All Just to Get to a Writers' Workshop

 

Mostly for my own benefit, I'm gonna chronicle my 1982 hitchhiking trip from California to Vermont and back on this page. Judging from the frequency of past posts, I may complete the task by its 40^th anniversary next summer.

My roommate Din Din and I stood in our San Jose, California kitchen trying to figure out our plans for the upcoming summer—or more precisely my plans. Din had house painting jobs lined up back in Minneapolis while I was clinging to a longshot of getting a scholarship to the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop in Middlebury, Vermont. It was my last day to decide whether to stay on with our somewhat dodgy third roommate—which I didn't want to do—or scramble for temporary quarters—of which there were none.

“I won't hear from Bread Loaf till July,” I said. “And it's a pipe dream anyway.”

Then the phone rang. Honest. A woman asked if I'd like a working scholarship to Bread Loaf. “Are you serious?” I said. She asked if I'd be arriving by plane or bus. “Hitchhiking, I guess,” I said. I had little money and two-and-a-half months to kill before the workshop. She wished me luck.

I climbed into a pick-up truck headed for Sacramento. It would be the first of twelve straight pick-ups to deliver me through northern California that day. This first one dropped me off on the highway resulting in the police ordering me off and I walked most of the way through the capital city before a second pick-up gave me a lift.

The day's last pick-up dropped in Reno and—though I'd swore I wouldn't spend money on lodging—I checked into a cheap motel for the night. I did not take advantage of the free gambling chip they gave me.

photo: newtoreno.com

The next morning found me eagerly standing, thumb out, on an entrance ramp heading east.

That afternoon found me still in that same spot, eight hours later. A car finally pulled over. “I saw you in this same spot this morning on my way to work,” the guy said as I crammed my backpack into the backseat. No shit, I muttered. “Of course, I'm turning to go to Carson City.” The Carson City exit was maybe 100 yards up the road.

Now forced to cross rush-hour Carson City traffic, I finally settled under an overpass on the interstate—where the police frown on hitchhikers. Another pick-up stopped. A cowboy. “Only going as far as Sparks,” he said. I could see the exit just ahead. I took the ride just to get off the highway.

“I can offer you a beer and a bunk,” the cowboy said. “Course I'm a gay guy.”

It was late afternoon. “No, thanks,” I said and ended up on the Sparks ramp till the sun went down. I trudged over to a nearby park. Though tempted to walk back to Reno and that motel, I climbed atop a picnic table to sleep.

Next installment: Desert poker, knee-deep in porn, and a machete.