Nomadic Zen – A Vagabond’s Guide To Happiness

I woke up to a different scenario than when I went to sleep. No more were there people walking around all parts of the house. No more was there music blaring from the living room or people banging on drums in the backyard. I don’t know where Fat Joe was and I’m not sure what happened with the escaped convict that was heard to be wandering the neighborhood. I’m sure he wasn’t going to walk near the house I fell asleep in the night before. I looked around the bare, recently remodeled room, and made sure I didn’t leave anything behind. I went to the kitchen sink to brush my teeth like I did the night before when one of the roommates informed me that was where they all did it at. This time I had nobody to laugh about the situation with, because now the house was empty. The sounds of my feet on the bare unfinished wooden floor echoed off the freshly hung drywall. I went out the door I entered in and smoked a cigarette behind the house while I walked out back to the creek that I didn’t know lay there in the darkness of the evening I arrived in. There was a small fire pit that sat on a short strip of train tracks that obviously hadn’t been used in years. Chairs were laid out in a circle around the pit and down a steep hill was small amount of water that flowed through dividing Roger’s lot from that of the one on the other side. I sat for a bit and enjoyed the solitude of where I was. I hung out with the goats for a bit and wandered aimlessly almost not wanting to leave. I could live here, I thought. These people are my friends. I wonder if they half expected me to still be there when they came home, or if I was just as easily forgotten as I was accepted.

Sometimes I find myself wondering how that person who gave me a ride is doing. James was my first significant ride ever. I was at a rest area just north of Louisville, KY on my first day ever of hitchhiking. James was a semi driver who was on his way to Canada. I asked him where he was crossing the border at and he informed me it was just a few blocks from my house. It was a good ride full of adventure. I always see trucks from his company stopped at the border and I always wonder if James is sitting in there thinking about that guy in a suit who was hitch hiking to Detroit way back when who he dropped off on Livernois. I remember everyone to a flaw.

I woke up on this day and I had no idea where I was. Not like in the situations where your first instinct is that of confusion and after you rubs your eyes a bit you figure it out. No, it was much different. I knew I was sleeping on a floor in Ohio in a house owned by Roger. But where Roger lived, I had no idea.

I threw my pack on and walked out towards the street. There was a woman who held one of those signs that said stop on one side and slow on the other. She would flip the sign over to the “slow” side allowing traffic through. She would radio ahead to the crew on the other side telling them which was the last car. “a blue truck” she would say before flipping it back over to the “stop” side. All the while she was giving me directions on how to get to the nearest highway. She suggested I head through town and follow Ridge Rd until I got to hwy 20. I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but just looking at the map of where I traveled that day makes me depressed.

I hate starting a day off by walking. I’ll reiterate. I hate starting off a day by walking! I like waking up in a ditch, packing up, and rolling over onto the shoulder of an entrance ramp. Today I was miles from any comfortable ditch and the only shoulders were the aching ones carrying a backpack. So I walked. I followed her directions to the T. I walked down wherever the hell I was at until I got to the place where I was supposed to turn. I walked down Jackson St and I passed through town. Painsville was small town America. A post office, a library, a city hall, and a quaint little downtown. I followed Jackson until I made my right onto Richmond. A block later I turned left on Erie and I walked. I walked Erie and passed under a viaduct and veered right onto Ridge Rd. I walked for several more miles until Ridge Rd met with hwy 20. I figured this was a good spot to start hitching from.

That all so familiar vibration in my pocket started. I looked at my blackberry and I saw my brother’s face. “hey, what’s up?” I heard on the other end as he always greets me. I told him I was standing on the side of the road trying to catch a ride and he of course knew better than to be surprised by my actions. Without skipping a beat he asks me if I’m on my way to Pennsylvania for the rainbow gathering. He was following me along on facebook and realized I was heading to an event that he too was headed towards. I wasn’t sure of his motives, and I knew it wasn’t his type of crowd, but I was excited to see him none the less. I told him I planned on making it by nightfall and I’d call him when I got there.

I got my first ride shortly after and he was taking me far enough for me not to even worry about asking his name. At only a few miles, what was the point. I’ll never see him again anyways and I didn’t know a thing about him, nor did I care. There just wasn’t enough time. The day continued like that for the most part. There was a lot of walking and a few short rides. Part of the fun of this has been lost when you don’t spend enough time to connect with someone. From their jobs and families and their aspiriations in life. It’s all part of the picture. The picture of what I don’t know, but somehow I always find myself looking at it.

Days when there is none of that connection make it tougher to really get enthusiastic about traveling like this. But after awhile you realize it’s all you have because there’s no other way out than the way you came in. Get a map, ask directions, but do your best to get your bairings because in the end that’s all you have. Your wits and your desire to better where you’re at will push you very far in this world. There’s no time to sit around and feel sorry for yourself.

A guy picked me up on his way to an autozone in Madison, OH along the same Ridge Rd I had been riding most of the day. He was pricing some rotors there and had me wait in the back of his mini-van that also housed his son’s 4-wheeler. With him sat a child in a baby seat that he had conversations with as if he were a full grown adult who didn’t talk. In between he told me about his time traveling with the dead. He told me he wished he had brought that joint with him, and when my response was a chuckle, he said, ‘no, i’m serious,” and I remained in silence. He went out of his way to get me through Madison, OH because he said the cops were pricks there and would give me trouble. I can’t vouch for his accuracy because he drove me south down Hubbard and dropped me off near I-90 in a McDonalds parking lot and bid me farewell.

I crossed the street and walked the couple hundred yards to the entrance ramp. I sat down for a bit and just took it in. I was stranded pretty far from home and I didn’t really feel like moving. I sipped some water and waved to little kids and didn’t really think much about getting a ride. I wondered about Roger and his friends and silently thanked them for their companionship. Every now and then I’d stand and throw my thumb up but quickly get bored and start reading a bit. Eventually after awhile of this someone stopped. He rolled his window down and was offended when I declined the 2 dollars he wanted to give me. He arguably insisted, “get something eat,” and I pocketed his money. Money is useful when you want to buy something, but really all I wanted was a ride.

Finally a jeep pulls over and beneath the floppy fisherman’s hat and sunglasses was a friendly postal carrier on his way home. He worked in Perry, Ohio and lived just north of Ashtabula. He was willing to drop me off along the way on the 11 and that was perfect because I was heading south to Youngstown straight down hwy 11. We talked for a bit about nothing of too much importance. Small talk about nothing in particular but the ride was welcomed. He dropped me off on hwy 11 just north of 90.

I was pretty much in the middle of nowhere again and after 30 minutes I saw my first car. I wish the story went on to tell about a grand ride south to Youngstown with dinner and beautiful women, but it didn’t go that way. They just kept driving and I no longer had the motivation to stand there alone. So I layed down in the shade and contemplated how long my water would last me before I died in the middle of nowhere. I looked at google maps to see how far I had to go and came to a horrible realization. I was going the wrong way. I wasn’t supposed to be going to Youngstown, OH. I was supposed to be going towards Jamestown, NY and my plans of being with the rainbow family by nightfall came to a halting end. I had to move.

It’s illegal in Ohio to solicit a ride on the highway. I was on one highway where another highway met. My map told me I had about 2 miles to walk to get back to 90 and another 5 to get to a more appropriate entrance ramp. So what do you do in this situation? I couldn’t call a cab, there were no busses, and at a rate of 2 cars per hour and a success rate of around %5, I had to man up and start hiking. I tightened down my bag and I walked along those dusty back roads. My blisters were killing me and the sun was showing its disdain in the form of 90 degrees and not a cloud in the sky. I don’t want to do this anymore but the only way to the end, is through the tunnel.

After a couple miles, a few insults by some rednecks, and the realization that there’s a high population of people who pee in bottles and throw them out of the window, I got to the I-90/Hwy 11 interchange. I sat under the bridge for awhile and drank a little bit more of my water, rationing it incase I had to remain out there for awhile. I felt defeated and I just wanted out, but I was too far in the middle of no where to get any help. I considered calling it an early day and just laying out my bedroll and resting for the night, but what good would that do? I’d wake up in the middle of nowhere no closer to where I wanted to go. There was graffiti all over the bridge. Not real graffiti, but stuff written in a marker. Stuff about so and so being gay, class of some year long passed, and messages about loving him forever. I hope she still loves him. The world needs all the love it can get.

I took out my marker and I left some insight of my own. As long as that bridge remains and my tag still on it, I’ll live on forever. The stranded hitchhikers of the future will be able to sit down under that bridge and I’ll be able to speak to them from beyond the grave. It will forever be a way for me to reach out, inspire someone, or just smile at them and let them know they’ll never be alone. If that message doesn’t remain, it will at least outlive my time under that bridge, because it was time go.

I threw my bag over the fence that was there to deter folks like me from climbing onto the freeway, and I carefully followed my bag to the other side. I stood on the interchange from 11 to 90 and thankfully the curve was great enough to force people to slow down. Even so I stood on the other side of the wall hoping if someone crashed into it, my remains would still be identyable so everyone at my funeral could say “i told you so.” I stood out of site until I saw a car begin it’s deceleration to merge onto the ramp. Then I’d lean over with my thumb and a smile and hope for the best. Eventually someone stopped.

It was a white sprinter van full of tools and assorted crap that I didn’t recognize. The man behind the wheel was a portly fellow with a raspy voice and a firm handshake. “You’re in a pretty shitty spot for hitching,” he said before I showed my first smile of the day. He told me he is a semi driver by trade and would take me to a TA down the road. I’m a fan of truckstops. I read some made up stat when I was merely studying hitchhiking that semi’s will only be 10% of your rides, but take you 90% of your distance. I don’t know if that’s true, but it illustrates the point of why I would hang out at a truck stop for hours. Not to mention there’s food, showers, wi-fi, and enough people to hang out with to keep you sane.

I got let out at the truckstop a few miles down the road in Kingsville sometime around 5PM. I had enough day light to last a while and was in better spirits than when I was sitting under a bridge in silence. I-90 split just east of Erie before the New York state line and was about 50 miles from where I stood. Just a little further on the other side of the state line lay the city of Jamestown. That’s where I was headed. First thing I did when I got out of the car was freshen up a bit and rehydrate. I bought a granola bar and it went great with the jar of peanut butter I brought from home. I sat on a picnic table and had a sign that read “I-86 please,” and the wait began.

Time went on and I was watching the sun slowly arc over the horizon. Truckers came and went and none gave me a ride. Some told me they weren’t going that way, others avoided eye contact, and some just looked on in pity. Cassandra, the cashier from inside, would occasionally come out and chat with me. I don’t know if it was because she was mildy attractive, my age, friendly, or just because she was willing to talk to me, but I fancied our time together and I looked forward to her next smoke break when she would come out and provide some sort of companionship to me. She said in almost a statement rather than a question, “you going to the gathering,” and I figured there were quite a few like me passing through town. She told me about the last guy who came through. He was there for awhile and it started raining. He played his banjo and busked up a few bucks to get a motel room across the road at the Kingsville Inn. She said he wasn’t there the next day when she came back to work and was happy to assume that he got a ride out. I make it a point to befriend the staff at the places I fly a sign at. They’re the ones that are going to kick you out or call the police. They won’t do that to a friend, so you need to make them see you as such.

A guy who worked the burger king in the truckstop would occasionally come out and entertain me as well. He had a southern drawl and was missing quite a few teeth. He fit the stereotype of a typical southerner and he told me about is abhoration for where he was living. He told me he wanted to move back to Florida where he was happy, and I asked him what was stopping him. He said it just wasn’t time and hopefully he’d be back there in 10 years. I felt a little sadness in my heart that it’s going to take him 10 years to travel 2000 miles. He could walk there quicker than that. I wish people didn’t put their dreams on hold so often. I hope he lives long enough to make it back to his happy place.

“If you’d had been here this mornin’, you’d be in Jamestown by now!” I look over to see a short round man with a jolly laugh. Nate runs a route from Milwaukee to the east coast and was on his way back west at this point. He tells me he picks up guys all the time and loves talking with them. We chatted for a long time and apparently he fancied his time with Cassandra as well because when she was there, I didn’t get much attention. She told me there are quite a few regulars that stop by and she knows most of them by name. I’ve never been to the same truckstop more than once, but I look forward to the day that I know the roads the way a cross country truck driver does.

Nate goes on talking and he tells me about his kids and his 3 ex-wives. He told me he has since learned his lesson and will never get married again. “You just can’t have a healthy relationship when you’re on the road.” I asked him about the husband wife teams that I frequently meet at the truckstops. They’re the ones that are both drivers and live their lives out of their cabs. He tells me a girl like that is rare and if I find her I better hold on tight. I really dig my time with truckers. They’re like professional vagabonds. They get it. Every ride I’ve ever had with a trucker was just non stop talking on their part. They know how lonely it is to be a thousand miles away from a friendly face and sometimes just want a friend for a bit. Eventually Nate left and Cassandra went back inside where she told me she was trying to find me a ride. I was alone again with the setting sun making me question if I’d be sleeping behind a truck stop tonight.

I was starting to face the reality that I was stuck here for the night. I left my stuff in the middle of the sidewalk, sign facing out, and I sat at the picnic table and pulled out my journal. As soon as I did I heard a yell, “who is looking for a ride to 86?” and simultaeously I was jumping up and yelling “MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.”

Gordon had been at the truck stop for a while. He saw me when he was going inside. He did some laundry, took a shower, and had a meal. All the while he “got to thinking” as he put it and when he came out and saw me still sitting there he wanted to help me out. Gordon wasn’t going on 86, but he was willing to drop me off at another TA in Erie just one exit before the 86 split. That would work for me. He was a really friendly guy. We did the usual. He talked, and I listened. He talked about his ex-wives, kids, life on the road, and his dream of retiring shortly. Wife number 3 was the keeper and she makes fat cash as a nurse. He has only a couple more payments left on his truck, and then he owns it all. Being an owner gives you a lot more freedom in your schedule. Most drivers go on the road for weeks at a time and only get home a few days a month. Guys like him get to drive when he wants, and stay at home when he needs to. He said lately he’s been staying at home more because he’s doing a big remodeling project to his house. He tells me about that, his love of fishing, his dream to be a stay at home dad, and when I showed interest in becoming a trucker, he talked about that and tried to persuade me against it. He didn’t succeed.

It was about 11 by the time we got through that 50 mile ride to Erie and I was calling it quits for the day. I bid Gordon farewell and I headed inside. On the way in I was scoping out the place and planning in my head where I’d camp for the night. Inside I sat down and started writing some more. I wrote about the ups and downs of this life style. I wrote about road momentum and how when things get going a certain way, they stay that way for awhile. I wrote about how time slows down, but lessons learned come quicker when you’re out here. I wrote about all the love I’ve found in my treks. And I texted the one person who epitimized that love while I wrote about the loneliness that only the graveyard shift at a truckstop in rural PA could understand.

The restaurants were closing around midnight and the girl behind the counter of pizza hut kicked down some breadsticks to me. I was pretty hungry at this point and it went to better use in my belly than it could have in a trash can. I thanked her and I had my feast of carbohydrates, butter, and marinara sauce. It hit the spot. I got some juice for my phone, brushed my teeth, and I packed up my belongings and headed out back. I walked behind the makeshift church that sat in a trailer for the truckers. I walked down the row of semis and listened to the low hum of the idle engines while the drivers lay asleep in side. I walked to the back where a small park sat and I kept walking beyond that. I walked to an open area in a field behind some tall grass and I picked my spot. Tonight it would be just me and the moon and since neither of us were much on talking, I was sleeping in no time.

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