In listening to former soldiers give accounts of their battle experiences in World War II, Vietnam War, etc, I was always struck by a statement that was echoed by many. “I never felt so alive”, they’d claim. “I lived every moment.”
I didn’t really understand the meaning behind that sentiment. Then, in 1976, I undertook my first long distance hitchhiking trip. It would last two and a half months, in which time I covered 9,000 miles along with my then wife and dog.
I’m not saying I was shot at (guns were pulled on us three times though), so my comparison is not that life hung in the balance at any moment. Still, there were similarities.
Hitchhiking makes you vulnerable. You’re traveling without the security of a vehicle. You’re susceptible to weirdos, rain and lightning, biting insects, and that desolation feeling after spending four hours or so on a lonely road in the middle of the southwestern desert.
Evey morning when you wake up, you have no idea who you’ll meet that day, how far you’ll travel, and where you end up sleeping that night. That anticipation is exhilarating, even exciting.
Your awareness level becomes intensified. Standing by the side of the road, your eyes lock on every approaching vehicle. You pick up their “vibes”. Are they good people, or do they have bad intentions, a certain darkness about their character? If your senses are hyperactive, you become a good judge.
The relationships you form with folks who give you a ride, though they last only a few hours, are inspiring. There’s a feeling of “I’ll never see you again”, so they blurt out personal things about their life that they’d never tell a spouse or friend. You’re a sounding block, an impartial ear.
Long distance hitchhiking isn’t for everyone. It takes someone who is confident in their abilities and self assured. But if you’ve got those ingredients and give it a try, you’ll find that you never felt so alive.
- Mountain Man