“Hitchhiking is a scorned activity. Often thought of as unnecessary, dangerous and antiquated. As a river runner, backcountry skier and general lover of adventure, hitchhiking is often a necessary tool to get home at the end of the day. After years of trusting rides to strangers I’m lucky to say I’ve never been hurt, misled or stranded. These are some of my favorite experiences hitchhiking in the last decade across the American west.”
Monks of the Chama
The Chama River in New Mexico isn’t known for particularly difficult whitewater, but it’s a gorgeous wilderness nonetheless with plenty of fun rapids. Due to dam controlled releases which cut off the river from boatable flows most of the year, planning a trip on the designated ‘Wild and Scenic’ multi-day section can also be a difficult to obtain permit. Spending a late August day in Santa Fe, I lusted for sufficient water to paddle and with unplanned luck discovered the Chama was poised for a weekend flush of over 1,000 cfs.
With brief planning we packed the car and headed off Northeast to Abiqui and turned onto the washboard roads of the lower Chama. As we crested a hill and the river appeared below, the chocolate milk water and striking high desert scenery appalled me. I had heard murmurs from friends about the magnificent Chama, but for a last minute river trip we had struck gold. We switched off running shuttles and pushing miles, hastily loading the ducky into the wagon hatch each lap so we could shuttle faster. I scouted and ran Screaming Left Turn first, delightfully hitting the wave train and catching a good ferry angle to avoid the undercut wall. The solo boating was awesome but we came to run it together.
Under the hot afternoon sun we once again rattled up the washboard road upstream on the Chama. This time we went all the way past Skull Bridge and to the limits of the non-permit day run. At roughly 8 miles the shuttle was easy but we had one car and no plan for getting back to the Put-In. With continued optimism I elected to walk the road if no other cars passed and assumed I could pull the ‘Walter Blackadar' stand in the middle of the road and make the first car stop technique to hitchhike. We rigged a cooler with beer and one flip line on the kayak, and sent the boat into the current. The lower Chama is a phenomenal roller coaster of wave trains, braided channels and cobbled banks lined by sagebrush pinon. Below the skull bridge and the gauging station we charged the kayak into every hole and wave we found. Each turn of the river and new horizon afforded terrific views. The rapids were a hoot and with just one stop to scout a boulder garden, we had little problem finding the lines and keeping the boat upright. Like all good river trips the end came too soon and now at the Big Eddy take-out we met our first other group. The other folks, a pair of rafters from Taos, were heading home and not back upriver, but seeing them made me less doubtful about walking the shuttle. I bid my partner goodbye and sauntered off down the long road to retrieve the car.
At this point I was a sight to behold. It was 4pm on a Friday afternoon, easily 90 degrees outside and I’m walking barefoot and shirtless, with only swimming trunks, sunglasses and croakies. Feeling like a total idiot I slowly pick my way down the dirt road torturing my weak feet on the hot rough ground. About 45 minutes of walking in and I realize I’ve made maybe a half mile at best and at this pace (if I can sustain it) I might not beat the sun going down. I painfully stumble around a corner and up a small rise to a longer straightaway. As soon as I hear the rustle of a vehicle behind me and start to raise my hand to flash a thumb, the SUV is already slowing down and pulling to my side.
A window rolls down in the dark colored Suburban, “Hey! Do you need a ride up river?”
I blurt out “Yes, Thank You!” and the driver swings open the front passenger door. I hop into the truck embarrassed about my still semi-wet trunks and lack of a shirt. As I glance to my left, I am shocked sitting in the driver's seat is a full blown Priest, with the black robes and white collar, fully dressed to the nines. He’s older, maybe 60 (and a very typical looking religious figure if I may say so). I’m ecstatic to have a ride and remember in the ‘Chama fun facts’ there is a monastery at the end of this road and my shuttle driver now makes a lot more sense. The Father asks where my car is and I tell him but we don't talk beyond it. Looking behind me, my attention is consumed by the other two passengers. Also in full religious garb in the backseat are one Asian and African-American friar, both ravenously tearing into big takeout bags of Burger King. For some odd reason I start to wonder how close the nearest fast food restaurant is, easily hours away and are the monks allowed to eat like that? Regardless, this bizarre ride is saving me a terrible walk and we bounce up the road surprisingly fast. Nobody speaks a word, but the Father rallies up the dirt road at least 3 times the speed we carefully navigated the mangled washboard earlier. As our car comes into view the Father asks if that’s my vehicle, I confirm and notice the Friars have moved on to an enormous bag of Cheetos. The suv pulls up to the dusty car and I profusely express gratitude. I look down at the wet outline of my trunks on the Suburban seat and jump out, happy to be done with the most awkward and surreal hitchhike of my river career.
Kannaraville & The Mormon Call Center
When a roommate informed me she was going to be driving from Salt Lake City to St, George, Utah the following day, I leaped at the opportunity to piggyback on her road trip. Scanning the road map along I-15 south, I thought about Zion, or mountain biking or peak bagging or river running or a million other outdoor goals. When I saw Kannaraville, an idea quickly sprouted in my head.
The small roadside town of Kanarraville is far from notable, but its namesake slot canyon which draws tourists from around the world is certainly a classic Southern Utah destination. My little knowledge of the Kanrraville Canyon had told me parking was an increasing problem and my intent to explore the area without hordes of tourists would also be very difficult. At this time in my life I had become infatuated with sleeping in unique and rare locations. While a slot canyon is a very dangerous place to sleep due to flash flooding, I reckoned I could enjoy the hike in relative solitude and also camp in a sweet place on the canyon rim if I was lucky enough to get dropped off by my roommate.
Without much excitement we breezed through the long drive to Cedar City and pulled through the sleepy streets of Kannaraville still under the afternoon sun. Upon reaching the trail head my roommate was reasonably concerned but not unsurprised by my wild hare plan. While it was only Wednesday and I next had work on Friday, my transportation the roughly 4+ hours back to Salt Lake was still undetermined, and that was only if I survived the hike and camp up the slot canyon. I assured my roommate I’d be careful and we bid our goodbyes. I hiked off with a spartan backpacking kit, trudging up the rough 4x4 road to the ultimate trailhead. The hike into the start of the slot was beautiful and the many water crossings made me antsy about water levels once I would be alone in the deeper canyon. I passed an older couple less than a half mile into the trail, they seemed surprised to see me given the hour but we acknowledged each other and continued on our ways.
Walking between the narrow canyon walls, I was speechless at its magnitude and scenery. The hike was a childhood dream, splashing up the shallow water of the stream bed and climbing the iconic wooden ladders up small waterfalls to go further into the constricting canyon. Eventually I reached a small island in the slot, where the walls opened up and the water braided into several channels. Eating a snack I noticed the sun coming down on the walls above and I made plans to hike out and above the canyon rim for my sleeping spot. I found a great spot to bivy and tucked cozily into my sleeping bag.
Awakening to the rising sun and peering down at the slot canyon below me, I was excited to revisit the waterfalls and tight constrictions, even If I was walking out the same way I came. I enjoyed my hike first in solitude, before I started passing group after group all bug-eyed and curious of my backpack and origins. As I finished out the 4x4 road and shuffled past the houses in small town Kanarraville I turned on my archaic cellphone to determine how the hell I was going to hitchhike back to Salt Lake City. Although it made little sense to most any normal person why I would plan so little and risk being stuck or getting a dangerous ride that was all besides the point. The solitude in an increasingly busy place and wonderful camping I had done was priceless, and even if the ‘law’ said it was illegal, I was a steward to the environment and carefully plotted my trip with weather, flooding and egress etc. in mind.
I walked past the houses and hopped some agricultural fences to land on the shoulder of I-15. While my plan had been rooted in good intention, I had never tried to hitchhike on a road of this size or traffic level. This was a full blown interstate with cars going 80+ MPH. Would I look crazy to the average person? Would the cops come?
So I stuck my thumb up and waited, and waited, I glanced quickly at passing the drivers who were generally bewildered, but going too fast to process. 20 minutes turned into 30, turned into 40, a Utah Highway Patrol passes in the left lane, maybe he doesn’t see me or care but he doesn’t slow or stop. An hour has passed and I haven’t gotten any real attention. Maybe this idea is fruitless and I will have to walk into town or try elsewhere. A van passes, my thumb still raised, but I pay it no attention. I look down the highway and the min-van has stopped with its hazards on, at least a ¼ mile away. I assume they are having a mechanical issue or needed to stop abruptly. I continue to thumb at the passing cars to no avail.
Another 5 minutes pass and when I glance down the highway the minivan is still there. Could they have stopped for me? I doubt it. Another 5 minutes pass and my optimism is waning fast. I glance at the minivan with hazards still on it appears they are backing up down the shoulder? Could it really be? I walk enthusiastically in the vans direction, they stop and after a couple minutes I reach them. When I get alongside the van I can finally see the occupants. Inside are two younger Hispanic women and a third older woman, possibly a mother or relative. I say Hello and they appear timid but quickly I understand their English is just poor. While my Spanish skills are abysmal I give it a shot and they perk up and we come to an understanding. They tell me they were waiting when they saw me and didn’t know if I was alright. I explain I need a ride North and the van doors swing open. Into the van, I am amazed at the kindness of these strangers, while our communication is hard, I begin to piece some information together. The women are indeed a mother and two daughters traveling from St. George to Denver, they are genuine, sweet and have a hard time understanding why I would travel here to hike without a ride or plan. They express worry for my future and inquire about my job, my girlfriend and whether I believe in God. At this point the Mother determines I am in need of a career and attests she has an opportunity for me in Cedar City where we can stop next. She describes how her daughter has worked in Cedar City and I will thrive in a similar capacity. I politely listen and nod in agreement whenever the Spanish makes rough sense to me. As we reach Cedar City, the van navigates into an office park and the Mother tells me we will go to the ‘Call Center’. I begin to get worried but try to reassure myself these women must have good intentions. Into a weird office park, I look for signs but nothing pops out, we park at an unmarked entrance and the women tell me we can go in and get myself aligned with a new job. I thank them but gently remind I do have a job and try in broken Spanish to describe skiing, snow, resort etc. but I must sound crazy. At this point one of the younger two women eeks out ‘Mormon?’ To which I respond no and the conversation becomes silent. My gracious ride is now very disappointed and I can’t work at the call center as I am not Mormon, but we continue on towards the i-70 and i-15 junction where they will head east to Denver. An hour later and after many pleads from my new friends I sadly inform them I can’t come to Colorado so they drop me at a gas station near the Interstate Junction.
The surreal activities of the day make my next ride less weird than it really was. After about 10 minutes waiting on the I-15 north ramp, an older RV creeped to a halt and a guy in his late thirties, early forties popped out. He asks where I’m headed and by luck or good chance we are both going to Salt Lake. He doesn’t seem sketchy and I’m just happy to get any closer to home as I’m still several hours away. I board the RV and I’m relieved to see a big dog which instantly makes me less concerned about my new driver. He offers me a Modelo which I gladly accept. The beer is cold from his cooler chest and I realize he has quite a few more ready to go. After 20 miles on the road he asks if I can drive so he can rest and we switch seats. Now in the driver seat, my passenger cracks beer after beer, as we knock out the several hundred miles of driving. Getting into the Salt Lake basin I ask him where he’s headed but he’s incoherent and I’m just hoping to get as close as possible to my address. I exit the RV off the highway when I’m within a few miles of my house and my drinking buddy seems unamused that he has to take over. Begrudgingly we part ways at Wasatch Boulevard and the 215 highway, as I hike thumb out towards Big Cottonwood Canyon.
Now two legs into my hitchhiking journey I’m ecstatic to be within a couple miles of my house. As I walk down the buzzing Wasatch Boulevard I must look like a drifter or homeless guy with my backpack and dirty clothes. Cars whiz by but suddenly a nice Infiniti sedan pulls onto the shoulder ahead of me. “Where you headed”
I tell the driver quickly where I’m headed and he tells me he’s happy to help me out. He’s a chiseled black guy in his 20’s. I want to tell him about my crazy journey but I hold my tongue and let him talk first. He’s clearly puzzled, and asks if I know much about BYU, football or have been watching the news. I can tell he wants to unload something and as we travel the few miles to my house, he begins to explain what's bothering him. He’s shocked and reeling from news that has traveled the nation and is currently plastered on ESPN, his good friend a notable college football star has been accused of sexual assault. He’s shocked, but equally upset and disappointed. We bond on our quick drive and I offer compassion to the confusion he is feeling. When he drops me off in my driveway he's on the verge of tears and I assure him it will be ok, calmly remind him how amazing his generosity is. As I walk into my house, I think over the kindness all these strangers demonstrated to me throughout the day and how unbalanced that is with the appalling acts of that football player.
Sometimes I think what life would be like if I just stuck it out at the Mormon Call center after all.
The Only Time A Cute Girl Picked Me Up
Skiing from Little Cottonwood Canyon, Utah into neighbor Big Cottonwood Canyon is a fairly normal activity for the backcountry skier. While at some points the roadways which access this wilderness are just mere miles apart as the crow flies, a drive down one and up the other can easily be an hour even without the rampant traffic. Just outside the boundaries of Alta Ski Area is one of my favorite places on the planet: Rocky Point. To access Rocky Point you first ride the Supreme chairlift at Alta, herringbone the short rise to the traverse (don’t you dare put boot prints in the snow or click out!), after 5 minutes of traversing, a healthy little side stepping, you cross the rope boundary line between Alta and the backcountry and stare down the tastiest powder line you’ve ever seen.
One of my favorite activities became to take the last Supreme chair of the day, ski a Rocky Point powder lap, traverse/ski/skin past Lake Mary and arrive to take night laps at Brighton. Then when I was all content and my legs were beat, hop onto the bus and ride home.
As I got off the top of Supreme I was excited per usual to ski my favorite lines at Alta, but also wondered if I needed to get home earlier and might not ski Brighton as long. I would recount my lap down, but I’ll save you the boredom of my obsessive love for powder snow. The best part of the story that day wasn’t skiing anyway.
Arriving to Brighton I felt uninterested in skiing more, so I shuffled to the bus stop and by some terrible (or fantastic) luck I watched the last afternoon bus pull away. With a 4 hour long gap from the afternoon bus to the last night bus, I decided my best plan was to hitchhike home and not wait around. So I walked down the access road to the Fire Station, where cars would drive past on their way down canyon. Hitchhiking with skis is some sort of cheat code. Folks who would speed past you any other time, actually stop and usually are interested in why/where/how. So I positioned my skis against my shoulder, turned to the road and watched the first car pass. A Silver SUV passes, then a second car passes, a Red Mustang (the last car you want to drive in Mid-Winter Utah mountains) and they slow down pulling to the side of the shoulder a few hundred yards down. Suddenly the same Nissan SUV is also turning around and heading back up my direction. The SUV pulls up to my side and a woman asks from inside if I need a ride. The Mustang sees our interaction and drives off. Loading my skis into the back of the car I can’t believe my luck, sitting in the driver seat isn’t an old ski patroller or Brighton park rat, it’s a gorgeous woman with dark purple hair. My nervousness setting in, I hop in the front seat and we awkwardly strike up conversation. She went up to ski Brighton, but the guy she was to meet stood her up. I’m stunned this dude would make such a mistake, but am ecstatic for the ride nonetheless. The 20 minute ride down the canyon feels too brief but as we emerge into the Salt Lake Valley and she pulls off to let me out. This girl is too cute for me to ignore, and after hearing about her budding interests in skiing and rafting, I’m absolutely smitten.
With a bold urgency I ask for her number, then embarrassingly I ask for her name. Either were both nervous or I’m too stoned/stupid to understand as she has to spell it out to me: A-U-T-U-M-N.
“Oh Autumn duh, like the season” I blurt out.
And that’s still the best ride I’ve ever got hitchhiking.