It was the summer of 1973. The country was just a few years removed from the tumultuous 1960’s, and slowly transitioning from a time of paradigm shifting systemic changes to a collective apathy and malaise.
Against this backdrop, a friend and I hitchhiked across the country. We briefly considered the potential dangers and were aware of the of the Manson clan as well as the occasional tragedy that befell hitchhikers, but we saw these as isolated events. The idea of predators lurking on interstates and backroads was something far off in the future and unimaginable in 1973.
So, with the brashness of unencumbered youth, we left Caldwell, New Jersey on August 15, 1973. We got a ride to the Route 80 entrance and stuck out our thumbs. We were picked up almost immediately and three rides later made it to outside of Chicago. We slept behind some bushes, close enough to the interstate to feel the traffic whiz by. Outside of a few cars giving us the single finger salute as we emerged from a patch of trees, the first thousand miles of our trip being uneventful.
The first major milestone we experienced was at the end of what seemed like never-ending cornfields of western Kansas. Suddenly, in the distance we began to make out a contrasting shade of blue, emerging on the distant horizon. Drawing closer, the line stretching across the sky gradually began to take shape. We started to see the ragged edges of the Rocky Mountains. Growing up in the east, we were familiar with the Ramapo Mountains, the Catskills, and the Adirondacks. But this was something on a completely different scale.
Upon reaching Colorado, we made our way up to Estes Park. Before arriving at the campground, we attempted to find a “7-Eleven” to stock up on supplies, but instead found a general store. It was that day we experienced for the first time, Coors Beer which back then was not sold east. For two young guys from New Jersey, Coors Beer had taken on an almost legendary status. We spent that night in front of a fire, drinking our Coors beer with the Rockies as our backdrop.
A few days later we were waiting for a ride outside of Flagstaff, Arizona when a young Canadian couple in an International Harvester picked us up and drove us to Phoenix. They were about our age; nice friendly people and the first Canadians I had ever spent any time with. It was just another in a long string of rides or so we thought.
We spent the night in Yuma Arizona where it was 110 degrees at 11:00 pm. The two truckers who drove us to Yuma invited us to sleep on the floor of their hotel and we looked at each other and shrugged: why not?
The next morning, we parted company and headed for California. For two kids from New Jersey, seeing the Welcome to California sign was not an insignificant milestone. California represented the nirvana of teenage folklore—–a place where it was always warm, the girls were all beautiful and anything seemed possible.
We made our way up the California coast to one of our major destinations of the trip, Disneyland. In 1973, Disney World in Orlando was still just a swamp ruled by snakes and alligators, so Disneyland at that time held a different meaning to people from the east coast than it does today. In a sense, Disneyland represented California.
We spent a couple of days in Southern California, and what stood out was seeing the Pacific Ocean. It the first time ever seeing the sun set in the west over the blue Pacific and after a lifetime of dreaming of this magical land, growing up listening to the Beach Boys and watching the California surfer movies, there was an almost dreamlike quality to the experience. There are some things experienced for the first that are indelibly imprinted in your mind’s eye forever. Seeing California for the first time, making a fire on the beach overlooking the Pacific Ocean was one of them. We fell asleep to the cool California breeze and the sound of the waves washing ashore.
We made our way up the coast and were awestruck by the beauty of the Pacific Coast Highway, and we understood why so many people saw California as heaven on earth. We stopped for breakfast at a place in Big Sur and had breakfast. What I remember most clearly was that our breakfast plate was surrounded with fresh fruit. Not really that big of a deal but something no New Jersey diner ever did.
Around Big Sur, we were picked up by a young couple in a VW van with two young children. We ended up camping together and I remember them cooking sliced potatoes over the fire in aluminum foil. The next morning the two young kids crawled into our sleeping bags to cuddle with these strangers their parents met just 24-hours earlier. Clearly, it was a different world back then.
Eventually, we made it to San Francisco. In San Francisco, we were picked up by two women smartly dressed in business attire who were on their way to work. It was a short ride but a memorable one as they lit a joint and passed it to us in the back seat. Yes, everything about California was different.
Slowly we made our way out of California. Our destination was Hood River Oregon. A friend of ours had made the trip the year before and gave us the name of a woman who lived in a house outside of Hood River, Oregon. He assured us she would put us up. As we made our way there, we were picked up by two girls about our age and while I often fail to remember the name of the people I met yesterday, I will never forget those two names——Lynette and Candy. After telling them where we were heading, they agreed to give us a lift as they lived close by. On the way, they asked us if we wanted to stop and get some beer. “Sure”, we anxiously answered.” As we walked into the ramshackle building seemingly in the middle of nowhere, there was just a single bar extending the length of the room. All heads turned in unison and just stared at these two long-hairs. I was sure our two new friends waiting in the car, were trying to get us killed. We asked the bartender for a six-pack, but our unmistakable New Jersey accents is paradoxically what both almost got us killed and saved us. As the dirty looks continued and we sized up our next move, a guy hops off his bar stool and says, “Hey where you guys from?” New Jersey, we answered with the same amount of gusto and pride, had we announced to a room full of Red Sox fans that we were Yankee fans. What exit? he asked. It is hard to overstate the chances of meeting a person at this bar who just happened to be from New Jersey. This bar was not right off the interstate in fact it was not on any roads leading to the interstate. It was just a dirt logging road. We will never know what may have happened in that bar if not for the guy from New Jersey, but as we exited the bar, we became more and more convinced that there was a third party accompanying us on this trip.
The girls dropped us off at the woman’s house whose name just happened to be Bessie Caldwell; honestly you cannot make this stuff up, who after looking us up and down for a few minutes, welcomed us into her very isolated home. Before leaving, Candy said, “maybe we will ‘stop’ by tomorrow.” We both thought, “Yeah sure,” as we had many years of experience with Jersey girls and for the most part, put the idea out of our heads.
Bessie Caldwell at the time was well into her seventies and the type of woman you read about, in history books about the old frontier. She was pretty much self-sufficient (she wired her own electricity) but now that she was getting up in age, she hired a couple of guys to do the kind of work she had stopped doing the past few years, like building a new barn. These guys were about as different from us as we were from them. But they accepted us and us them. That morning they came over and rather than set off for work, we all sat around the kitchen table drinking coffee and talking for what seemed like hours.
That night Lynette and Candy came by with a case of beer and a plan. Pleasantly surprised, we headed over to the local drive-in to see the Godfather and Lady Sings the Blues. On the way there, Lynette said she had to use the bathroom and so we stopped at a gas station. At that point, Candy asked my buddy if he would come up front and look at her eight-track player. “It just didn’t seem to be working properly.” A minute later Lynette came bouncing out of the lady’s room and hopped into the back seat. These west coast girls were smooth. When we arrived at the drive-in, we started to go for our wallets, but Candy simply laughed and said, “Oh, we won’t be needing money.” And she promptly drove around back, through the woods and in we went. That night was sweet, innocent, and unforgettable.
A week later we were back on the road and anxious to get home. Time was short as the start of the college semester was beginning in a couple of weeks, so the plan was to hitch the length of Route 80 from Oregon to New Jersey. The trip home started off uneventfully, except just like on the way out, we never waited more than an hour for a ride. We made it to Illinois on four rides. Somewhere in Illinois, we were walking along the shoulder of Route 80, when we came upon a small road down the hill from where we were walking. It was not a defined exit and really was not much more than a narrow rural road in the middle of nowhere, but it did have a restaurant. So, we ambled down the hill and got a bite to eat. After dinner, as we left the restaurant and started walking along the road back to Route 80, a car approached. We figure what the hell and stuck out our thumbs. This vaguely familiar International Harvester with Canadian plates stops and as we open the door, we stared at each other in disbelief. It was our two Canadian friends who picked us up outside of Flagstaff Arizona, almost a month before.
It was then we knew without a doubt that we were not traveling alone on this journey. Reunited, they took us east for a few hundred miles and then invited us to camp with them that evening. The next morning, alone again on the road, we looked at each other with the same expression; “Did that really happen to us?”
We made Pennsylvania by the next night and the following day, we were dropped off within walking distance of our houses. We had traveled approximately 6,000 miles in five weeks and despite a few close calls, it was a perfect trip but one we would never repeat.
Today, few people are crazy enough to hitchhike. There are very few mysteries like Coors Beer to two New Jersey kids in 1973. Our country has become homogenized. With few exceptions, the fast-food chains have taken over the interstates and many downtowns are dying a slow death as the Walmart’s and Home Depots of the world make it almost impossible to compete.
Vocational nomadism, people migrating south in search of affordable housing and lower taxes has greatly changed the landscape of America. One of the things we got a kick out of in 1973, was listening to the local radio stations and watching local television. The internet, cable and satellite radio has changed all of that. We now live in a country where it is increasingly rare to find people who live their lives in the same area that they grew up in. History and cultural identity are increasingly taking a backseat to economic survival. What has changed is the tribalism of ideas. Today, we are a nation of blue and red. We were fortunate that we experienced the country in a way that to a large extent no longer exists. Today, where you are from takes a backseat to what you believe. Sadly, you can literally be in more danger in certain areas of the country for wearing a mask or not wearing a mask than the danger that existed for two kids hitchhiking six thousand miles in 1973.
Yes, it is still possible to find places across the country that have maintained their heritage and regional customs, but they are becoming increasingly rare. As a nation we have made technological progress since 1973, but I fear we have lost much of our collective soul in the process. I feel blessed and forever grateful for our great adventure during the summer of 1973.
