Hitchhiking was a bunch of things I feared all rolled up into one neat little package. Being alone, being vulnerable, saying to the world you needed help, asking the world for help, showing dependence rather than independence, having only strangers to communicate with. Why would I ever want to jump into that pond?
But once upon a time, jump I did.
Though frowned on in today’s world, in the 1960s and ’70s, hitchhiking was just part of the environment. My trips were mostly in the Northeast back when I was young enough to be accepted as young. I started doing short distances to save bus fare. Inevitably, I moved on to the challenge of longer distances.
With time, a notion developed that the older I got, the less cool it was to be hitching rides. There was no defined age when this threshold was crossed, but in my late 20s I sensed that I was nearing that point. To honor the moment properly, I decided to make one last long-distance hitch from Concord to Western New York. To keep it edgy (as all hitchhiking should be), I decided to do this in winter, something I had never done before.
There was something symbolic about the moment that needed to be honored in the proper way. Winter was that. Winter also added another element to the challenge. Now I could be alone, vulnerable, hopeful and possibly frozen.
On a cold mid-week morning in early January, I parked myself next to a snow bank on Pleasant Street near Concord High School with a sign that said, “west.” The first ride is still clear in my mind. It was a truck delivering chicken products on its way to the Keene KFC. He made one stop at Pat’s Peak, then it was on to Sullivan County where he dropped me off on Route 9, west of the city. Fifty-five miles down, only 365 more to go. The day was early; I could make it.
There is not a lot about the trip I remember. I was a bundled up homeless guy crossing New York State on U.S. Route 20. My route took me through Cherry Valley and a dozen towns that until then I had seen only off in the distance from the New York State Thruway. In the cold of day, they became real for me in ways I had never before considered. Once they were exits passed without a glance. Now they were towns that took me in and moved me along, little bits of warmth on a winter day.
As darkness settled in I stopped to have dinner at a restaurant near Syracuse. Though still a hundred miles short of my goal, I remember sitting by myself at a table, reading a newspaper, feeling almost successful in my mission. Night waited outside as I finished a dish of ice cream. But I don’t remember anything more about the journey. It is possible I went into town and finished the trip on a bus. But I hope I got back out on the road looking for more rides.
What I do know is that I never hitchhiked again, not even on the return trip. I flew to Boston and took a bus from Logan back to Concord. The allure of hitching was put to rest under winter snows that are long since melted into the ground.
It was the first time I adjusted how I lived to make way for getting older. There would be no more standing by the side of the road with a thumb out trying to catch some humanity.
Winter is good for laying things to rest. Blankets of snow have a way of calling us to reflect. When intense white bounces sunshine back at us under clear blue skies, an enhanced clarity becomes possible. We always think of winter as cold and snow, but I think that misses something. Winter is a cleanse. We don’t think of those old leaves, once vibrant with color, now buried. We don’t think about the life unseen waiting for spring. The cold that so intimidates also shakes out old notions.
Without even a plan in place, we transition from old to new. The snow that covers all eventually melts and reveals unexpected things that were waiting, unseen. New roots get ready, old ones become nutrients.
This winter I am not expecting to make any adjustments for getting older. But then you never know what you may find when the snow has melted. I do, however, know this: If you see me on the edge of some road with my thumb out, please tell me to get inside where it is warm and then show me that hook where I hang my car keys.
(John Gfroerer of Concord owns a video production company based at the Capitol Center for the Arts.)