Hitching My Way To Shasta- 1985

I am headed south on Interstate 5 on my way to Mt. Shasta in Northern California, listening to the droning echoes where I face the glaring headlights pouring out of the abyss of the technocratic darkness and wounded souls intoxicated with the American Dream of the authoritative voices dictating data through misguided hardware. Hot metal racing convoys blast through the misty wind and rain as I stand with my thumb out, my cardboard sign up that says ASHLAND- GRASS PANTS. I peer down the long wide straight freeway towards the underpass and the Texaco sign on the left where more hitchhikers wait until a van pulls over for me. The driver wears a black bushy beard and has his long hair tied back in ponytail. “ Climb in brother. Where you headed?” he asks. I throw my pack in the back. “ Mt. Shasta,” I tell him. “ I can get you as far as Roseburg,” he says. Down the road outside of Cottage Grove an old weather-beaten man in a dirty tan wool overcoat and brown beret stands on the shoulder with a duffel bag. We stop for him and the driver tells him to climb in. He looks European. I ask him where he’s from? He doesn’t speak English. “Where are you going?” I ask him pointing to the road map as if that might help him understand. The driver offers him a slice of whole wheat bread. The man takes a bite, and then spits some of it out. “Naw naw,” he mumbles between his yellow teeth. I notice a huge growth under his left eye. I make a motion with my hands trying to communicate to him in sign language and say, “ Where you go?” pointing to the map again. He points his bony forefinger on the Pacific Ocean. “Boat boat,” he says struggling to get out the words. We approach the exit to highway 38 going over to Coos Bay and the man motions to the driver that he wants to be let out there. The driver pulls the van over to the shoulder of the freeway where he is turning off outside of Roseburg. Heavy storm clouds move in from the west with a chilly wind.

The rain begins to let up and the sun tries to break out as I stand outside of Roseburg for an hour or more waiting for my next ride. It’s tough out there these days. Only the people who voted for our president, Ronald Reagan seem to be out on the highways. All the others are stricken by economic hard times and have no money to travel and the rich people keep hoarding all the wealth and keep consuming the billions of gallons of fossil fuel to see America, the only America they know, the America of motels, gas stations, motor homes, Holiday Inns, golf courses and strip malls. Yes the president is doing his job strengthening the military budget to protect the vital interests of those concerned like the corporate landowners, shareholders and stock investors while they hoard the gold through the taxation of the poor and the working class that are struggling harder just to survive. The fiery sun turns a pale silver fading into the gray cloud bank fleeting across the horizon and sinks back behind the wintry clouds and another freezing drizzle starts coming down. It seems like I have been standing here for a thousand lifetimes, waiting for the next ride.

An older man in a black four-door sedan pulls over. He appears to be in his sixties or more. He’s going as far as Grants Pass. “ I know what it’s like to be out there waiting for a ride all day,” he says. He puts in a tape of Beethoven Symphony No 9 in E minor. The sun begins to break through the cloudy haze as he lets me out on the ramp south of Grants Pass. On the outskirts of town stands Litton Industries. I was there last summer to voice my opinion with hundreds of others about the state of this country’s nuclear weapons programs. Over at Litton they’ve got the blueprints for manufacturing the controls for the guidance systems on the Cruise missiles. Glowing bright lights burn above the Phillips 66 and Exxon signs. The foothills of the Cascade Range look small and distant. I wonder what the land looked like before white man came along and killed off the natives and took over their land and built railroads and freeways. I stand waiting as the gray solemn sky grows darker above the glowing civilizations millions miles away and ask why this world is such a mess. The earth has been eaten away and gobbled up by the aristocrats and warlords. They whip the peasants of third world countries into submission to harvest their fruit and machine pack it, label it to be sold on the free market. They seize control of the banana belt and coffee beans where the natives once grew their own food for their families to survive on. Now crop dusters fly over laying down a thick blanket of herbicide. Villages are burned and pillaged. Men, women and children are slaughtered by death squads in Guatemala and here I am only suffering from the cold wind and rain while I wait for my next ride. How fortunate I am. There was an earthquake in Japan last week and one in Idaho the other day. The oceans have been poisoned by billions of gallons of crude oil spilling into it and the nuclear canisters sit at the bottom of the San Francisco Bay. The fish have been contaminated by high-level mercury content and the earsplitting sounds of offshore drilling rigs have taken over the tranquility of the California beach fronts.

I see another hitchhiker walking down the freeway ramp. He’s thin, wiry and wild-eyed and looks like he has been on the road for many days. He carries a small pack and no bedroll. He is another wandering 20th Century gypsy it appears, searching for the end of the road he will never find, but filling up his void with experience coming to the point of revelation that Jesus is coming back. It’s only a matter of when. “ Man there ain’t nobody out there going to save this world except Jesus,” he tells me as he stamps out his cigarette butt into the asphalt. “Man I just go from town to town spreadin the news about the Lord. I don’t see no hope for this human race. Only Jesus can save us!” he shouts like an evangelist. “Damn world’s fuckin nuts!” he mutters. “ A guy just as well get drunk!” he stammers some more as he heads on down the ramp towards the burning lights of Grants Pass. Maybe he’s right, I think. It seems the residents of Grants Pass would rather see the town blown off the face of the earth than give up their jobs in the defense plant.

My brain is wired thinking about the present situation on the death-rolling freeway where no one stops, destination 150 miles south. I roll out my sleeping bag. It is the new moon and the Hopi sweats are going on at this present moment on Mt. Shasta. I can’t be there in the physical but I am there in spirit in the circle with my brothers and sisters. We must hold strong together and pray before the holy mountain shakes. There are more bombings in Beirut, Lebanon. Troops are moving into the Caribbean. Guatemala and El Salvador are being invaded by armies of fascists whom this country supports. Nicaragua will be next. I’ve given up getting a ride after waiting for four hours or more. I find a place behind a bush a few hundred yards from the freeway to stretch out as the cars and trucks and motor homes roar past me on through the night.

Dawn breaks in the east and a cold foggy gray day awaits me as I roll up my sleeping bag and my hands begin to turn numb from the morning’s damp chill. I finally get a ride as far as Central Point and from there I walk another two miles farther south towards Medford. The fog moves in along with the cold brisk wind and the sky grows darker. The cars and trucks move in a continuous motion across what was once the raw land of America. I walk on farther to Medford, just to stay warm. What strange creatures have taken over and consumed the planet. The superpowers of centralized governments have eaten away the woodlands and forests. Geothermal drilling units penetrate the rock bed at the base of high mountains in the Tetons and other places across the West. The grotesque hunks of metal, rubber, vinyl and steel enshroud man in his mobile funeral procession that causes acid rain and the greenhouse effect.
My next ride is a guy in his late thirties driving a Volkswagen van on his way to work where he delivers food in the area to the needy through a local food assistance program. I tell him I’m on my way to visit friends at Mt. Shasta and do some spiritual sweats. “I thought I’d be there by now and in time for the new moon ritual but they will have to go on without me,” I say.
“ It is a rough time of year to be hitching,” he says as he approaches the turn off where he will be letting me out. “It’s rough hitching anytime of the year anymore it seems,” I reply. He pulls over to the shoulder and I tell him goodbye and thank him for the ride. He was a spark of encouragement for the day. More hitchers accumulate on the ramp, wandering vagabonds, some without packs, some without bedrolls or camping gear, some without a hat or coat, some with nowhere to go, except sunny southern California where they won’t freeze the rest of the winter. Hitching is quite different than it was ten years ago. It doesn’t seem anyone out there is it doing it for pure adventure anymore but mostly out of desperation. The other hitchers are gone on down the freeway toughing it out in the pouring rain.
I’m stranded outside of Ashland and end up spending another night after hanging out in a coffeehouse next to a laundromat where I dry my clothes while I listen to a local folksinger sing songs like one the Eagles wrote, put me on the highway and show me a sign and take it to the limit one more time. I drink two cups of chamomile tea and call it a night and head back to the freeway underneath the bridge by the railroad tracks to try and get some sleep before daybreak. The freight trains thunder down the tracks as I slip into a dream.
In the morning I wake to the light showers of rain but it is warmer than it was yesterday. I tell myself it will be good day to travel. I will surely get a ride today. Other stranded hitchers stand under the overpass. One of then calls out, asking me if I got a match. His got wet last night. It begins turning cold and windy as the day wears on and the hours pass. A few hitchers up the freeway in front of me finally get a ride but it’s getting late in the afternoon as I find myself standing in the cold rain without any hope of a ride. Now I must practice discipline I decide if I am going to transcend the physical discomfort. If I had only brought my wet weather gear I’d be in good shape to withstand the elements but I was a fool at the time. All I could think of was getting out of Eugene as quickly as possible. I didn’t occur to me at the time that I might need my rain parka and pants. At the present I must tough it out as best I can. It must be getting close to 4 o’ clock in the afternoon. If I’m lucky and get a ride soon I could still make Shasta before dark. The wind blows harder and no one is stopping. No one even seems to recognize my existence. I hold out my sign again after giving my arm a rest for awhile that says WEED. I mean the town not the smoke. Maybe they think I’m referring to marijuana instead. I pick up my pack and start walking to keep my blood circulating. The big diesel trucks are barreling down on me, leaving the repulsive smells of diesel fumes in the air. I’ve only got a 100 more miles to go. The last stretch of highway seems like it can go on forever. The cold hearted lonely American Dream Machine rolls on. No longer can we rely on the external forces only. We’ve got to use the work of our inner being to guide us home. The wind is blowing harder and still no one is stopping. Then I remember Coyote, the trickster, The Old One, The Ancient Buddha, Old Man Jackal, Great Bear Of The Mountains, the lore of the Great Basin Indians of Northern California. Coyote is also human. Coyote comes in many forms and shapes, Coyote is the shinning one, Coyote is strong and can withstand anything, Coyote is life energy, Coyote is transformation into higher forms of exchange, Coyote cannot be seen on these wasted plains of white man’s wounded world. Coyote has transformed the world into a language of modern poetry. Coyote Man is out looking for Coyote Woman. Coyote dies and is reborn. Right now Coyote is cold and wet and his teeth are chattering. Maybe if he howls loud enough, a motorist will stop for him. Coyote has communicated with extraterrestrial beings. Coyote has seen civilizations come and civilizations go. Coyote is old man wandering down the lonesome road, crossing the threshold of a different time. The prophecies speak of the time when the goodness and purity will prevail in the heart and minds of the people and the earth will be purified.
The cold drenching rain begins coming down harder but I don’t have to wait long before an older gray pickup pulls over. “ You stopped just in time,” I tell the driver as the heavy rain beats against the windshield. “Goddam, something just told me to stop and pick you up,” he says as he lights up a cigarette and offers me one. “ No thanks, “ I say trying to be polite. “Where you heading? I’m going all the way to Sacramento,” he tells me. “Thanks for the ride I’m only going as far as Mt. Shasta,” I reply still shivering from the wet clothes and crouching closer to the heater. He tells me he’s coming back from Alaska and has been working on a construction site, building condominiums up in Haines. He hands me a brochure that advertises the great rugged wild beautiful land of Alaska.
“Made good money up there, between 25 and 30,000 dollars,” he says crushing his last cigarette out in the ashtray. “That’s more money than I’ll probably ever see in my entire life,” I reply. We approach the exit to Mt. Shasta. The holy peak glows out of the western horizon, parts of it hidden in the cool winter clouds. The top of it cannot be seen from the freeway. I climb out of the truck a bit dryer and warmer. Soon I will be joining hands with my brothers and sisters as we pray for the earth to heal.