8/22 N. Carolina- Winston/ Salem to Asheboro

I woke up with Friday’s sunrise; happy to see it- hoping it would warm me up a bit. I spent most of the night cold, but not enough to merit digging out the sleeping bag. I took a couple of pictures of the sunrise, and dozed off again until that old- familiar time: 8:30.

Packing was simple. Eating? A challenge! Generic, unheated Spam is not that great anytime, but it does offer many calories to go with the almost standard stomach upset. The digestive agony would linger most of the day. I went from my tree straight to the on- ramp and set up, having no idea how long I would be there.

Thankfully, it was not long at all, maybe a half- hour. I did not get the guy’s name, but he drove a fancy pick-up and said that he had stopped because he too “had been there, understood” and thought that he was doing me a favor by getting me out of Winston- Salem to the “better people” of Greensboro. The ride was quick. We discussed why people do not pick up hitchhikers any more, and his opinion was that people are simply afraid of “losing something”. I did not know what to make of that, but it made sense on some level. He dropped me off on the west side of Greensboro, just past the “Big Sandy” exit.

I lost an old friend when I got out of his truck. My coffee- cup lid fell off, never to be seen again after leaving the nomadic life for the temporary stability of the truck. I gave the rest of the cup- carcass a solemn, open- air burial there in Greensboro... just for the Hippies.

The new spot looked promising. It was on a high- volume ramp and came complete with good stealthing spots if the need arose. It was only 9:30 or 10am though, and I was feeling optimistic after the 270 miles the day before. I had visions of getting all the way to the Outer Banks that day, or at least through Raleigh to pick up US-64. I settled in after treating Spam Gut, loading up on water, and grabbing the first $1.80 pack of cigarettes I had seen in years.

Then, I waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

After a few hours of baking in the North Carolina sun, I made my way to the I-40 frontage road, following it the mile or so to the next exit hoping for better luck.

From the beginning I have avoided urban areas, or at least tried to be sure that I was dropped well before, or on the other side of them so that I could walk if need be. But now? Trapped. Unlike Oregon & Idaho, it is illegal to walk interstates in North Carolina, and the new vantage point was even worse than the old: an industrial area with much less traffic. The traffic that WAS there: business- to- business. So, back I went, again tending to the Spam's Revenge along the way.

I was resigned to fate by the time 4:00 came. I had been there six hours doing not much more than working on my sunburn, so on my final trip to McDonald's I picked up a piece of cardboard to make a little sign, mostly to feel like I was doing something rather than actually hoping it would work. It read “Raleigh/ OBX”, and as I sat back down, I had a strange, familiar feeling of defiance. It was funny in a way. I just laid back with my shoulders resting on the backpack, put on my headphones, and enjoyed all the strange looks I got from the commuters. It was fun! And, it worked.

After about 20- minutes, a car stopped driven by who I discovered to be Latino; one that speaks next to NO English. We could barely communicate. All I understood was “Asheboro”, and he nodded when I said “I-40”. I knew that US-64 passed through Asheboro, but again my lack of preparation bit me. I really had no idea where the town was in relation to Greensboro, other than “a bit south.” I DID know, however, that I was sick of “the better” stock of people I was supposedly going to find in Greensboro. I decided to take the “adventuristo” attitude. “Screw it”, I said. I wanted off the interstate and I liked the idea of playing the hand dealt me. I really wanted to get back to walking. Hitchhiking was getting old.

Into Francesco’s Cavalier I went for the quietest ride ever.

We could not communicate beyond simple phrases, so we just listened to the radio as he got on US-220/ I-73- 74 (one road) and drove south. I did learn that he was from Guatemala, and I wished that I spoke Spanish because I would have loved to pick his brain and learn a few things that would pertain to the winter trip south. No such luck.

Francesco surprised me a bit when he pulled off 220 and drove into a little town named Randleman. He never tried to express what he was doing, so I was a bit perplexed when he began driving into the countryside. He stopped at a house where another family of obvious immigrants lived, and picked up a license plate and what looked like registration. “That was a bit strange!” I thought to myself as we drove back into Randleman.

I really liked Randleman. It was nice to be in a small town again, rather than driving past it. The parallel of I-40 and Route 66 struck me, and I was so smitten with this little town that I was on the verge of getting out right there. I, to this day, do not know why I just didn’t.

From Randleman it is another 20 minutes into Asheboro. I envisioned it as being quite small. Not quite. It was VERY spread out. Francesco, trying to be helpful, drove me all the way to the eastern fringes of the city, 6 or 7 miles down US-64. As we rode through town, I felt lucky that he had not just dropped me at the intersection, although I noted that there were many places to sleep out of sight.

Francesco dropped me at a furniture store across from one of the omnipresent BP gas stations. (BP’s: locust of NC) I noticed something as I exited the car that I had observed before, but assumed it was an anomaly: NO shoulders or sidewalks.

Repeat: The entire state of North Carolina seems to have NO shoulders and barely any sidewalks!

This is a problem.

As I looked down a very busy US-64, I became horrified. This was a major 5- lane thoroughfare connecting Charlotte and Raleigh, therefore the traffic was very heavy. I just could not believe there was no way to hitch it OR walk it but as I studied the traffic patterns, I saw that the cars were hugging the right edge of the lane, and that there was no way to walk next to the road without stalking through people’s yards. In addition, it was getting to be Friday night. I saw the Stephens; their coolers loaded with Bud Light, and thought that it would be foolish to try it. Choose your poison: Hood ornament? Target practice?

This was new territory. The first time that I had NO idea HOW to hitch AND feeling unable to walk, despite being highly motivated to. I sat down by the side of the road, but I was just past a stop light so there was no way anyone could, or WOULD stop there. Unless they needed a new dinette set or coffee table.

After a few minutes, I realized the futility and crossed the highway to try my luck at the BP. The only luck I had there? A man who I now believe wanted to take me on a date, or role-play my now- LEAST favorite movie: Deliverance. Full of questions, praise, overly- friendly smiles, and all the while saying he had “done all of this back in the day”, seemingly enthralled with my story and most of all, my ‘courage’ and me. Yet, he never indicated he would help get me out of there, nor did I ask. It later dawned on me that he was looking for the Larry Craig “foot- tap”.

I managed to charge my phone and get a better geographical- bearing of the area, but NO luck getting out of there. After a couple of hours, the frustration began to get to me. After sitting most of the day in Greensboro, I was now having déjà vu. This time however, I was nowhere near a road that might offer ANY significant ride helping to get me past Raleigh, AND I was no better off than Greensboro in that I could not walk out of there either! Grrrrr…

After a frustrated phone call home, one that killed my freshly charged battery, I'd had enough. I topped off the water, angrily threw on the backpack, and started walking back from whence I’d come.

“Fuck the traffic; Fuck Asheboro; Fuck North Carolina! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” I said to myself, repeatedly.

The traffic going west was much lighter, but frankly, I did not care. “I can sit on my happy ass in Greensboro!” I said aloud as I huffed back toward 220. I was angry that I had so far to walk just to get back there, and knew that the likelihood of catching a ride BACK to Greensboro that night was nil. Nevertheless, tomorrow was Saturday, and I knew there were places to stash myself for the night in preparation for a full day of weekend traffic.

This whole psycho- drama was VERY reminiscent of eastern Idaho, I later realized. I wish I would have realized it THEN but I was not feeling connected- just as the day before; going through the motions. I was growing tired of North Carolina, and the EAST in general. Feeling, and being aware of the negative energy that permeates nearly everything on that side of the Mississippi probably contributed to my lack of patience, but I held hope that it would pass.

The difference between Idaho and North Carolina was both obvious AND critical however. There was nothing NEW for me to see here! I knew what to expect when I got to the Outer Banks, since I had already spent time there as I had all along the east coast. An east coast that I was not exactly stoked to see it again. That being the case, what was the motivation to endure the frustration? I began to feel as though I was continuing this leg of the trip to satisfy expectations again, both my own and yours! These were the thoughts racing through my mind as I walked back into Asheboro. I had also had Shalain check the bus schedules for me in case I DID get back to Greensboro and wanted out.

Then something remarkable happened… again.

As I was walking, full of piss n’ vinegar, I reconnected. Just as in Idaho, that defiant anger that has always served me so very well (when not taken to extremes!) served to motivate me. I stopped looking for rides; quit concerning myself with my locale. I quit analyzing the fact that ANOTHER gas station AGAIN wanted money for water, and just laughed at her while I snuck outside to use their water spicket.

I felt like I was back in Idaho hoofing it down I-84 talking to cows, antagonizing dogs, jumping through irrigators, and taking pictures. This was the best night since then. I felt at one with AND completely separate from everything at the same time.

I eyeballed the train- yard for quite awhile, examining access to it just in case I decided to hop yet another freight, and I seriously considered it.

I paused to watch Asheboro High’s football game as I strolled by.

Finally, after 3- hours or so I came once again to US-220/ I-73, exhausted.

I collapsed at the gas station just before the on- ramp, sitting right next to the still shoulder-less road on the off chance that someone would deduce that I needed a ride.

The only attention I garnered was, of course, from the local cop. He asked me why I was sitting there, and I told him politely that I was resting--- which was the truth. He then asked what I was doing, and when I told him “trying to get the hell out of Asheboro”, he asked how. I told him I was hitchhiking then he proceeded to act like a 5- year old, “I didn’t hear that! I didn’t hear that!”

What... the... hell?

It seems that hitchhiking was illegal! I had checked on the state laws before I had left, but some municipalities have local statutes against it. Asheboro is apparently one of them.

Mr. Fife then sped off to thwart what I am sure he thought was a major caper. Probably some kids trying to buy beer, or an uppity black- guy crossing the street.

The gas station and I bonded for the next couple of hours, until I had finally had enough. Barney Fife had made me a bit paranoid, so with much stealthiness I snuck down the ramp to my familiar spot. Much to my surprise, I found “Hiders Paradise”: a grove of what I assumed to be Palmettos. I stand about 6’ tall, and these ferns stood at least 5’6” with a tapered- base, meaning that there was PLENTY of room for me to lie out. Perfectly concealed even from above! SWEET!

After being molested by spiders the night before, I fought off the Lazy Bug, and dug out the bivy. I had no idea how to set it up, and the fact that it was dark and I was literally up to my neck in ferns made set- up a bit difficult, but it was much easier than the tent had been. There was plenty of room within, and I was glad to keep the arachnids frustrated & hungry for the night.

As I contemplated the day, I realized that I am a fool. Instead of walking BACK to US-220, I should have aimed my defiant, ornery ass EAST and tackled US-64. I would have essentially made it to the next town and been closer to getting through Raleigh by then, and who knows? Maybe I would have gotten a ride. The realization of how much good walking had done for me forced the consideration that I should turn around… AGAIN… but I just could not bare that thought. I resolved to ride it out, and trust that I had “connected” while walking back for a reason.

Saturday would prove me correct in that final act of faith and provide me with, intellectually at least, perhaps one of the most interesting days of the entire trip. New perspectives seen. New doors opened. Different avenues- of- the- mind opening.

These days make life on the Road, or anywhere, worth living.

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.