After spending a few days checking out the Austin scene with my friend Prch and checking in at the Mexican Consulate to get a tourist visa, I was on my way. I continued hitchhiking south on I-35, down through San Antonio to the border town of Laredo. As I got into the Rio Grande Valley and closer to the border, the rides grew harder to come by, but I did make it to the border crossing by that afternoon. The Laredo-to-Nuevo-Laredo crossing was the third-busiest on that troubled and contentious 2,000-mile border. I walked across a bridge to the Mexican customs office and showed them my passport. They asked me how long I planned to stay: “Tres semanas.” What was my purpose for visiting Mexico: “Vagar y maravillarse (To wander and wonder).” How much money did I have: “Cien dólares.” They rolled their eyes and told me I couldn’t enter their country. 

I hadn’t planned on this. Did they want a bribe, the famous mordida, that little bite out of my wallet? I’ll never know. I had no idea how to present such a thing, my Spanish not fluent enough to negotiate the subtleties of such a transaction, and I had little money to spare in any case. Crestfallen, disappointed, somewhat embarrassed, I walked back across the bridge and considered my options. I could’ve tried another border crossing – Piedras Negras was about 120 miles to the northwest – but I’d lost my confidence in this venture. The family of my high school buddy Michael had moved to Phoenix in the past year, and I had their address. He was going to school at San Francisco State, but he’d be coming home for Christmas. I decided to head there to meet up with him and then decide what to do next. So, back to San Antonio and then west on I-10 toward Phoenix. One thing I came to appreciate on this trip was the vast emptiness of West Texas. Between San Antonio and El Paso is a 550-mile stretch of rangeland and Chihuahuan Desert, punctuated by oil derricks and dusty little towns. The soundtrack might be the quiet skittering of small lizards and tumbleweeds, then a single extended bent note on a Fender Stratocaster, then the opening chords of Ennio Morricone’s theme to The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

Hitching was an art, a practice, and a philosophy, all rolled into one. Of course, hitchhikers depended on the kindness and generosity of strangers, but they contributed something to that transaction. It was their job to be good company. That might entail telling stories of the road, or listening to the stories of the driver, or just participating in a conversation to stave off drowsiness. It was the hitchhiker’s responsibility to be interested in the lives of the drivers, to practice empathy. Sometimes this might involve a good deal of acting, but the best hitchhikers were actually interested on some level in the lives of their temporary traveling companions. 

I didn’t get as many rides from truck drivers as you might expect – many trucking companies forbid drivers to pick up hitchhikers, and truckers had less need for company because of their non-stop conversations with other truckers on their CB radios. But Bill pulled his eighteen-wheeler off the road to give me a lift. In his tall white Stetson hat, he was more gregarious than most truckers, and we talked steadily above the roar of the rig and the CB chit-chat. We stopped at the Flying J Travel Center in Fort Stockton for coffee and met up with a few other truckers. Here’s one story passed around: “Once I was driving a rig with this one kid and we get pulled over in Denver and the trooper pulls out his ticket book to write us up. This fool-ass kid rolls down his window and says, ‘I’ll take a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate malt.’ The trooper was so amazed by his gall that he let us off with a warning.”

I lucked into a long ride from Daniel, a University of Texas student on his way home to El Paso. We hit it off well for the next three hours, and as we were approaching the city and evening was settling in, Daniel invited me to spend the night at his family’s place. His parents were cool – a Jewish couple living in suburban comfort in the foothills of the Franklin Mountains – glad to have their son home for the holidays and willing to welcome this scraggly kid who had tagged along. After having been on the road for two days straight, I was grateful for the sit-down dinner and bed they offered. Daniel gave me a lift back to I-10 the next morning, and I continued on my way.

I had more good luck that day – long rides from friendly folks – and reached the sun-soaked sprawl of Phoenix by the afternoon of Christmas Eve. It took a while to find the home of Michael’s family on West Solar Drive, but I arrived and knocked on the door, feeling a bit like a Leonard Cohen song, like I “was just some Joseph looking for a manger.” Michael’s parents were taken aback at the sight of me. Though John and Kay knew me well from when Michael, Jon, and I lived together in Pennsylvania, they weren’t expecting me, and it turned out that Michael had decided to stay in San Francisco over winter break. There was an awkward moment, but they generously welcomed me in, insisting I spend Christmas with them and their five kids, perhaps knowing there might not be a lonelier feeling than being on the road on Christmas Day. 

As was often the case among couples of that generation, John and Kay seemed an unlikely pairing – gruff Lithuanian American father and tender-hearted mom of Scotch-Irish stock – but they somehow made it work. Michael’s younger brother Steve was home from Northern Arizona University and staying in the garage, which John had rigged up with two beds, a fridge, and a tv. So I roomed with him, essentially filling in for Michael. Steve and I hung out, drinking beer and watching late-night tv (including a new show, Saturday Night Live), but neither of us knew the city, so it was all rather low-key. I took lots of long walks in the evening to give the family some space.

Four days later I was bidding my adopted family a grateful farewell and heading back east. My goal was to get to New Orleans by New Year’s Eve to meet up with my friend Tony Hoagland. This would be a long stretch of hitching – some 1,500 miles – but I would be assured of mild temperatures and I was well-rested from my time with Michael’s family. In September, Tony and I first met by the bulk peanut butter bins at New Pioneer Co-op on South Gilbert Street and instantly connected. We were both young poets and Deadheads and new to Iowa City. I was working as a night baker at Stone Soup Restaurant in the basement of Center East, on the corner of Jefferson and Clinton, and Tony frequented Barbara Welch’s Yoga Center, located on the first floor of that building, so our paths frequently crossed. Tony was a short wild sprite with long blonde hair and a great zen energy (who would go on to become an impressive poet and academic). Thoughtful, upbeat, brilliantly funny, he lived in the moment, and I immediately admired and liked him. His father, a retired Army doctor, had settled in the little town of Galliano, deep in the bayou seventy miles south of New Orleans. I looked forward to seeing Tony and digging the bayou and celebrating the end of 1975 with him. But as I said, that was 1,500 miles away.