One question echoed in the back of my mind: “Why had I left Portland?” I tried to ignore it and bury it as the pedantic mutterings of the early morning.
The plan had seemed simple enough. Start work in a winery in Walla Walla, WA on Oct. 1 and celebrate the 50th anniversary of Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road” by hitchhiking there. It was a combination of destiny. I decided to leave on Sunday, Sept. 23, which gave me less than eight days to get to work on time.
After breakfast, I started hitchhiking from the Wake N’ Bakery on Rte. 302 in Westbrook, knowing better than to start from my apartment in downtown Portland. My first ride was in a 1967 Lincoln convertible, which felt like a good omen. By noon the next day, I was at Rouses Point, NY, where I took an Amtrak headed for Montreal. All appeared to be going well until I realized I had misplaced my passport. After eight years and two trips to Europe I had lost my passport trying to get into Canada. I felt foolish.
Customs said it wasn’t my lack of a passport, but they were kicking me off the train. I was accused of trying to be a burden on Canada. A bus driver heading south felt like I had gotten a raw deal, so he gave me a free ride to his first stop, Plattsburg, NY. I arrived around 2 am and wasn’t about to pay for a hotel — that’s how I found myself sleeping in a bus station about the size of a restaurant booth.
Fortunately, I was able to get a copy of my passport and birth certificate faxed to me the next day, enabling me to cross into Canada on a bus without a problem.
I made it through Southern Canada via numerous rides, including an 11-hour drive in a tractor-trailer. The fall foliage was at its peak in Southern Ontario and as Rte. 17 rose and fell again, Lake Superior unveiled breathtaking views in the heartland of the great lakes.
I awoke on Sunday, the last day before I was suppose to start work in the winery, on a beach by a river in Missoula, MO. The view of snow-capped mountains and the crisp, cool air gave me a new breath of life. I felt I would make the roughly 400 miles before the day was done.
After walking for two hours I wasn’t so sure my feeling of elation was not mere fantasy, the mountain air an elixir to the grim realities of hitchhiking in the new millennium. Luckily, that was not the case. It only took three rides that day to reach Walla Walla.
Looking back on the trip, the most rewarding experiences were the unexpected, the bizarre and at times the most simple: moments where I was no longer Josh Harriman but a mere traveler on the road. Thank you Mr. Kerouac.