the Dakotas then Minnesota and Wisconsin, before turning south to Chicago. I had put Montana, and both Dakotas on my places to go, but after realizing how much I despise being cold, I wondered how wise it would be to cross the Bitterroots and the REAL Rocky Mountains. The road south appealed a bit because it would take me to through Winnemucca (Mac) to Vegas, then I could go toward Bullhead City and Lake Meade in Arizona and hop on I-40 toward Albuquerque & Santa Fe to see Laina, bypassing the Michigan portion and heading toward the east from there. So many options.

I went round and round for a couple of hours. Money, again, reared its ugly head. I began to picture going into Montana and having something come up leaving me broke and stranded up there with the wolves and cows. (Are there cows in Montana?) A common psychological theme that would haunt me the rest of my time in Idaho. Despite the fact that every time I had needed something it would pop up, as long as I put forth the effort, I was beginning to let fear take hold.

In the end, I decided that going through the Nevada desert was a bit foolhardy, and heading north into the Bitterroots, at least at that point, did not make a lot of sense either. I ultimately concluded I was going to Montana via Pocatello. I would continue the course I was on, and set Pocatello as my destination & point of no return. I could either pick up US-12 further east in Helena, off I-15, or go back to Denver (again!) to try to make some money. I should have just rolled the dice then...

This posed some troubling questions for me. I had now opened Denver as an option, and in the interest of being honest with myself, that could potentially be a cop out and lead me back to the safety and security of Santa Fe. There were times that I felt road weary, as though I could use a break.

The troubling notion also began to sink in that, since Olema, I had become The Happy Hitchhiker. I was no more sustainable than when I left, and had lost sight of much of the philosophy and adventurous aspect (save the train) behind this. Was this just reality setting in? I had been gone nearly a month, traveled in the neighborhood of 1500 miles, and had gained a sense of method, for lack of a better term. I missed the idea of hiking across the Marin Headlands, not knowing what was ahead of me. The idea of setting off down Highway 1-- just walking. I needed perspective. Time for some self- examination.

However, not today.

I got out of the gas station and up toward I-84 at about 10:00, and it was already HOT! Scorching. The coming 100-degree heat was all the rage with everyone, so I was prepared. I’d even decided to dig out the sun screen; something I despise. I didn’t know what to expect when I sat down on the ramp and threw the thumb up. I felt cautiously optimistic considering the luck I’d had the day before after not starting until 4:00! I had sat there in the sun listening to music for about 30 minutes when the theme for the day presented itself. Ride #1.

Chris too was 37 and sold gas detectors to chemical companies. He was on his way toward Nampa, near Boise, to drop something off and said I could ride along. He seemed very intrigued not only in the physical aspect of my trip, but the "why". He is another in the string of people who said they wished they could do something like this, but had responsibilities. Chris has three kids and a wife, so gets his adventuring fix boating, camping, and drinking beer. He is a guy who has a distinct edge to him. We are disgusted by many of the same things; materialism etc.; but he doesn’t see what he can do about it.

He pointed out something I had not thought of or had many discussions about: being afraid to pick up a hitchhiker is somewhat ridiculous. The hiker is taking more of a risk than YOU are! For example, if he tried to rob you; all you have to do is punch the accelerator to about 90 mph. What’s he gonna do? Jump? That thought would fuel my disgust later on in the week...

Chris dropped me off at a gas station in Nampa, where I briefly walked around inside then set up on the ramp again. It was getting hotter, but I was sitting in the heat for less than 5 minutes when along came ride #2.

Inside were two black guys, I believe the ONLY two black guys in Idaho, so I felt privileged to meet them. Actually, when they pulled over I felt my upbringing kick in. Apprehension. The sounds of gangsta rap were coming from the car, and they seemed to fit every stereotype Whitey has been taught to fear about blacks. In addition, he wanted me to put the pack in the trunk, which even I know is a no no.

They asked where I was going and I asked if they could get me to the other side of Boise, and since both of my Couchsurf requests had come back negative, I wanted to get thru the city. The driver, who I had seen at the truck stop moments earlier, answered that it shouldn’t matter how far if they were offering a ride. He had a point. I decided to ignore the second thinking and hopped in the back seat-- keeping my pack on my lap.

I was immediately treated to a wonderful Gangsta Rap Sing Along. I will not lie and tell you I felt completely comfortable in that car, but they just left me alone as they just rapped along to the music. I understood none of what they were saying other than the frequently used “nigga” and either “tap dat ass” or “put a cap in dat ass”. Perhaps it was both? I was laughing quietly to myself thinking of the stereotypical display before me.

These were a couple of cool people. They had just stopped off to grab a 40oz bottle of Coors. In the end, I felt like the stereotype for feeling the twinges of judgment purely at the sight of these people. I was neither beaten nor robbed, and they even shook hands and wished me well when they dropped me off. Not my best moment.

I never got their names but they did indeed drop me off on the other side of Boise, at exit 52 or 53. I went into the truck stop to use the rest room and fill up the water bottle with ice to combat the heat.

Chris had warned me early in the day to get ALL THE WAY to Mountain Home from Boise because there was next to nothing in between. That was exactly my plan when I sat down on the ramp and waited for ride #3, which showed up 20 minutes later.

Corey reminded me a bit of my friend Joey. Very flamboyant. Gay. Personable. We exchanged stories, and I believe I caught him eyeballing my ‘nether regions’ a few times. Whatever. He was a perfect gentleman (never used that phrase pertaining to MY experience), and it was blazing hot in the high desert, so I was just happy to be in the A/C getting a ride to Mountain Home. Another perfectly enjoyable ride! Corey is also the one who warned me about eastern Idaho when I mentioned I was going toward Pocatello. He described it as having as high, if not higher, LDS concentration as Utah. Great. He predicted I would have trouble finding rides out that way. He dropped me off at yet another truck stop, continuing the theme that would stay with me the rest of the way.

It was here in Mountain Home that I ALMOST hit hitchhiking's mother lode. A cross country ride. I met a kid who was moving back to Canton, Ohio that day and had been looking for someone to ride along. He had no luck, so his mother flew out to Idaho to ride back with him. He was on the way to the airport to pick her up then. That was only slightly disappointing though, I was having a good day!

After again doing a non-spending tour of the truck stop, I went to the on-ramp again and through the familiar routine. This time I was there for about 30 minutes when ride #4 came along. One of the most interesting rides, and favorite people of the entire trip.

Jack picked me up at about 2:40, saying he was going to Twin Falls to pick up parts for his farm equipment and I could ride along. He was a farmer from Grand View who looked to be 60-65, and was very soft spoken. Almost too soft! I could understand only about half of what he said at first, but he smiled when he said it, and had a great sense of humor. I settled in for what I figured would be a nice steady, albeit slow, ride to Twin Falls: he rarely topped 55 mph.

By now, we were in the true heat of the day. It was about 100, and the temperature would begin to have its effect. Not on me, but Jack’s truck began to overheat. He pulled off at a rest stop to check the water and acknowledged that he had checked everything BUT the water before he left Grand View, and that there was NO coolant mixed with what water there was. The radiator was almost bone dry, so he filled it up and we let it cool for 20-30 minutes while we talked and watched a biplane crop duster fly overhead. I was struck by odd feelings of nostalgia; this reminded me of my childhood for some reason, and I was growing very fond of this old coot. He had such a calm demeanor and handled everything that came along the same way. He just dealt with it, I believe I was taking mental notes, and respected that about him. I would have been closer to Rich’s end of things than Jack’s!

When we got back on the highway, we discovered that our overheating ordeal was just beginning. It got to where the truck just refused to go any further and he had to pull off to the shoulder to let it cool. This happened a few times; the truck would eventually start, and then go MAYBE 100 yards before it would stall. I was just fine with this. I had gone somewhere between 125 and 175 miles thus far, and was happy to be in the company of someone I enjoyed. At one point, when the truck died next to a small stream, I hopped over the barbed wire fence, climbed down and doused my head and bandana with the cool water. It felt incredible. There is nothing better than a well placed river on a hot day. I remembered Rich and I thinking how great it would have been to be able to jump in one of the many streams we saw from the train, so I felt like I was making up for missed opportunities.

This went on for quite awhile. Start-stop. Start-stop. Finally, we got to Jerome, which is a little town to the north of Twin Falls. Jack stopped at a gas station to let the truck cool, refill the radiator, and douse the engine block with water to assist the cooling. The sun was now much lower in the sky and we were finally getting some relief from the heat. About now happened one of the weirdest events of the trip, although I would not realize it at the time, at least not past the sense of a lost opportunity.

A minivan pulled in overheating. Inside were a mother and two kids, one of which looked to be 19 or 20. They seemed friendly, if a bit annoyed by their car’s issues. Through conversation, I had learned that they were going to Pocatello on their way back from Washington. The perfect chance to finish this stretch of Idaho in ONE day! However, I did not bother to ask for the ride. Why? They seemed friendly enough, had enough room . . .and I had Jack standing right there as a hitcher’s reference! I just could not do it. I don’t know why—to this day. I should have. I would be reminded, starkly, in just a few days.

Jack’s truck eventually cooled enough and he had decided to go to Walmart for coolant. I was quite happy with that since that meant I could grab some more cheap canned goods. I rode along, got my stuff, and we arranged where he would drop me off: a Flying J near the interstate and well north of the city.

Jack seemed sorry to end this little adventure, and I was too. He was a terrific man. He even seemed to feel bad that it had taken so long to get there, and wondered aloud what I would say about it in the journal. I told him I would say this: A genuinely nice man stopped, picked me up and we had a perfectly enjoyable afternoon getting to Twin Falls despite his truck overheating. It is telling about Jack that the afternoon was so enjoyable despite all of that; the comparison to Rich and his whining did not escape me! We finally got to the Flying J at something like 8:00, shook hands, and I again told him how much I had enjoyed the day. By now, I think the compliments were making him uncomfortable!

From the Jerome Flying J, I had visions of catching a truck, so I sat on a bench out back where the drivers fueled and went inside. No luck with the ride, but I did find out from an employee that there was a staffing service in Jerome, SOS Staffing that was desperate for english speaking temp help. That sounded appealing; the same way La Grande sounded appealing. I wrote down the directions and figured I would try to call them the next day. I also chatted up the restaurant manager discovering a place to sleep for the night, in a picnic area next to the building out in the open, much like the place in Fruitland.

Another event of note: the stupid looking sunglasses that I had bought in Ft. Morgan finally died. They had been through a lot, so I gave them a decent ashtray burial.

With all that settled, I went inside and began a massive update in my written journal. I spent 3-4 hours in the café writing and drinking the free coffee refills while being forced to listen to Fox News. It occurred to me at that point, when I began to not-so-quietly tell Sean Hannity what I thought of him, that I had watched next to NO TV since I left, and that my tolerance was now zero for the fabricated, prepackaged selling of bullshit. I will mercifully spare you that rant. For now.

I headed out to my little nesting area, and on the way ran into the first fellow backpacker I had seen on the trip. I forget his name, but he was coming from the east, from the Rainbow Gathering at Medicine Bow in Wyoming. He told me a dramatic horror story about walking 25 miles through eastern Idaho completely unable to get ANYONE to stop, echoing what Corey had told me earlier. He had finally stumbled across a trucker at a rest area who had brought him, and his dog, to Twin Falls.

He told me to be sure that I got ALL THE WAY THROUGH TO AT LEAST POCATELLO! I heeded the warning and told him about the picnic area. He said he had gotten his second wind and wanted to keep going so we parted ways. I set up my humble little nest, put on some music and dozed off. I woke up in the middle of the night to "eliminate" excess coffee  and, to my surprise, saw him and Norma Jean curled up in his sleeping bag nearby. I guess he didn’t get out of there. I never did talk to him again; he was gone before I got up.