8/25 Atlanta

As always, Greyhound was running late. The driver had tried through the night to recapture lost time by driving like a crazed lunatic, and we arrived in Atlanta at about 7:45. The terminal was better than I expected, rather clean at least by their standards, had a decent snack bar, and most importantly—coffee.

I loaded up on the caffeine, and after about an hour I went to investigate the public transit system that I would use to meet up with Ken later in the day. I figured I would get a grip on it, and then explore Atlanta if the weather and now tropical storm Fay held off. I thought of getting a picture of MLK’s Ebenezer Baptist church, and then going to the CNN building for a picture of their sign—with me flipping it off. Always making statements…

The MARTA station was next to Greyhound’s, but I had to buy the $1.75 ticket just to get through the security doors to the map. Ken’s vague directions on the location of the truck stop made next to no sense, at least on the map. The one thing that he had told me that I could find, Forest Park, is on the extreme south end of the metro. The train (not subway) did not appear to drop me near I-75, let alone a T/A. I called Shalain to see if I could get a little Internet- guidance on T/A's locations, and in the end the only one in Atlanta was NOT in Atlanta at all, but 30- miles south of the city and FAR from being “right next to where the subway drops you off.” This was mildly disturbing, but Ken had promised to call early that morning. I guessed it would be easy enough to recalibrate a connection point when we talked so I went back to Greyhound, continued to charge my phone to the taste of overpriced coffee, and waited.

As a precaution, I also had asked Shalain price the tickets from Atlanta to Albuquerque and Santa Fe, as well as compare prices and arrival times with schedules leaving Nashville. Greyhound has cut its service, presumably due to the price of gas, so you need to be careful about checking itineraries, or risk 12- hour layovers in places like El Paso, Amarillo, Wichita Falls, Raton, or worse yet... Utah!

If I chose to go all the way to Santa Fe: a five- hour layover in Albuquerque to go 60 miles up I-25, the main route to Denver!. In addition, since I had bought the ticket to Atlanta, I was now going to need to return the backpack to REI if I booked a ticket to New Mexico—thus arrival times became an issue. To avoid an unnecessary drive BACK to Albuquerque, and more unneeded expense, I needed a schedule that got me into New Mexico during business hours AND at a time that where Shalain could pick me up. Leaving from Atlanta offered none of these; the bus either got in at six in the morning, where I would have either to sit all day, or endure the five- hour layover to get to Santa Fe… only to make the return trip to get to REI!

Gotta love the Greyhound!

The Nashville schedule was more direct. One transfer in St. Louis, and scheduled to arrive in Albuquerque at four in the afternoon. The problem was that I had already missed it for Monday, so I would to buy the 1:15 ticket from Atlanta to Nashville and wait there from 5pm until 11am Tuesday morning, or rely on Kim to put me up for another night. I hoped I would still hear from Ken and it would not come to that.

The phone was still charging, and it had begun to rain quite heavily (Fay), so I nixed exploring Atlanta. I was preoccupied with what was going to happen with Ken, and what I would do if things fell through. I was sure I would at least hear from him soon, so I chose to remain in the terminal, hang out, and see what developed.

I met a couple of interesting people here; one young person from Honduras who was returning there from New York City, where he said he had been living for a number of years. He was thoroughly grooming himself in the restroom, haircut and all, and not- so- cleverly trying to work me for money, getting none.

I then chatted with a woman who had been on my bus from Greensboro, a very gregarious black lady who reminded me of Whoopi Goldberg, although she looked nothing like her. She appeared to be in her 40’s and told me that she was returning to Louisiana from New York City after meeting with her lawyer. She was suing a hospital for $30 million after falling and breaking her wrist there.

$30 million for that? No.

When the same hospital performed surgery to repair it, they screwed it up, and ultimately they had to fuse her wrist and she has no mobility left.

“I’m gonna be a rich bitch!” she said.

She had also had a stroke (unrelated), but somehow managed to make her recovery stories seem amusing. I enjoyed chatting with her immensely, and told her about the people I had met over the past few months, and how this was by far the most common theme. “Stick it up their asses!” I told her, and that I hoped she got every penny from these bastards, and then some. I never got her name, but as she was leaving to board her bus, she unexpectedly handed me $5, “for food.” I am not exactly sure why she did, but I took it. It was close to noon, still no Ken, and the prospect of buying more Dirty Dog tickets made me think I may need every cent.

The reality set in at about 12:30. I knew that for whatever reason, I was not hearing from Ken. I tried calling him, but it went straight to voice mail. My indecisiveness and disappointment in not reaching the coast took over so I began to mull options, none of which seemed promising. I thought about the night before and “Sherman’s March”, I entertained the thought of heading west out of Atlanta toward Alabama, Mississippi, and eventually New Mexico. I even considered hitching to Nashville to save the cash.

I then had the recognition that I was… toast. Weary. I needed to step back, take a deep breath, and evaluate everything. Trust that things are where they should be. We all have a tendency to think that “this moment” is the end- all; that we are never simply on yet another stepping- stone. Yet I had begun to see that this is exactly what these experiences are: Never ending stepping- stones— at least if I am doing things right! When I realized that this was not the ‘end’, of the whole story, but merely a chapter, I felt better about, and accepted it. (for the most part)

At 12:50, I talked to Kim, and let her know the situation, that unless Ken called in the next 10- minutes I was buying a ticket to Nashville, and would be on the road in a half- hour. She generously offered to pick me up (again!), and let me stay with her. (again!)

I gave Ken until 1:05, and then I had to act. I got the $45 ticket, and despite the outside speakers, somehow missed the boarding announcement while outside smoking. When I returned, if not for the help of some friendly Amish folks, I would not have known that my bus was boarding! I scrambled out of the terminal, thinking I was close to missing it, only to wait another 20 minutes. This bus was late before it even left!

Viva Dirty Dog!

We finally got on the road at about 1:40, and from Atlanta all the way to Nashville it was nothing but heavy rain, and sleep. We went through Chattanooga, ironically, I thought, and saw some of the most beautiful parts of the country, right there in Southern Tennessee. I called Kim when we arrived and we were off to the familiar surroundings that I had left not even a week before. “Really?” I thought. “Not even a week?”

I immediately showered, before I even sat down, and that was it. Rich had let Kim bring his laptop over for me to use (thanks!), so I bought tomorrow morning's ticket to Albuquerque, edited and uploaded pictures half the night, and got to bed at about 3am. Did not matter how late I stayed up; like anesthesia, sleeping makes the Dirty Dog more bearable! Especially a dog- ride lasting 30- hours!

I never heard a thing from Ken.

8/21 N. Carolina- 3 Steves, Titus, and a Gun

The drive from Nashville to Knoxville was smooth, although the decision was not! They did not seem to care where they dropped me off, so for some reason I initially decided on Chattanooga. Five minutes after we left I second thought that, thinking the Appalachian Trail may be an option once I got close to Asheville. Therefore, Knoxville it was.

I slept a good part of the way, while Kim snapped pictures and Rich drove. We got to Knoxville in mid- afternoon, then found a decent truck stop where they could drop me off. We milled around a bit then began the process of saying goodbye.

I still had the Canadian Flag on the backpack, and a guy who was walking inside made a funny comment about it as he walked by. Not rude, just obnoxious. That was my first indication that the symbol of our northern neighbors may not attract the same affection as out west.

We took a couple of pictures, chatted a bit more, and when Kim & Rich finally got in the car to leave, the guy who had made the comment about the flag, now back in his truck in the next parking place, asked me what I was up to. He had overheard the exchange and become interested in what I was doing. About the time that Kim and Rich had backed their car up, Steve had offered to take me about 60 miles up the road, to Newport. I hadn't even left the sidewalk and had a ride.

Oh, Happy Day!

I glanced at Kim’s face and saw something akin to amazement… or fear. I’m not sure which, but I got a kick out of that. She had been expressing misgivings about just ‘dropping me in the middle of nowhere’, and I was glad to have her see that I would not be stuck. I loaded the pack into the bed of the pickup, and waved once more to Kim as they drove off.

Steve was a middle- aged guy who was in the passenger seat of the truck, and judging by the equipment in the back, I used my Superpowers of Deduction to reason that they were heading home from work. His son was driving, also named Steve (Stephen). He was not in the truck when his dad had offered the ride, but seeing a stranger in the backseat did not seem to faze him one bit. We were quickly back on I-40 & heading east toward Newport, and ultimately for me, North Carolina.

This was the weekend of the NASCAR race in Bristol, TN and I believe that Stephen was having visions of battling Darrel Waltrip for the checkered flag, which in his mind seemed to be waving at the Newport exit since he drove 85- 90 the entire way. He was not reckless, just in a hurry, and I was happy to be making good time toward Asheville.

Steve Sr. sat in the passenger seat drinking Bud Lights the entire way, with me re- supplying from the cooler next to me in the back seat. He seemed to be quite interested in the travels thus far and I tried my best to describe them, but the time off the road, which by now was more than a month, had stilted the easy- conversationalism I had tapped into out west. It was immediately apparent to me, but I doubt that he noticed anything. He went on to tell me that they were from Michigan, from the Algonac area, and that they had relocated to Tennessee after the construction industry dried up, along with everything else in Michigan. They simply could not survive up there anymore and were doing only slightly better in Tennessee.

It was a pleasant, and thanks to Jr., a quick ride to the Newport exit. Steve Sr. told me that I was now in the Appalachians, and with the ‘hill folk’, which immediately conjured up images of "Deliverance."

*C’mon Squeeeeal!* eh, H. H.?

I didn’t figure I’d be taking any canoe trips through the mountains anytime soon, so I let that little glimpse of "Rebel Hell" fade away.

The Steves’ dropped me at a little gas station with a diner inside and was on their way, as was I. I went inside to refill the water bottle, not having any idea how long I’d be waiting. I had quickly learned another difference between east and west: getting water. The entire way- California, Oregon, Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado… all of it... never do I recall being charged for water. Ice? Once. Water? Never. The truck stop in Knoxville had charged something like $0.35, and this gas station had only a sink- tap to use. The “pay or fill up in the bathroom” theme would continue throughout.

Asheville was my goal for the day and only another 40- 50 miles down I-40. I had been optimistic that I would get there since everyone I had talked to, and everything I had read, indicated that Tennessee was good for hitching. North Carolina? A bit shadier on the praise, while the inhabitants of Georgia and South Carolina were supposedly a folk not yet informed that the Civil War had ended, or that the slaves had been freed. Mississippi? I already knew that to be fact!

These were the thoughts as I left the gas station for the ¼-mile walk to the on- ramp. I was in another world; one more familiar than the west coast, and not all of that triggered positive recall! I was rather anxious to see how things would go as I sat down, lit a cigarette, and tried to re- focus my mind to ‘Road’.

I didn’t even get to finish the cigarette.

As I was sitting there in the muggy 90- degree sun looking for aspirin, a red pickup hauling a trailer loaded with welding equipment pulled over and asked where I was headed. I told them Asheville, using the ‘underselling’ technique, and they told me to hop in. THIS would be an interesting ride!

Titus, 22, and Stephen (yes, another one), 30, were from central Kentucky, and on their way to Winston- Salem, NC for work. They assemble water towers all over Kentucky, Tennessee, and NC, and were due in Winston that night.

Titus was a quiet guy, but you could tell that when he had something to say, he’d say it and mean it. He was seemingly content to observe me and go from there, striking up occasional conversation, but I was in the same 'look & see' mode he was. These two made me a bit edgy, especially after I let it slip that I was a “Yankee”, and saw Titus glance over to Stephen with what seemed to be an inside- thing.

*C’mon Squeeeeal!*

Stephen: a southern caricature. Picture a well- dressed, well- groomed, racist, xenophobic Larry the Cable Guy. The perfect redneck (his description) stereotype, with such a thick drawl I could understand only half of what he said before I adjusted to it, and man! he loved to talk. Maybe that was why Titus was so quiet? Couldn't get a word in anyhow! As we passed into North Carolina, I began to discover why Stephen was so chipper. Care to guess?

Yep.

Bud Light.

At this point, he was pounding ‘em at a rate of two every five- minutes. And yes, I WAS keeping track; again I was the server! Perhaps this is the key to hitchhiking down south.

As we approached Asheville, I began to feel much more comfortable. Just some good ol’ boys… never meanin’ no harm. Rather they had been in trouble with the law since the day they was born I’ll never know, but they reminded me of my youth and the people from around Hillsdale, MI. They threw around ‘nigger and fag’ like I throw around the word “I”.

“I “sat in the back, and enjoyed the display before me. Stephen would shout out the window, “Take that nigger to jail!” one minute, and talk about Jesus and his Christianity the next. And no Hippie, I didn’t say anything to them about it. And no, I didn’t get out of the truck. This was priceless!

Just before we passed through Asheville, Titus asked me if I was riding with them all the way to Winston- Salem. The beauty of “underselling”: It gives YOU a way out if the rides are unbearable, AND it does not obligate the driver to take you far if they are nervous about picking you up. It then gives you the chance to sell yourself; show them that you are not going to be asking for money, cigarettes, food… whatever.

And to let them see you don’t smell like pee. Hear that Hippie? Try NOT to smell like peeee! (Upward inflection on pee)

Now, the hippies amongst you may ask, “Todd, why didn’t you speak up, or get out of the truck when you heard the racist comments?” (Up- inflections on “up”, “truck”, and “comments”… fun, eh?) There was another reason, beyond the entertainment value. They had been laying down heavy and not so subtle hints that if I were to try anything, like pulling a knife, that they could “take care of business”. I had no interest in pissing off two Kentucky Rednecks while riding in their truck through the Appalachians, dig? Besides, I was enjoying the role of observer up until this point, and we were getting along just fine. Why rock the boat?

I'll tell you why you DON'T rock it: Just past Asheville, Titus pulled what looked like a .44 pistol from between his seat and the console.

Awwwwww… Todd’s first gun- pulling!

He did not pull it out for any other purpose than to let me know it was there, and I never saw it again after he put it back, which was immediately. Strangely enough, this did not bother me. Then again, why would it? Just reminded me of Hillsdale. I knew that these two had no problem with me, and were not going to rob me. HA! Rob me of what? What I found comical was that these two tough- guys, as it turned out, were more afraid of ME than I had been of them! The only thing that, apparently, gave them the courage to stop in the first place was the two redneck staples: beer and guns.

After at least 10 beers, Stephen took over at the wheel for Titus and from there the ride was great. Everyone relaxed, discarded the fronts, and somehow I was able to coax them out of their redneck, bravado dress- up. Well, almost. We began talking about things like trust, fear, and how people should treat other people; the golden rule. Amazingly, they are BOTH passionate about these things, and the Bible began to come up over and over again.

God n’ Guns.

It struck me how odd these ‘values’ sounded coming from a guy who had been yelling “Take that nigger to jail!” shortly before.

It is really a cultural thing, isn’t it? I have said it 1000 times, and seen it first- hand: they breed it into them. Therefore, Hippie… if I may return to this for a moment... all ‘taking a stand’ may have gotten me is thrown out of the truck at best, and pistol-whipped at worst. By keeping my mouth shut, I got some insight into their world, their outlooks (right or wrong), their disconnect, and it set a nice foundation for the major theme of North Carolina. Religion and its hypocrisy.

Do you suppose I have ANY hippies left by now?

The ride ended nicely, and they were treating me like an old (white) friend by the time they dropped me at a Holiday Inn Express in Winston- Salem at about 9:15. I came away thinking that these men were indeed good people. Despite the drunk- driving, the gun, innumerable racial slurs....

It was late; I was out of practice. Late at least to be hunting a sleeping- spot in an unfamiliar, urban area. I called Shalain, then eventually found my way to the old stand- by: between the exit ramp and highway. It wasn’t perfect, but it was pretty isolated and it felt good to be back on the ground again. Strange.

I had realized early on that I was not feeling entirely connected to what I was doing. I missed the excitement of the new experience. I laughed quietly in the first Stephen’s truck when I realized how things had changed. I was getting through this day solely on experience, whereas in California the first days were on excitement. I’d rather have the excitement! I attributed this to being off the road for so long, and hoped it would return soon.

And.. where the Hell was I going? How far I had unexpectedly come affected that. I had hitched a new personal record 270 miles on Thursday: I had neither expected nor planned for that. I had planned to use the time around the NC border, near Asheville, to get my bearings and plot a route. I had done very little homework on Winston- Salem, or I-40 past Asheville. I did not realize, to my utter shame, that there was a little metro- plex beginning with Winston- Salem, then Greensboro and Raleigh- Durham.

That damn ‘P’ word rearing its head again. No hippie, not “Progressive”! We need a ‘Hippie Poll’, don’t we?

I updated the written journal, and then passed out electing not to use the bivy. It was a beautiful, WARM, muggy night as I was dozing off so I did not even bother with the sleeping bag.

I should have bothered. I froze, and awoke realizing I had slept almost on top of a spider den!

LESSON: Find the campsite BEFORE dark!

Lesson my ass… I never do that.