There were swallowtails flapping in my guts the first time I went hitchhiking “for real” (i.e. outside of Terlingua). I’d never done it before and wasn’t even sure that I could. Once I was actually out there, I began to imagine roving serial killlers, hicks out looking for “action,” police hauling me off to jail....

Three thousand miles later, I am happy to report that nothing bad has happened to me. The world has lots of good people – folks that will take you the extra mile, buy you lunch, and sometimes even let you crash at their cabin on the lake.

Here is the first entry of my journal about my most recent “Thumb” journey. I started in Albuquerque, NM and made it to Lincoln, Nebraska, almost one thousand miles in about a week, which seemed like a month. It’s refreshing to have time slow down like that once in a while, even when it means having to put up with the uncertainty of it all, the hours of waiting, and lots of nasty exhaust fumes.

Enjoy this tale and just be grateful that I did this; it means you don’t have to!

29 July: Skull of a Spartan

Like a boy in a bubble, here I sit, naked under the cover of darkness. I have pitched my Bug Hut (a simple pole-and-mesh affair) near Bernalillo High School, a half-hour’s drive northeast of Albuquerque.

An hour earlier, Joe Runyan (winner of the 1989 Iditarod Sled Dog Race) had dropped me and my huge backpack at a gas station on Interstate 25 (exit 242). The sun had just set and all I could think was “Where the hell will I camp?”

I do not hitch-hike after dark unless it’s an emergency and from where I stood, the edge of the small city of Bernalillo was still at least 3 miles away to the north on Isidro Sanchez Road, and that kind of hike with my heavy pack was not an appealing one after dark in any kind of populated area.

I quickly assessed my surroundings and noticed that there was some kind of dark zone near the football field of Bernalillo High,  “Home of the Spartans,” says a sign on top of the school.

As I set up the poles and scanned the school property for movement, I feel the thrill of the road.

In the morning, after I disassemble the Bug Hut, I notice there is a cowskull about two feet from where my head had dreamed the night through. Both of the dreams I remember have to do with camping. In one, I am camped near a school and there is a power station close to my tent. It starts sparking and catching fire. Knowing I will be to blame if they find me, I try to get out of there, but there is barbed wire everywhere. I am tangled and mangled. The soundtrack to these dreams is the buzzing of the interstate (which is quite near).

Before the sun is up, I am packed and walking. First, to McDonald’s for taking a crap; this is what McDonald’s is for!

Next, I walk half a mile to a stoplight. Here I wait at least an hour with no luck. Police are passing every minute or so, making me a bit nervous. I walk two more sweaty miles (past signs for the “Sandoval County Sheriff’s Posse” and the County Detention Center) almost to the edge of Bernalillo.

This is where I see my first “fellow hitcher” approach him. His name is Alvin and he is a 28 year-old Navajo. Alvin said that when kids ask him “Where’s Simon and Theodore?” his reply is “Simon’s in jail for dealing drugs and Theodore got shot dead.”

Alvin hasn’t slept last night and it shows. In his pocket is breakfast and he offers some to me: a 20 ounce can of Olde English 800. I decline and Alvin is OK with that. He finishes it off as we wait for someone to pull over for the odd couple we are: a bearded longish-haired, nose-ringed white dude with hiking boots, black slacks and a blue short-sleeved button-up, paired with a tipsy, dirty, crusty-eyed Navajo dude with tennis shoes, grey jeans and a dirty undershirt.

Before long, up pulls a newish Nissan 4-door with a Mexican family inside. The parents are up front, their two teenage daughters in back. One girl sits on the other’s lap so we can fit, and off we go.

After a mile or so, I point out to Alvin a third hitchhiker out on the road. “Pull over! Pull over!” he says. “That’s my little brother!”

The mom promptly jerks the car to the right. Alvin jumps from the almost-stopped car, saying “I’ll fight him right here!”

Alvin has already explained to me that last night he was at his girlfriend’s house with whom he has a 3 year-old son. Her brother showed up drunk with Alvin’s little brother and accused him of hitting his sister. Alvin denied it and they all got in a big fight. The police had shown up and he almost got taken to jail. Alvin had raw and torn knuckles. We pull away, leaving Alvin to confront his brother. To my relief (and carnal disappointment), as I glance through the back window it looks as if they might just talk it out. “Those Navajo will fight anybody,” says the mom of this family, “even their own brother.”

My series of rides has just begun and already it is interesting as Hell...

TO BE CONTINUED...

When he’s not traveling, artist Mark Kneeskern lives in Terlingua, where he enjoys all sorts of sports: tossing rattlesnakes, hurdling cactus, counting stars, and watching T.V.  (Turkey Vultures).