Highway 1 Adventure

Experience and adventure. That’s what I wanted in my 20s. And there wasn’t enough to satisfy me in my hometown of La Mirada, just outside Los Angeles. Besides, my vision was starting to falter.

I’d always had problems with my eyes, but now it was different. The doctors were concerned that I was slowly losing my eyesight. There were still so many things I hadn’t done or seen yet.

In 1972, adventure was as close as your stuck-out thumb is to your fingers. Everybody hitchhiked. Parents worried, but for young people it was the way of the world. Mom couldn’t convince me otherwise.  

With no money and no plan, I waved good-bye to her, starting off on foot for the highway. This could be my last chance for a journey like this, I thought. Canada seemed far off and distant, as good a place as any for an adventure.

Right away, I got a few rides up the Pacific coast. That got me to California’s Highway 1—not a car in sight. I slept that night next to a quiet creek. Looking up at the stars I felt completely alone.

The next morning I still couldn’t find a ride. I stood on the side of the road scratching my shoulder. During the night I had developed a slight burning rash on my shoulders, neck and face. I wondered if I’d laid in poison oak. By early evening my upper body was on fire.

What did a hitchhiker do with zero chance of catching a ride? Bargain with God. If I don’t get a ride in another fifty cars, I’ll cross the highway and head home. Fifty cars came and went.

But how much could I really rely on God? I let a hundred cars go by without one even slowing down. My rash burned. My eyes welled up with tears. So much for my adventure. I picked up my pack and moved to the stretch of highway that headed back home.

As soon as I stuck out my thumb, a pickup truck came to a gentle stop. I leaned my head in. “I’m going to southern California,” I said. “I’m headed that way myself,” the  man said. “Whereabouts you going?”

I told him my exit number off Interstate 5. He reached over and opened the passenger door. “I go right by there on my way to San Diego. You’re welcome to come along, if you’d like.”

I threw my pack in the bed of the truck and hopped in.

“It’ll be good to have someone to talk with, anyhow,” he said. “And by the way, if you don’t mind me asking, what the heck is wrong with your face?”