For the next several weeks I am featuring a memoir of an epic, if reckless, hitchhiking trip I took from Iowa to New York City, via Canada, back in 1984. The route led me over and around the Canadian side of Lake Superior.
Part seven. Part six. Part five. Part four. Part three. Part two. Part one.
My rides dried up.
I’d had pretty good hitching luck up to then, with only a few long stretches of waiting for cars. Now, the situation had changed. I had a big bloody, scabby bruise on the side of my face, right up against my nose. It did not seem to be engendering a lot of trust in me with the many cars passing me by.
I could no longer count on the protection of Mishiupeshu. I wasn’t feeling too mythic.
It didn’t help that I’d left the comfort of the Trans-Canadian Highway, trading the East-West of Hwy 417 for the North-South of Hwy 416. Traffic slowed significantly.
I don’t know how long it took me to reach the border. I just Googled the distance from Ottawa to Prescott/Ogdensburg (the place where I think I crossed the border), which should have taken me an hour, but I’m pretty sure it took me two days.
I remember smelling a horrible smell in the air as I neared the border. Someone pointed out the paper plant, and the smokestacks far out on the horizon. I felt nauseated, though I wasn’t sure if the smell from the smokestacks was the reason.
It seemed unlikely I’d be able to find a ride across the border between Canada and the U.S., I remembered my inability to do so when I was entering Canada.
I opted for a motel room. I also opted for a sit-down restaurant meal of chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes: comfort food (I don’t know that chicken-fried steak is a big thing in Canada, but we were close to the border).
It felt like a defeat. I don’t remember much about the motel room, but I remember walking across a parking lot toward it and feeling sick, and being really glad that I had a warm, comfy bed to sleep in. My bath that night was an hour long. I cleansed and cared for my scabby wound. I watched a ton of TV. In general I pampered myself. I felt guilty for spending the money, and weak for settling for a motel room, but I needed the break.
#
I walked across the length of the Ogdensburg-Prescott International Bridge the next morning. I felt refreshed and clean and well-rested. The paper mill that had made me so nauseated the night before was now on the far shore. The noxious odor remained, but I was better able to stomach it.
I reached the midpoint of the bridge, and the Customs Station. Back at the beginning of the account, I told you the ease with which I walked across the border from the U.S. to Canada. The crossing back to U.S. soil was not quote as easy.
I don’t think they saw a lot of hitchhikers on that bridge. The guy who was charged with making sure I was safe to allow to cross the border was an older, overweight man that reminded me of a New York cop. He was gruff and unfriendly, and not inclined to trust me. First he patted me down. Then, he took every single item out of my backpack, one at a time, and asked me about it. He went through my clothes, my food, my camping equipment, even my address book. Where was I from? Where was I going? Did I have a place to stay? Did I have a job?
The chain I planned to use for protection—you may remember toward the beginning of this account where I talked about practicing whipping out the chain in my parents’ basement—was the hardest thing to explain. I told him the truth; that it was for protection. He confiscated it.
Toward the end he was flipping through my address book, peppering me with questions about names and numbers and who was who. I didn’t—and don’t, to this day—know if his intense scrutiny was legal, but it’s an International Border, so probably, yeah.
His last question: “What’s this?”
His chubby finger pointed to a single entry on the inside cover of my address book: McSorleys, 15 E 7th St. I told him. It was the address of a bar in Manhattan (a pretty famous one, it turns out: the oldest bar in New York) that someone had told me about back in Minneapolis.
“It’s a bar in Manhattan someone said I should visit.”
He looked me straight in the eye, handed me my address book, and said, “You’re free to enter the United States.”
I repacked my pack (which took some time), slung it onto my back, walked across the border and into the United States, two weeks after I’d began.
#
The sun shone bright on me, it was a summer day, and my mood was quickly improving.
I got a ride fairly soon, from a friendly, outgoing man. The canyons of buildings of New York City may have been my destination, but we were driving into mountainous, heavily wooded terrain.
He noticed my sleeping bag strapped to the outside of my pack. “Are you camping around here?“do
“Kinda. I camp wherever I happen to be. It was pretty easy in Canada, the whole route is campgrounds.”
“We’re heading into the Adirondacks. Plenty of camping down here. You’re lucky.”
I was feeling pretty lucky.
“Do you know where you’re staying?”
I didn’t.
He told me, “I own a bar down here. We have creek running out back, and a lot of land. You’re free to stay on my property for a few days.”
Who could possibly say no to that?
“That sound perfect.”
It was perfect. My mood was improving since crossing the bridge, but I was still pretty tired. Those two weeks following the shores of the Great Lakes had taken their toll, and the idea of setting up camp and kicking back for a couple of days sounded pretty fine. A friendly bar a few hundred yards away was certainly a selling point.
I’m trying to find where I was camping during that brief interlude. I’m poring over Google Maps, and nothing is ringing a bell. Keene Valley, maybe? Baxter Mountain Tavern? I know I had to be near Lake Placid, because I remember hearing the name of the town, but that’s not where I was staying. I just googled a list of bars in the Adirondacks, but recognize none of the names.
The location of the bar will remain lost in the tangle of neurons that is my long-term memory.
I relaxed for two days and nights. I read, I wrote in my journal, and wished I had brought along a portable hammock. I smoked actual pre-made cigarettes. I allowed my scabby nose wound to heal. At night I’d wander up to the bar, have a hot meal and a few beers and some human companionship.
After two relaxing days, I thanked the owner profusely for his kindness. It really was the perfect little pause in the action before taking on the hubbub of New York City.
I stuck out my thumb and hit the road again.
#
“I’ve never picked up a hitchhiker before,” she said. She blushed a little when she said it. She was cute and friendly and flirting. “I figured there’s a first time for everything. My Mom would be mortified!”
We were still inside the Adirondacks, heading down I-87 toward Albany. She was heading toward Albany to pick up someone at the airport. Who she was picking up remained unclear.
“It’s a beautiful day,” I told her. She agreed. I told her about my adventures up in Canada, she told me about her life in upstate New York. The conversation was fun and flirty for hours. I knew nothing would come of it, she had an appointment at the airport. Still, it was a nice respite.
As we approached Albany, and her turnoff toward the airport, her mood began to subtly change. I assumed at the time it was due to the approaching reunion with whoever she was picking up. She was cagey with the identity. It was clear from the name (I no longer remember it) she was picking up a man. Boyfriend? Family member? Business associate?
Whoever it was she was picking up, the arrival was making her nervous, and perhaps resentful. Toward the end of the ride, she even got a little snippy with me, though she quickly apologized.
She dropped me off on an entrance ramp in Albany somewhere, to go pick up her mystery date. It reminded me that you never know what drama people are in the middle of when you happen into their lives. All you can know is what they tell you, and what you can glean from their actions.
I never did learn who she was picking up. As a hitchhiker, once you leave the company of someone’s car, you slam the door on the mystery that remains.
Peace.
To be continued….