The Exit Zero Blues
I awaken shivering, my feet even in the wool socks are half numb. I shift my weight so one of the stones beneath me jabs a different rib. I peel back the green wool blanket from over my head and the stars are gone, hiding from the promise of a new day. I look to the mountains in the East, the Guadeloupe Range, covered in snow, and see the sky brightening. I see my breath in the air, and the frost covering my only blanket and my pack I rest my head on through the night. Patches of camouflage are shimmering white. I wince as I straiten my legs from the fetal position and lay on my back starring into the clear pre dawn sky. I blow plumes of frozen vapor to watch them dissipate into the dry atmosphere above my face. I feel like I should be hunting. And in a way I am, I'm on the hunt for a truck. A trophy truck. East bound with a lead foot, and a North Florida Bubba behind the wheel who wants to know if its true that Alaska really has 6 months of light and 6 months dark.
I pull my Carhartts out from under me and change out from polypropylene under the cover of my blanket. Their still warm from my body heat. I grit my teeth as I crawl out and change into a pair of cotton socks and pull on my boots. My feet hurt. I dig out my blue tin cup, drop in a hand full of grinds and some water that didn't freeze. I set it on the stove over a high flame to boil. God I love coffee. I roll up my blanket and strap it to the bottom of my pack. The coffee is ready. I roll a crooked cigarette with stiff fingers. I look at my hands, I turn them over under my gaze with their calluses, short clipped nails that always seem to have grit under them, swollen knuckles, scars, half healed scabs, and detailed Road maps on the back. How could skin crease so deeply I wonder? These hands appear as though they should have a man twice my age attached to them, what will they look like if they make it that far?
I take my first sip of coffee and a drag off of my smoke as I walk to get the blood moving in my feet. I'm in the bottom of a wash about 200 yards off of I-10. The walls are roughly 35 feet deep, and would be impossible to climb in a hurry if it were to flood during the night, but I don't care, I like the cover.
The sun is nearly clear of the hill tops now, and my gear is nicely thawed. I find my hat and slide it over my greasy hair. I'm over due for a shower. It's still cold, but the hot coffee in my belly is a welcome distraction. I flick the stump of my poorly rolled cigarette onto the gravel floor of the wash and finish assembling my gear. I tighten the straps holding down the top and heave it onto my shoulders. I take a deep breath and buckle the belt. I really do hate this pack.
The sun is up now, a giant glowing orb floating above the mountain tops, pouring liquid life into my bones, and I squint as I climb out of the wash I have called home for 3 nights. The wind starts kicking up dust as I hump to the exit. Exit zero. I've got a proper sweat going by the time I reach it, despite the chill in the air, and stand on the shoulder of the on ramp catching my breath and drinking water from a green Nalgene bottle. I unbuckle and lift my pack up and down onto the black top. I lean it against my hip, resting my left hand on the cammo nylon and thrusting my thumb as far as I can reach with the right. And the cars drive by.
One after another they float by on rubber wings. All kinds of cars, blue, red, black, rusted, and new. I see everything from big Mack trucks to little Geo Metros. And on they drive. I make eye contact as often as I can. With your thumb out you are asking a favor from every single person who happens to be getting on the highway at that particular moment, and it seems rude to not look someone in the eye when asking such a favor. Some people say you should smile when you hitch. I don't smile. I'm not a clown, and I don't suppose anyone would want me in their car if I was. I wear an honest face, tired but hopeful.
Its my fourth day on this ramp, and my odds of getting a ride are the very same as when I first saw it. Slim. But still I wait, like a silent specter standing guard over the white line. Gawked at by children as another Road side curiosity, eye balled suspiciously by their parents, honked at occasionally in what I assume to be moral support. And on they drive. And still I wait.
Its surprising what drifts through a hitch hikers mind while he entertains the prospect that the next car could hit its breaks. Girls of course, song lyrics, replaying old conversations like a film in the theater, remembering quieter days before the Road...with soft beds, a warm body, regular meals, the comfort of good friends, a hot shower every day. All forsaken, at least temporarily, for the white line and the world it has to offer. I remember when first it grabbed me, it was so easy, it swallowed me up body and soul, and as I slipped down into its warm dark embrace I didn't even blink. It was like returning to the womb. For the Road is very much like a mother should be, it feeds and clothes me, rewards and punishes me, meets my every need in due time in spite of myself. And every moment if affords is cherished beyond value.
I am a fountain head of patience, my ride will be along shortly. Until then I stand in the elements however harsh or pleasant they might be, with a hand full of white line and a pocket full of dreams. I'm on my way.
I pull my Carhartts out from under me and change out from polypropylene under the cover of my blanket. Their still warm from my body heat. I grit my teeth as I crawl out and change into a pair of cotton socks and pull on my boots. My feet hurt. I dig out my blue tin cup, drop in a hand full of grinds and some water that didn't freeze. I set it on the stove over a high flame to boil. God I love coffee. I roll up my blanket and strap it to the bottom of my pack. The coffee is ready. I roll a crooked cigarette with stiff fingers. I look at my hands, I turn them over under my gaze with their calluses, short clipped nails that always seem to have grit under them, swollen knuckles, scars, half healed scabs, and detailed Road maps on the back. How could skin crease so deeply I wonder? These hands appear as though they should have a man twice my age attached to them, what will they look like if they make it that far?
I take my first sip of coffee and a drag off of my smoke as I walk to get the blood moving in my feet. I'm in the bottom of a wash about 200 yards off of I-10. The walls are roughly 35 feet deep, and would be impossible to climb in a hurry if it were to flood during the night, but I don't care, I like the cover.
The sun is nearly clear of the hill tops now, and my gear is nicely thawed. I find my hat and slide it over my greasy hair. I'm over due for a shower. It's still cold, but the hot coffee in my belly is a welcome distraction. I flick the stump of my poorly rolled cigarette onto the gravel floor of the wash and finish assembling my gear. I tighten the straps holding down the top and heave it onto my shoulders. I take a deep breath and buckle the belt. I really do hate this pack.
The sun is up now, a giant glowing orb floating above the mountain tops, pouring liquid life into my bones, and I squint as I climb out of the wash I have called home for 3 nights. The wind starts kicking up dust as I hump to the exit. Exit zero. I've got a proper sweat going by the time I reach it, despite the chill in the air, and stand on the shoulder of the on ramp catching my breath and drinking water from a green Nalgene bottle. I unbuckle and lift my pack up and down onto the black top. I lean it against my hip, resting my left hand on the cammo nylon and thrusting my thumb as far as I can reach with the right. And the cars drive by.
One after another they float by on rubber wings. All kinds of cars, blue, red, black, rusted, and new. I see everything from big Mack trucks to little Geo Metros. And on they drive. I make eye contact as often as I can. With your thumb out you are asking a favor from every single person who happens to be getting on the highway at that particular moment, and it seems rude to not look someone in the eye when asking such a favor. Some people say you should smile when you hitch. I don't smile. I'm not a clown, and I don't suppose anyone would want me in their car if I was. I wear an honest face, tired but hopeful.
Its my fourth day on this ramp, and my odds of getting a ride are the very same as when I first saw it. Slim. But still I wait, like a silent specter standing guard over the white line. Gawked at by children as another Road side curiosity, eye balled suspiciously by their parents, honked at occasionally in what I assume to be moral support. And on they drive. And still I wait.
Its surprising what drifts through a hitch hikers mind while he entertains the prospect that the next car could hit its breaks. Girls of course, song lyrics, replaying old conversations like a film in the theater, remembering quieter days before the Road...with soft beds, a warm body, regular meals, the comfort of good friends, a hot shower every day. All forsaken, at least temporarily, for the white line and the world it has to offer. I remember when first it grabbed me, it was so easy, it swallowed me up body and soul, and as I slipped down into its warm dark embrace I didn't even blink. It was like returning to the womb. For the Road is very much like a mother should be, it feeds and clothes me, rewards and punishes me, meets my every need in due time in spite of myself. And every moment if affords is cherished beyond value.
I am a fountain head of patience, my ride will be along shortly. Until then I stand in the elements however harsh or pleasant they might be, with a hand full of white line and a pocket full of dreams. I'm on my way.