Dublin to Heathrow. London to Bath. Bath to Cardiff. Jumping planes and trains can get you in the habit of jumping on direct routes. It was time to really get my thumb out there again… Albeit for the first time ever I’d be using my left thumb.
I’m such a creature of habit putting out my left thumb and hitching the opposite side of the road felt very strange. The bus driver in Wales helped me negotiate the furthest point east, which was so helpful because, as I have demonstrated before, escaping a city can often be more time consuming than hitching a ride thousands of kilometers. I found myself on the outskirts of Cardiff, at a light- controlled roundabout with no shoulder. There was a futile attempt to walk up the ramp but it soon showed itself to be too dangerous. Luck was going to have to be on my side again as I knew the only way I was going to get a ride was to be able to make a good impression on any driver within three cars of the roundabout when they were stopped at the light.
Oh, and of course it was raining. But rain, I believe, brings rides.
Sure enough, within 15 minutes, Gary picked me up. It was a mad hustle too get his child seat put in the boot along with my pack and soon we were on our way. He wasn’t going far but was sure that an on ramp in Newport would be a better opinion and was willing to get me there. Gary was in a great mood because he’d just been to see his doctor and had been given the all clear to return to work after two surgeries to repair a badly broken wrist which he shattered falling off a stage in a pub in Cardiff. Sadly, he assured me it was an excellent stage diving story but a simple tail of a slightly elevated stage that was properly marked. He wasn’t even that drunk.
He dropped in the east of Newport and I hope he’ll somehow find out his intuition was spot-on because after less than a minute, Mark pulled over. Another short trip, Mark was heading to to a small town about 40 minutes up the road. Generally pleasant, Mark is a designer of electrical engines and usually drives his electric vehicle to and from work but apparently the charging device at his home was on the fritz so he had to bring his gas vehicle to work. He’d have picked me up either way, he assured me but he felt a little better environmentally by snagging a hitched along the way.
We chatted about the Brixet vote the day before (for those less whole news savvy, Brexit was the UK referendum to leave the European Union.) Mark was disappointed in the vote because he felt that it was a vote against immigration and the Polish and Greek employees that his company had on the assembly floor were vastly harder working and more reliable than most of the employees that were from the UK.
He dropped me at a small rest area and my next ride was a little harder to get. Eventually, Briana gave me a lift to her hometown of Monmouth. I ate a fish sandwich and walked down to the highway but on my way saw this beautiful scene:
Tiny little town reminded me “The tourist gets to see what he came to see. The traveller gets to see what he sees.”
A disappointing day trying to get the hell out of Quebec City and calling into question what I call this adventure now.
It’s been seven days. I’m finally ready to write about it.
My disappointment is severe. I am struggling to not allow it to affect the rest of my adventure.
I blame myself. I was enjoying my ride with the Brazilian Jui Jitsu team so much, I didn’t notice that they were bringing me across the bridge into Quebec City. A small alarm was going off in my head. I’d looked at maps of Quebec City. It’s quite a ways off of the highway. What is worse is the bridges are long.
But that’s not the worst, I’d come to discover.
After checking into one of the last hotels in town (I hate paying for hotels, especially when there is an event in a city which takes up every spare bed in town), I awoke and for Pont Du Quebec, the one walking bridge out of the city.
But it doesn’t get you out of the city. Just to the other side of the river. After that, it is another small freeway with no shoulder. I walked in every direction but couldn’t find a hitchhiking spot where anyone willing to pick me up. Every spot ranged from categorically unsafe to catastrophically awful.
I find glorious train tracks. After about a mile, the ground under the tracks gives way to a bridge withnothing under the ties but the raging St. Lawrence River. I’m not ashamed to admit I don’t care for heights, especially the looking down at certain death part. I braved a few feet but saw that it was at least a careful 10-15 minute transverse and, even if I didn’t slip and fall through the tracks, if a train came along, jumping would be my only option. Even if the fall didn’t kill me, lugging a 50 pound pack meant that I’d sink to the bottom of the river like a stone.
I walked back to the city. Avenue Du Hotels was no better. Five freeways out of the city and no where to hitch. I stopped and got a bite to eat (I’m five hours in, at this point.) I poured over my google maps and thought I saw a route I hadn’t attempted yet. It was close and I opted to try.
I couldn’t find a passable route but what I did find was the VIA Rail station. In six hours, there was an overnight train to Halifax. With my plane to Dublin now only 36 hours away, it was a hard decision to make, but I made it. I bought the ticket.
I tried to look on the bright side. Although I love subways (love em) I had never taken a train adventure. There is a mystique surrounding rail travel I have never been a part of. Perhaps there was something about it people were onto.
The only way I can describe Via Rail travel is the way to go if taking a greyhound bus is just too classy and quick. The only positive is that the seats are slightly roomier. But it is slow. Sorry, not effective enough. Slow as in sloooooooooooooooowwwwwwww.
18 hours on a train (the only cheap way out of the city since Greyhound doesn’t operate inside of Quebec City) stretches to a grueling 20 hours. Depression washes over me because I KNOW if I could have made it to the damn highway, I would have been in Halifax hours earlier…and whether my “hitchhiking around the world” tag would still qualify. That part really got me. When I first set out to plan this trip, I almost booked a flight out of Montreal but my feeling was that if I was going to see the world, I should start by seeing the part of Canada, my home and native land, that I’d never set foot it. Now, there it was, streaming past me out the window, mostly in the dark and I was $181 poorer for the experience.
I managed to jump off the train in Moncton so I could at least say I set foot in New Brunswick but the train rolled on and so did I.
We arrived in Halifax at about 630pm, two hours behind schedule and fortunately it gave me enough time to get to the hostel. The staff was pleasant and the guests were fun but one hot girl rubbed my nose in my defeat by having hitchhiked from Quebec City just that afternoon. (Note to self: Next time I try this, bring a hot girl. Or be a hot girl)
A few hours sleep and I’m at the airport in Halifax. The rest is a blur.
How I learned to not only pay attention to where I am getting picked up but where I am going to ask to be dropped.
It was close to 1am when I finally was able to make it to Marco’s home in Montreal. He was happy to be waiting for me as, with most couch surfing hosts, he does so for his pleasure.
Even when they don’t wear clothes.
Yep, Marco is a nudist. Or naturalist as he prefers to be called. As I always say, when in rome…or when in Montreal…
After a little idle chit chat (or as idle as you can be when when you’re naked around a stranger) he gave me the key, pointed me to the bed I’d be sleeping in and said good night. Hitching is a beautifully exhausting process so I laid down my naked body…and so, to sleep.
In the morning I met my fellow surfer briefly, Nanzi, a communications student from Erie, Penn who is in love with Montreal. Our singular meeting was brief as he had a friend to meet and was quickly dressed and out the door. I did not get the impression he was anywhere near as self-conscience as I was with the house of skin.
I spent the day exploring Montreal and eating…alot. Montreal has some great food. I even tested one of their supposedly world’s best bagels. Don’t even hold a candle to New York Bagels. Sorry, Montreal. The boost doesn’t hold up.
The following day we were joined by Alexander, another naked surfer from Hamburg, Germany. A talented artist, Alexander is switching jobs and is taking time to see Canada in the opposite direction as me. And he’s not hitching. He’s flying. And rightfully skipping Regina. Good call, Alex.
The following evening we enjoyed a fine Duck Poutine then climbed to the top of the steps at Saint Joseph’s Oratory of Mount Royal and got a pleasant view of the city. After our outing, I took a little while planning an escape route from the city for the next day.
I awoke in the morning to see my young naked German friend cooking his special apple & Muslix pancakes he’d boosted about the evening before. As I watched him prep and fry in the buff, I wished only that I had bought a pound of bacon the night before and requested he fry it up while starkers. Bacon grease and nudity. Hilarious!
I said goodbye to my host and boarded the Metro bound for the eastern most part of the city. Once again, the escape from a city proves to be more stressful and time consuming than the actually thumbing of rides. I rode transit all the way out to Longueiul Station and transferred to the RTL. The ticketing agent understood what I was doing and told me to ride the bus out to the Ikea store and assured me that I could cross to the Trans-Canada after getting off. I don’t know if he made an honest mistake if he was deliberately screwing with me but after exiting the bus and walking toward the freeway I was confronted by an impassible ravine, forcing me to turn tail back the IKEA mall and walking to the TCH via the roadways. 1.5 hours down the tube.
I took up position on the on ramp like a good hitchhiker, willing to obey all the laws. I was swore at for the first time from a passing vehicle. Hey, buddy, my french sucks but I understood that! After a couple of hours, I pulled out my phone and could quickly see what the problem was. Only 2 kilometers up the road was a MAJOR interchange. The Trans-Canada, 2 provincial highways AND the off-ramp to the United States. Of course no one is stopping. It would be total guess work where I was going. I packed up again and started walking east on the freeway.
My theory proved correct as within a few meters of passing the interchange, Justine, a young lady who works at Staples pulled over and I was rubberized again!
It was a quick ride but I was grateful all the same. Justine said her boyfriend would be jealous because she always finds the hitchhikers and he never does. I suppose they have an informal contest going and she’s way ahead in scoring us side-riders.
Less than 10 minutes on the thumb and ride two was Daniel. I think he was a little sour that my French was even worse than his English. But 50 km is 50 km and I’ll always be gratful.
My next short hop was the opposite. An SUV towing a dirtbike pulled quickly Danny stopped for me even though he’s never picked up a hitchhiker before. He said he’d had a great day on the track and just felt that he should do something nice for someone else. He was sad that he couldn’t take me further because he said he’d enjoy practicing his English, which was impeccable, with me.
It was starting to get late and as I walked down to the next interchange I started looking toward the woods for a good place to pitch my tent. But again. luck and generosity was on my side as Dimitri and his friends, a group of four Brazilian jiu jitsu students, returning from a test to gain their blue belts pulled over. The car was less than a compact and the passenger was at least half a foot taller than me, yet still he offered me the front seat and they offered to drive me to Quebec City. Woo Hoo!
Quebec City was my goal for the day. Once there, I felt Halifax was hitchable within the day rather than the three days I had left.
Quebec City would also end up being my hardest lesson. But a simple lesson. Check the damn map.
Dimitri and his pals dropped me right in the heart of Quebec. Interesting fact about that town…you cannot safely walk out of it. I tried for an hour in the dark. Frustrated, I bit the bullet and, with the help of my cousin Allyson via facebook, took a hotel room for the night.
Don’t get me wrong. I have plenty of money for this trip but the adventure is about doing it as inexpensively as possible. I doubt I had spent $137 on the whole trip. And here I was dropping $137 on a hotel room. If I could have safely got to the highway, I would have happily slept in the woods for free.
The old hippies on the road are starting to be replaced by the old punks.
I spent three full days in Toronto visiting family and going to a couple of the neighborhoods I spent more than many nights drinking away paychecks and killing gray matter.
By day two, I was anxious to get back out on the road but by day three I was dismayed to discover that nerves were setting back in. All the old fears came leaking back to my mind. Suddenly, I’m concerned that no one will want to pick up this aging thumb – rider. What makes the start of every leg of the trip even harder is that getting out of major cities is often more stressful and time consuming than standing on the road in the middle of nowhere, smiling at passing vehicles trying to hitch a ride from one of them. Getting out of town usually requires buses and/or trains unless someone you know, a host or old friend offers to drop you on the outskirts. Fortunately for me, just moments before I was about to navigate TTC and GO as far east as possible, my favorite cousin messaged. She’d been sitting in a conference which was particularly mind-numbing, and wanted to take me on a mini road trip which I gratefully accepted. Within minutes we piled all my things and ourselves into her jeep and we were east bound and down, as the song goes.
We spent our final couple of hours promising to make certain that another 25 years didn’t pass before we saw each other again and laughing because I told her that when she threw my laundry in with her daughter’s things, a pair of her 4 year old’s panties had worked their way into the leg of my jeans. We imagined my being hassled by a bored cop, choosing to initiate a roadside search of belongings and asking me to account for the pink undergo I’d hidden away.
All the truck stops in that part of Ontario seem to be franchised as they are all called On Route and all seem to feature Burger King, Tim Hortons, Southside Marios and a gift shop/convenience store. We grabbed a quick bite and she deposited me at the on ramp. I’m not sure how far she had to travel up the highway before finding a place where she was able to turn back towards Toronto, but as she passed on the other side of TCH, she managed to snap this photograph of me.
It was a great location and the only problem that I had was the angle of the Sun made it impossible for me to make eye contact with the drivers as they approached. Before too long, a red minivan pulled to the side and I ran after it. The driver told me to throw all my belongings into the back but the sliding back door was stuck shut. He jumped out, ran around and finally managed to get it open from the inside. The gave me the opportunity to see something that gave me great pleasure. As he turned around, the bowling style shirt with the leopard print front sported the logo from one of my absolute favorite underground punk bands of the late 1980s.
“Oh my god, dude” I shouted “ls that a Mentors shirt you’re wearing?
“Hell yeah!” he replied, a massive grin on his face. And the connection was instantly made based on a little known musical trio known for being so offensive they’d be considered shocking even by today’s society.
He introduced himself by name which which I quickly forgot once I learned that his stage name was Bobby Lawless and the band was Destroyer Scene. Soon we were just a couple of old punks, rolling down the road and talking about bands we love and shows that we’ve seen or wish we saw. Bobby has given up city life, opting instead for the quiet of a cabin in the woods, opening the door for coining the phrase Bush Punk Forever. After a quick detour to the beer store, Bobby dropped me on a ramp halfway between Napanee, Ontario and Odessa, Ontario.
I quickly accessed the ramp as pointless (about one car every two minutes) and strolled back down to the highway. The sign we’d just passed indicted that Odessa was 8km further down the road and had one of the On Route stops that I spoke of earlier. Time for a little backwards walking, the time honored tradition of walking and hitching at the same time. I’ve gotten pretty good at judging when the next wave of traffic will be on my back and turning in time to hitch. You can walk forward normally and thumb with your left hand but I’ve never caught a ride this way. What driver is going to stop for a faceless stranger?
About 3km in to my jaunt, an 18 wheeler pulled over about half a click further down. I figured he’d stopped to complete his log book and felt that it was unsafe to hitchhike directly behind him, so I picked up my pace a little, planning to walk a hundred meters past him and continue hitchhiking from there or walking to Odessa if nessa’ (like that?).
It turns out the trucker had pulled over to give me a lift. The third time a professional trucker has stopped for me and I don’t think I’ll ever not be surprised, knowing that in doing so they put their jobs at risk.
Still under the impression he’d pulled over for any other reason, I overshot his cab by 30 feet before turning around. Through his windshield I could see his heavily bearded face looking down at me, the expression clearly being “WTF?” I pointed to myself and he nodded. I ran back to the truck, threw my pack up and climbed on board. As the engine roared to a start I introduced myself to the most unlikely, non-stereotypical trucker I think I’ll ever meet.
(Note: Although a trucker, my driver gave me full permission to write about him and even film him inside the cabin)
Jeremie is only 21 years old, a French Canadian, and a father of a young son. When I speak of Bobby, my last ride, he looks pleased that I like harder music. He asks if I would like to hear some heavy metal from Japan and he turns on…Oh My God….BABY METAL!
He was equally surprised that I had heard Baby Metal before but I total him about my great friend and comic book creation partner in Las Vegas, Kyle Brummond and his near obsession with Baby Metal. I admit I’m not a huge fan and further admit that I never expected Baby Metal, a trio of sexy, school girl clad, tiny ladies dancing to grinding, Metallica inspired guitar riffs and singing in high pitched, Pokémon style voices, to rise any higher than novelty act status. I missed the boat predicting the international success Kyle was certain they would achieve. But I will take Baby Metal over country music at any time of day…or any time in my life for that matter.
Best of all, this was my home stretch ride as Jeremie was going to be able to drop me right in the heart of Montreal!
Four hours of listening to heavy metal, talking about the sadness of loss due to suicide, and discovering that the pizza at the Flying J Truck Stops is every bit as delicious as I’d heard, I was in Montreal and remembered that I was now further east in my home Country than I’d ever been before. I contacted my host and assured him I was on my way to his home and he assured me he was willing to wait up for me.
When Hitchhiking, 20 minutes away can seem forever.
I knew that my amazing luck wasn’t going to be able to hold on indefinitely. After a happy yet quick good bye with Cara in Orillia, I was fairly certain I was going to meet my biggest challenge…catching a ride into Toronto. My not so hard and fast rule for this adventure has been that I can take private and public transport through the same areas the average local would. So I set my sights in Barrie, Ontario, the northern most point on The Go Train system, which brings commuters into the GTA on a daily basis.
It would be another two hours before the sun would be up so I took the opportunity to walk around, have what must have been my 10th cup of coffee and beg an empty donut box from the girl behind the counter. Tim^s donut boxes make excellent hitchhiking signs in a pinch, especially when it is pouring rain and you don’t necessarily want to dig around in the trash looking for the right sized piece of cardboard.
I tore off the cellophane top and made a sign that said something like
As soon as I was sure that the rain wasn’t going to let up any time soon, I popped in my headphones, and wandered down to the Number 11 highway to meet the early morning traffic…
And then the early rush hour…
Then rush hour…
Then lunch hour…
5 and a half hours later, Craig pulled over in his beat up Kia Sorrento. Music blaring, hitting a joint hard and driving with his knees he tells me he can only bring me as far as Barrie GO and after seeing him let go of the wheel and practically dive behind the back seat looking for a cold water, I couldn’t be more grateful that he wasn’t going further. He has quite a bit of weed in drivers compartment and asks if I want any for the road. I thank him for the offer but tell him I don’t smoke. He insists, suggesting maybe I can barter with it. Again, thanks for the offer but cops are known for harassing hitchhikers and I’d rather not be holding if they decide to search me. He can see my point there and lights himself another joint. He’s on his way to Barrie, he explains, in order to install some insulation. He asks what I do for a living and I tell him I work in the casino industry. He proudly tells me that he has a gold card to the local casino and has probably lost about 35000 dollars in the last year. Be it drinking, drugs, gambling or any other vice, I’m always amused by the pride certain people have in their bad decisions.
Craig drops me at the GO station just in time for me to catch the bus that will take me into the heart of downtown Toronto. I’m excited to see my cousin who I haven’t seen in over 20 years but I am aware of the special connection we’ve always shared. Once on the GO I can finally close my eyes. Its been almost 36 hours since I crawled out of the woods in Vermilion Bay. Sleep is paramount.
Winnipeg, Inuit Art, fun with my gays, barbecue and sleeping in the woods for the first time ever!
Winnipeg is the city of my earliest memories but I have no recollection of it beyond the street I grew up on.
Deposited on the edge of the city at about 1am, I was fortunate enough that the public transit still ran until almost two. I was very grateful additionally that my host lived within blocks of the only bus there was to catch at the end of town. My poor host, Serhii, a mathematics teacher at UofM, waited for me until the wee hours as I finally made it at 230am. We exchanged pleasantries, a couple of stories of the road and immediately went to sleep. There would be plenty of time to get to know each other in the days to come.
The following day, I boarded the bus to Patterson Avenue, the street I have my first memories of. Everything seemed so small. The mansion I grew up in is a split level rancher. The park where I played, a vast, green wonderland is small enough where I might be able to throw a baseball from one end to the other in two pitches and my daily trek down to the corner store is simply a three minute stroll.
The evening was spent eating Indian food with my Ukrainian mathematics friend. Serhii is a fascinating fellow. Like many University teachers, he is surprised to discover every year another batch of students who received all A’s in math are coming into his more advanced classes with barely a fundamental understanding of fractions. Like many, Serhii seems to be caught in the trap of having pursued that which he is good at (math) and abandoning that which he is passionate about (literature & travel). By the end of the meal, we’d devised an idea for his first novel simply titled “The Mathematics of Hitchhiking.” I really do hope he follows that dream and more importantly, that I get a dedication in the book!
Day two in Winnipeg had me impersonating my host (at his insistence, of course) in order to gain free admission into the Winnipeg Art Gallery to see the Marc Chagall exhibit using his WAG membership card.. To be honest, I know just enough about art and art history to get by at a cocktail party full of auto mechanics but, as the old saying goes, I know what I like. Video two is my discovery of Master Inuit Stone Carver Oviloo Tunnilli.
After one slightly touristy event, it was time to hit the road again. I love the expression “hit the road” especially “Time to” and “I gotta”. City Transit out to the edge of town…thank you Google Maps and Winnipeg Transit. A short 1K hike to the Trans-Canada and I am looking for a relatively dry place to set my knapsack.
First car, first thumb, first ride! Just a short one but what a feeling! My driver assures me that the short trip will be a better hitching location and I readily agree, hopping in the backseat long before I think “If I got my first ride off my first car within 30 seconds, how much better can the next spot be?”
My luck continues! Less than 3 minutes later, Craig picks me up in a pick up (Been waiting the whole trip to write that phrase), I throw my bag in the back bed and we’re quickly on the road. Another short trip and I’m dropped under the turn off to Stienbach, Manitoba. I am always grateful for any ride but I am also amused by non-hitchers that THINK they know what a good hitchhike spot is. Under the road is never great, unless it is raining.
Still, I must have a magic thumb. I always start every hitching session by listening to the song “Free” by Stevie Wonder. It features the lines “Free: Being nowhere and everywhere I choose to be” as well as “Free: Having nothing. But possessing riches more than most.”
The song, which runs about 4 minutes, hadn’t even finished playing when a minivan pulls over and I half-sprint half-waddle after it with my 60 pound pack on my back. My driver, Darren has a cold water waiting for me by the time I get to the passenger door. Again, the amazing generosity of strangers never ceases to amaze me.
Darren works for Native Affairs of Manitoba and owns property out in Winnetka, Ontario. He’s on his way to “cut the grass” at his cabin, which I gather is an all day affair. By the end of the 2.5 hour drive, he’s inviting me out to stay at his cottage for the weekend, promising to introduce me to the McDonald Sisters, a gaggle of seven single women from ages 32 to 45 whom all love to party. As enticing as this sounds, I assure him I must really get further down the road. He drops me on the turn off to Winnetka and my thumb is out again.
Not the best spot. Most cars turning onto the Trans-Canada are going very short distances so even if they were inclined to pick me up, they can’t see why I’d want them too. The worst part is the geography of the turn off. My spot is both at the bottom of a basin and on a slight curve. Anyone travelling east on the TCH will only be able to see me for 3 to 4 seconds…hardly enough time to see how absolutely charming and handsome I am.
Not too terribly long though, I am in the backseat of Laddi and Sam, two adorable lesbians from Windsor. Sam is in Kenora working as an Occupational Therapist for the next three months and her partner, Laddi is out for a visit. On learning that I did not have a solar charger, they insisted that they bring me all the way into town to buy one. (I haven’t used it yet but probably still a good idea to have.
After a long comical ride, that involved having to return to my original destination because, somehow…and I still have no idea how, I left both my jackets on the side of the road…and their decision that they were going to take me a much greater distance until we found a “good spot” we discussed gender politics and the 5 different types of lesbians and who they are allowed/expected to date.
After a spot of barbecue, where I devoured a Philly Cheese-steak made with pulled pork we gave each other huge hugs, took selfies and I walked over to the on-ramp.
It’s not the writing… it’s the rewriting. It’s not the packing… It’s the repacking.
Things I have lost:
1) The first sign I made for my adventure. I put a lot of time into it. It was bright yellow and read “Hitchhiking Around the World”. It became the first casualty of my adventure, as I watched it blow down the Trans Canada Highway within minutes of starting my journey.
2) The book that I bought for downtime entitled “Command and Control,” a nonfiction piece about the history of the Cold War. Didn’t even get a chance to crack the cover. Its current location is unknown but somewhere before Winnipeg. I hope wherever it is, somebody is reading it, and enjoying it as much as I was told I would.
3) My e-cigarette, vape pen. My hope was that I would be completely off cigarettes by the time that this journey ended. It was excellent for a quick hit on the side of the road, especially for a lifelong nicotine fiend like myself. Smoking while hitchhiking has got to be a bad idea. Current location: I left it in the cab of the first trucker who pick me up in Medicine Hat, Alberta. I’m glad that’s where I left it because he had mentioned he wanted to get one for himself in order to kick the cigarette addiction also. I hope he’s using it and wished that I had left behind a tasty e-juice for him as well.
4) Car charger: this is the item I’m most upset about having lost up to this point. I absolutely must replace it as access to all the information on my cell phone is imperative. I often wonder how people did what I’m doing before the invention of the Android cell phone.
Things I have abandoned:
The gloves I bought in Medicine Hat, the grey sweater, my board shorts where the zipper doesn’t go all the way up comma my new Nikon camera that I can’t seem to get the pictures to transfer over to my laptop properly, 1 box of pens because depends I like to write with are only available in a 12 pack and I only needed two, 1 pack of 24 Duracell double a batteries, in most upsetting, my Zoom HPN mobile podcasting device, which I believe I will need to return because as far as I’m concerned right now it is a piece of garbage. Distortion and feedback even in the most controlled environments. Very disappointed that I will not be able to do the podcast on this trip. Very pleased that this now gives me an excuse to do another trip just like this.
On the whole, I am relieved and pleased to announce as I’m beginning the journey between Toronto and Montreal, I have managed to decrease my carrying weight by five to seven pounds! As of last night, everything that I brought with me which I have neither lost nor discarded can all fit in my larger backpack. After I use the knapsack as my carry-on to Ireland, it can be discarded or donated.
Last night as I was going through the experimental shifting, figuring out what I no longer wanted to carry with me, the theme to the television show WKRP in Cincinnati kept running through my head.
“… got kind of tired of packing and unpacking… Town to town, up and down the dial…”
Day 2: Regina to Winnipeg. One red paperclip and a big red truck
Caught in the rain. Prairie monsoon. Denny’s beacon. I start across the shoulder, through the massive median. Everything is wet. Down the off-ramp, across Victoria Avenue. Everything is muddy.
Ding! My cell phone chimes. I look down and my heart explodes with gratitude. Someone has accepted my last-minute couchsurfing request.
I put the request out to three people on Couchsurfing.org only 20 minutes before my last ride dropped me on the side of the highway. In my excitement to get on the road, I’d neglected to find someone to host me in Regina. Winnipeg, Thunder Bay, Toronto, Montreal…all secured. I even had offers from hosts in Saskatoon. But when my cross Canada plan change to include the Queen City instead of the Hub City, I didn’t put out any requests. As the sheets of rain coated the windshield of the 18-wheeler I was cruising in as we approached Regina, I frantically put out a couchsurf request to three people. I can’t say that I was even surprised when Shannon contacted me almost immediately via text.
“Where are you?” “Victoria near the highway. I see a Denny’s and a Sandman Hotel.” “Go to the Denny’s. I’ll find my keys and pick you up in 5 mins.”
The next time you’re feeling down on humanity, think about Shannon, young mother of four who came out in the pouring rain, a picked up a total stranger so he didn’t have to sleep in the rain. Shannon and I didn’t get to spend too much time together but I learned she recently converted to Islam, married a man from Paris and struggles to pay all the bills. She’s a beautiful, strong woman who deserves our praise and I will always be indebted too.
After an evening on the couch, and a morning drinking coffee and meeting her children, Shannon helped me pile all of my belongings into the back of her Kia and deposits me a little further down the road outside of a very small town called White City. The sky is gray, threats of rain in every direction. I quickly scanned my surroundings to recognize both the pros and the cons of the location that we’ve chosen. On a positive note, it seems to be a fairly busy intersection with access to several restaurants and one major store. On the downside, the other major building 100 yards away is an RCMP substation. Surprisingly, the day before I had not encountered a single RCMP vehicle on the Trans-Canada Highway. Like many places in North America, the laws regarding hitchhiking are unclear and the enforcement of those laws is sporadic at best. But I supposed that the best way that I could test how high on their priority list ridding the Trans Canada Highway of hitchhikers was, would be to hitchhike right on their front doorstep.
I arranged my packs meet neatly on the side of the road, put in my earphones, opening upbeat playlist, and stuck out my thumb. The Third vehicle to approach the intersection was, of course, an RCMP Cruiser. The officer eye-balled me quickly, but then she drove away without a second thought or glance. I have to admit I was somewhat relieved. For the most part come on any interactions I have had with the police since returning back to Canada 2 years ago have been courteous and polite, but I’m still somewhat gun-shy when it comes to dealing with the men and women in blue after spending 25 years living in the United States.
Saskatchewan Internet Sensation
Before too long, 30 minutes at the most, the dirty white Ford Escort slowed to a stop and the passenger window rolled down.
“Where are you heading,” the driver, a thin young man whom I assume to be in his early twenties but would later learn was a mere 17 years old, asks me.
“East,” I replied. “Eventually I have to get the Halifax by June 13th but I’ll go as East as you’re care to take me.”
As I open the door, he says “Okay hop in. But just to warn you, if you’re planning if you’re planning any sketchy stuff, it isn’t worth your time. I only have $11 to my name.” I tried to give him my most reassuring you smile, and say to him, “Don’t worry about it. I have much more than $11 on me.” Only in Canada would you try to reassure a potential victim of crime by setting yourself up as an even bigger potential victim of crime.
Zack, my young driver, lives in Kipling, SK and has recently had a falling out with his family. He’s on the way back to Kipling, about 150 KM south-east of Regina in an attempt to patch things up. He’s never picked up a hitchhiker before but figured that the way his luck has been running, maybe if he did someone else a solid, he’d pick up a few karma points.
As we rocket down provincial highway, Zack assures me there is nothing of interest in Kipling, except, well, “a few years ago there was this guy who had one red paperclip….” Excited, I interrupted him. “Holy cow, the house he traded the paperclip for is in Kipling?” Zack seemed please that, not only had I heard of it but I was genuinely excited to see the place. Added bonus the town erected a giant red paperclip in the center of town. Double Added Bonus: The house is now a restaurant and guarantees of the best cheeseburger in all of the Saskatchewan. One of the things you have to love about hitchhiking is the adventures you’ll find yourself on which you had no idea were coming five minutes before.
The burger wasn’t the best I’ve ever had but one of the better ones I’ve had in recent memory. The whole house has been converted into a diner (see more in the video). Our stomachs full, it was just a terrifying jaunt up a gravel road to get back to the TCH. Zack and I had a quick cocoa and he was actually thanking me by the time he dropped me at the side of the road in Whitewood.
My second and last ride of the day was in a huge, red 18-Wheeler (and people say truckers won’t stop for hitchhikers anymore.) I wasn’t going to film in his cab without permission but I also forgot to get his permission to write about him either. It is sad because, while I’ll simply tell you he is a new immigrant to Canada, the rest of his story is pretty fascinating, so remember to ask me about him if we ever meet in person.
I rolled into Winnipeg at about 1am and fortunately my couchsurfing host was happy to wait up for me. Again, I hope I always continue to be amazed by the kindness of total strangers as I continue this journey.
Crime pays! Within 15 minutes of thumbing it right on the Trans-Canada, I saw a small red car zip across two lanes of traffic and slow. Honestly, I thought he was breaking down but…NO!
Success! I ran towards the car…first time I ran with my pack. Another thing I should have gotten used to. I walked with the pack on several times but didn’t factor in running after cars.
Where you headed? Anywhere East! I can get you as far as Medicine Hat. Thats 278km.
James is an welder in the tar sands of Alberta and often picks up hitchhikers. Mostly to hear their stories. He loved the fact that I am hitchhiking for pleasure and was thrilled to be my first ride. I was so excited that the journey had begun that I, unfortunately, completely forgot to take any pictures or video. So James, if you ever find this, please send me a photo and GOOD LUCK WITH THE BABY!
Amazingly, James bought me coffee. I really wanted to pay but he told me that HE WAS SO GRATEFUL for the company that it was “the least he could do.” I guess that drive back and forth to the ‘Hat can get pretty boring.
He dropped me at a place along the highway called Trukkers. Sounds promising to a hitchhiker, right? I went in the store and bought a couple of thing (new pair of gloves, trail mix then strolled into the restaurant. Truck stop fare is usually excellent. Large portions and, while hardly ever exotic, usually delicious. That is a big USUALLY…because then there is this meal…
It is called the “Trukker’s Scramble” and I’m not sure if it is made with real trucker meat. It sounded delicious when I ordered it but honestly I would have rather ate the paper the menu was printed on. Anywhere else, I would have sent it back but waitresses at truck stops can sometimes be the reference you need to get a ride. Kicking up a stink over a $10 food item might be the difference between catching a lift or waiting it out.
Pack on, I walked back out to the road. The wind picked up even worse within the 2 minutes I was on the road.
Yes….ONLY 2 FREAKING MINUTES.
After only a handful of cars passed by, an 18 Wheeler made a right out of the truck stop and started to pull forward. One of my unwritten rules of the road is when trucks are trying to get onto a freeway, back way off. Truckers are extremely safety conscience and you want them to know that you’re respectful of their space. And the shoulder is there space. They need that area to safely get up to speed or pull over in case of emergency. When I see one pulling, I usually like to back off a couple of steps just so they are aware that I’m acknowledging they are coming toward me and they don’t have to be concerned that I’ll accidentally wander in front of them or worse, decide life on the road isn’t for me and throw myself in front of it.
As the big red truck inched forward, making no attempt to merge, I didn’t realize he was stopping for me unless his hazard lights started blinking. The passenger door stops directly in front of me (NO RUNNING!), the door swings open and I am face to face with Crackles, my driver’s black cat.
“Oh, he likes you! If he didn’t he wouldn’t let you into the cab. Where you headed?”, he asks. “East,” I answer. “Well, I can get you as far as Regina, if that helps.”
I climb up and soon we are chugging down the TCH, 7000 pounds of frozen beef behind us. My driver is an old hitchhiker himself and has been trucking for 30 years. He is pleasant as can be despite complaints of a hemorrhaged disc in his lower back that confined him to the bathtub for two days until his son could help him get out. He loves driving, reggae music and Crackles, his cat whom he calls his co-pilot.
We stopped only once in the 500 kilometers traveled. Cheap roadside coffee and a whiz. He seemed surprised when I paid but if a comfortable ride that far isn’t worth a hot cuppa, what is? He pointed at the vape pens in a display case and told me he’d been thinking of using one to get off the cigs. I explained that I had just bought a new one and, while it hasn’t got me to drop the smokes completely, I have cut back substantially. The conversation reminded me to charge my vape once I was back in the truck.
We rode in relative silence the rest of the trip. About 30 minutes outside of Regina, the rain started in heavy and I suddenly became concerned that I had no place to sleep that night.
Victoria Avenue in Regina. I climb out of the cab, throw on my pack and start heading toward the “Open All Night” sign. I’m homeless, hundreds of miles away from family, caught in a downpour…