Rollin'

Leaving Bakersfield and bound for I-40 and the Mojave desert out of Barstow, we found ourselves at the last freeway entrance before the end of town. This was in 1971, and at that time, freeway entrance ramps in California sported signs saying “Pedestrians Bicycles Motor-Driven Cycles Prohibited,” and that was the point where we thumbriders stopped. Usually.

On this day, it proved to be a catchment. Throughout the day, more and more wayfarers arrived at this, the last stop before the desert, and as the group grew, it became less likely that anyone would stop to offer a ride for fear of being swarmed. It seemed we’d dropped out of the space-time continuum into another dimension separate from where the rest of the city lived, isolated but hardly alone.

Fellow voyagers abounded, and while I’d known none in the morning,  as the day transpired, I spoke with several. No lasting friendships were birthed, but the transitory kinships common amongst travelers surfaced, and by dusk, we were having a low-key party.

This group comprised, save for some infants, backpack pilgrims just trying to squeeze yet another year out of the Summer of Love. Hippiedom on the cusp of hip becoming less 'exclusive.' Generally, we were planning our camping spots while some spoke of a morning expedition to the next entrance ramp behind us. Any hope of getting a ride from here had evaporated.

Then the miracle happened; an eighteen-wheeler pulled over. We all stared, unknowing, as surely he wasn’t stopping for a couple of dozen hitchhiking hippies.

The driver got out and walked towards us. He then announced that he was deadheading back to Alabama, and we could climb in if we so desired. Well, that got the crowd to their feet, and we piled aboard, and he shut us in.

Deadheading, hmm…, learned a new word.

It was early evening when we clambered aboard, and as the evening wore on, socializing slowly died down, and the gentle rocking of the trailer with the road noise created a rolling slumber party.

Hissing air brakes and the baritone of the engine brake alerted me and the few others who were awake to a stop. When we felt the end of motion and the air brakes release, we waited in the pitch black darkness. Then we heard the trailer door opening. It was dark, around 2 AM, and we were on the side of the highway. The driver leaned in and asked, “Does anybody have a Drivers License?”

While that may have given pause to some of my cohort, I volunteered that my 18-year-old self was so documented. Lacking other offers, our driver took his volunteer out of the trailer and put me beside him on the highway shoulder. Looking ahead, I could see an oasis of light in the dark distance. My now-mentor explained that it was the California Inspection Station through which he needed my pilotage.

Oh, OK, sure.

Climbing into the cabin of the big machine – something I’d never done before – was a new experience. I sat in the driver’s seat – the command seat – and Mentor told me what to do. I started the truck and, although I was well versed in operating a ‘three-on-the-tree’ manual, this had a jillion gears. So I started in low-low-low, and once we got going, at about 1.5 mph, I went up in the gears. Mentor had stopped such that I didn’t have to make any turns before the Inspection Station.

Thus, we lugged on in, in a straight line, until I got to where the officer halted me. Jumping down from the cab, I offered up my Texas Chauffeur’s License while my mentor hopped out with some paperwork for the truck and trailer. For 1971, this place had some awesome wee hours lighting.

Anyway, the cop asked me what we were doing, and I said, “We’re deadheading (quick learner).” Then he asked if I was sure we weren’t carrying anything, and I said “Yes, we’re empty (apparently a couple of dozen people wasn’t enough weight to make a ding on the meter, or at 2 AM this cop didn’t want to press the issue with an 18-year-old kid from Texas with only a Chauffeur’s License driving an Alabama tagged 18-wheeler that may or may not have cleared weight).

Finally we got back in the cab, and I drove it about a mile past the Inspection Station – back into the darkness – and rejoined the party club in the trailer. At some point in daylight I was dropped off near Winslow, Arizona.