My body is older now, and not as good as it used to be, but my spirit is young and free. Age is nothing but a number as long as I never let go of the child living inside of me.
So let me tell you some stories about life on the road. When told by a successful Rolling Stone, it can have a strong influence on a restless young fellow like me. I spent a lot of time alone trying to catch rides in isolated places all across the USA. I read Jack Kerouac’s novels in lonely places to pass the time. I talked and answered myself a lot over those forlorn and desolate hours of isolation. I was always content, knowing my angels were over me, looking after my wandering soul.
The road is a “black river of asphalt” upon which every imaginable form of humanity flows. Their modes of transportation are as distinctive as the individuals who pilot them. Forensically, motor vehicles are as revealing to a trained eye as a thumbprint is to an experienced scanner. No two vehicles ever look the same to a perceptive wanderer. But there is little that you can do to protect yourself against the unknown, so no matter how you do it, “globe-trotting is very dangerous.” You’ve got to know how to handle it!
I know because I did it more times than most people would even ever dream of. But it was my dream when I escaped the town of my rebel youth to vagabond around the country (USA), and so I did for about 8 years on and off. Connect that to the same amount of time (and more) standing behind watching multitudes of people pass by, and you’ll see why I used to claim that “I have seen one tenth of the population of the United States with my own eyes.”
I remember once I sat in a wooded highway median, trying to decide which direction I wanted to go next. I was at the intersection of two major interstate highways. One went north/south and the other east/west. I contemplated before I eventually decided to go West. Upon deciding, I grabbed my gear and strapped it to my 130lb body and made my way out to a desirable hitchhiking spot on a selected highway. I caught a ride around 5 pm and made it to Missouri, from somewhere in Indiana (several rides later), by sunrise the next day.
Ironically, some hippies in a blue station wagon picked me up just outside of St. Louis. I had to really squeeze in to fit, but nobody minded. I was told (by the hippies) that there was a huge, free, Fourth of July concert under The Arch in St. Louis that day, and that I could go with them if I wanted to, and so I did.
To say that I had a good time would be an understatement because that party rocked! Bands performed on a gigantic stage under the famous landmark situated alongside the Mississippi River. The Arch in St. Louis is supposed to represent the gateway to the west. My new friends and I were both plastered (drunk) on sour mash and cheap wine by the time the torrential rain came and ended the party, so I headed for some nearby shelter instead of the highway.
Here I was taking a leak on a chain link fence by the shelter in the pouring rain, when I noticed a train tunnel down below. I had to climb the fence and drop down a steep cement wall to the tracks to reach it. I went over the fence first with my pack in tow. Thanks to my railroad experience, I was able to sidestep onto the moving train by hopping onto a boxcar. A voice inside my head was saying, ”Go West, Young Man!” And that’s what I kept on doing.
And there are many more stories to tell.
Daniel Miltz
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