Separating Man From Beast
Ah yes, the thumb. Let us drop all doings and kneel in
praise of it: attorney general of the appendage, paterfamilias of the palm.
Rising from the upper ridge of our hands in brazen, three-jointed singularity,
the thumb is one of mankind’s defining attributes. It is the flagpole from
which our powerful brains flutter and snap above all other animals.
Oh sure, koala bears have thumbs. And, back when lizards
were holding down the top of the food chain, there was the odd squawking freak
also gifted with the Glory of Thumb. But that was then, and, kinda like ours,
their clocks were ticking. Meanwhile, a koala bear with a Skill saw would
create too sad and bloody a display for even Mike Holmes to refurbish.
Myself, I’m pretty stoked on my thumbs. They’re probably a
bit different than yours, on account of my double metacarpophalangeal joints,
which make me the crusher-destroyer of all thumb war throw-downs. But that’s
not why I’m so stoked on them.
As is the case with most thumbs, each of mine comes with
three bones commanded by eight muscles: four in my forearm and four in my hand.
Taken together, this system gives me an opposable digit, which is just wicked
when it comes to holding beer bottles, operating Skill saws to the
embarrassment of Australian marsupials, and carrying my skateboard out of the
park after my ankles, which I’m not so stoked on, twig out on me.
Another thing I often use my thumb for is hitchhiking.
When’s the last time you saw a lesser animal doing that? Unless, of course,
you’re thinking of that hippy you picked up outside Horseshoe Bay, the dude
with the cute, little puppy all romping clumsy on the roadside next to his
rucksack. Was it the puppy you wanted to get close to? Or the maddening reek of
patchouli oil and the unswerving allegiance to stereotype?
Yes — I like puppies, too. But it’s a trick, and you
should know that.
Nevermind Jack Kerouac, Here’s Ford Prefect
One of the worst things about hitchhiking is the association
it carries with Jack Kerouac’s
On the Road
.
I hate that book because it’s so boring, although it’s entirely possible that
I’m too shallow to understand it. More possible still is that I just think
William Burroughs was cooler.
Besides, far better literary associations can be found with
Tom Robbins and Kurt Vonnegut. The latter had his alter ego, Kilgour Trout,
hitching all over the place in
Breakfast of Champions
, while the former, in
Even Cowgirls Get
the Blues
, creates a saucy protagonist with
a thumb so huge it brings her fame. Those books were just too weird to be
boring.
More recently, people who liked
Into the Wild
, either on film or in pulp, were privy to another
thumb-themed journey: a desperate and ultimately suicidal exodus from society.
You figure there’d be a lineup, and there is, but it’s at Starbucks and not the
Alaskan boarder — at least not until they open a Starbucks there, an
eventuality for which a clock also ticks.
Finally, who can forget Ford Prefect in Douglas Adam’s
Hitchhiker’s
Guide to the Galaxy
? Remember how he has to
chug three pints before catching a ride on a space ship? How awesome is that?
I’ve tried it, and, sadly, it doesn’t work. I’m terrestrial, even when bagged.
But the point is, hitching is as much a part of our culture
as thumbs are a part of our evolutionary identity.
A Boy and His Road
I was around 17 the first time I stuck my hand into traffic.
I used some or all of those eight muscles to hoist my thumb and affirm bipedal
dominance over time’s trajectory thus far. It was about four in the morning,
and I was making my way home from a grad party. I don’t really remember who
picked me up, probably because I was wasted. It didn’t dawn on me until much
later that the guy dropped me off exactly where I asked: just inside Deep
River, Ontario, about 10 minutes walk from my house.
Maybe I was having a lot of fun. Maybe I was confused. Maybe
I’m stupid. Whatever the case, I just kept going.
For almost two hours.
The next driver was weird. He kept rambling about chainsaws
and how he liked to wield them. Feeling a little uncomfortable, I took to
staring hard at the passing signage, eventually noticing one for North Bay.
“Oh, um, I should just get out here,” I said.
“Where you going?”
“Deep River.”
“That’s where I picked you up,” buddy scoffed.
“Yeah,” I said. “I forgot something.”
He pulled over without taking a chainsaw to my face, shook
his head, and merged back onto the highway.
I was thirsty and, as luck would have it, there was a pond.
It’s taken me most of my life to realize that, while I’m lucky in the
haven’t-fought-in-a-civil-war-sense, I’m not so lucky in the
sweet-there’s-a-lovely-pond-sense.
The water was surrounded by mud and marsh, and I fell in it,
got stuck in it, wriggled in it, got filthy by it, and finally, miraculously,
got out of it. And then I fell over the guardrail, tearing my jeans from cuff
to knee.
So it was that I stood there, clad more in mud than clothes,
sweating profusely in the climbing heat, pants ripped and thumb cocked as no
border collie has ever done. In a twist of cosmic irony, I wound up getting
home in the back of a pick-up truck, much like, well, a dirty border collie.
Sometimes dogs get the last laugh — like when you use
your thumb to scoop their shit. Trust me, they get it.
The Swearing Tree
Cam Roskell is one of the first people I met when I moved to
Squamish. He’s about 300 feet tall and looks like a swearing tree dressed in a
gold chain and a wifebeater, shaggy blond hair for leaves. Just the same, Cam’s
thumbs have flagged down more rides than Colin Powell’s pores have oozed sweat
at the United Nations. Here’s a quick vignette of Cam’s life on the shoulder of
Highway 99. This sordid tale has him bringing a lady friend of his across the strait
and onto the mainland.
“After a weekend of drinking on the Island, I talked her
into coming over to Squamish for a couple days,” he says. “And I assured her
the whole time we’d have a ride on the other side, and so she packed three
suitcases full of shit to stay for four days. Sure as shit, on the other side,
there was no ride. I tried calling my brother, but nothing. (Our buddy) Drew
(Mckim) was with us. We’re hungover as hell, and we’re lugging up three
suitcases, my backpack, and his backpack all the way up the Horseshoe Bay hill.
We get to the road, and this is the first time she’s ever hitched, and she’s
never even picked up a hitchhiker before, either. So she’s worried. We cut in
front of a guy who’s already waiting there, and someone picked us up right
away. Buddy got ripped off a ride, and he was pissed.”
And the lady? What did she think?
“She didn’t mind too much, but I didn’t get laid.”
So there it is: A small sample of Cam’s credentials,
admittedly soiled because he cut in line. No doubt, in the absence of the girl
— many of which are even cuter than puppies — roadside karma
would’ve had him standing there for a long time.
I’ve forgiven Cam his transgressions, and so, together, the
two of us offer the far-from-definitive Hitchhikers Guide to the Sea to Sky
Highway.
That last paragraph is what we journalists (or hacks,
whatever) call a nut graph. It summarizes the whole point of what you’re
reading. If you think my journey to the nut graph was long and convoluted,
well, guess what? I did that on purpose. It’s called metaphorical structuring.
Just because I don’t like Jack Kerouac doesn’t mean I don’t understand
metaphors, and I thought I’d work this one in to show you how bloody long it
can take to get anywhere if you rely on a thumb to get started. Hopefully you
appreciate my efforts.
The Guide: Chapter 1
Our journey began with the appropriate signage. Actually,
that’s a lie. It began with inappropriate signage, mainly because another
friend has such an unusual sense of humour. We had one sign that said “To Mars”
because, hey, why wait until 2030? We had another sign that said “Your house”
mainly because my kitchen is so dirty. Then there was the “Valhalla” sign,
drawn up because the Vikings make such fine violence in their limbo and the
theatre is so expensive these days. Finally, there was “Your Frontal Lobe”
because – let’s face it – I’m just not that bright.
We started in Creekside, at the London Lane intersection.
Swaying in the fashion of Ford Prefect, we stood on the north side. That way, we’d
catch both traffic already on the highway and those vehicles about to merge.
Plus, there was plenty of room to pull over.
Positioning is key, young thumbs. In order to satisfy that
wanderlust, you must be savvy to these things.
Thanks to our ken, we saw break lights in seconds, and a
northbound Honda became our first point of contact. This is where the social
phenomenon kicks in, giddy rush and all. A complete stranger opened his door
and invited us into a personal space that, for all intents and purposes, might
as well have been his living room. Why? Because we asked. With our thumbs.
Ponder that. For those of you with past lives in hostile metro hellholes
— and I do mean Toronto — the thought of even acknowledging a
stranger is anathema to life itself. Just contemplate that contrast for a
second. Now, and because we are instinctually social animals, contemplate the
potential for human interaction awaiting the hitchhiker. Isn’t your mind just
panting?
So there we were, in Rick’s mobile living room. Rick was a
chatty guy, super nice and on his way to Pemberton. His window was open as he
smoked a cigarette, and the wind battered the longish hair dangling from under
his blue ball hat.
“I first went hitchhiking when I was six years old,” he
said. “My dad took me. We used to go from Washington to the Okanagan, and it
was easier with a kid. He taught me lots of tricks.”
Ah, tricks. They’re the lifeblood of any aficionado. Here’s
a couple of Rick’s: If there happens to be a tire on the side of the road, put
your foot up on it, because interfacing with your surroundings makes you look
more trustworthy. And, to that end, why not bring a jerry can? Sure, it
represents a bit of a lie, but odds are you’ve got some problems in your life,
and maybe the gas can is more of a metaphoric prop than an actual tool of
necessity. Taken that way, you’re not lying; you’re just being artsy.
Fact is, sometimes you’ve got to be creative. Rick once
thumbed an absurd stretch with 20 pounds of beef bacon. Had to be done, had to
be creative. He wound up scoring a ride, an accommodation, and a freezer to put
his bacon in. He’s been picked up by dump trucks, limos and everything in
between — just never a Ministry of Transportation vehicle. Like many
smart and traveled people, Rick appreciates irony.
But he’s on the driving end of things now. And so, these
days, he’s giving back to the road. He picks up almost every hitchhiker he
sees. Sometimes, he picks up people who aren’t even thumbing it. His job has
him driving some 14 hours a day, and he figures he gives about 200 rides a
week. Odds are, if you thumb it in or out of Whistler, Rick will pick you up.
Knowing what it’s like on both sides, he can offer you young
thumbs a few tips.
“There are certain spots that are just good for hitchhiking,”
he said. “I see people in the weirdest of places. Don’t stick your thumb out at
the bottom of a hill. And if you’re hitchhiking at night, stand under a light
and keep your head up. Otherwise, you look like a horror movie.”
Tick, Tock – It’s a Busy Clock
As with most human connections, there’s an ethereal moment
between two parties that determines the birth of their relationship. That
moment between hiker and driver is something Stephen Vogler, a Whistler writer
and veteran hitcher, is very familiar with, both from behind the wheel and on
the side of the road.
“From both sides of the coin,” he says, “there’s sort of an
instant of communication and recognition. You go, ‘I can understand that
person. I can pick them up and give them a ride.’ There’s a split second of eye
contact.”
Remember what I said about clocks? They’re steady ticking,
and seconds count.
The Guide: Chapter 2
We didn’t make it to Mars or Valhalla, and Rick invited us
neither to his house nor his frontal lobe. But Pemberton was good enough. Mount
Currie looms large over the highway, and, unlike the 99’s southern reaches, the
road isn’t littered with Kiewit pylons, flaggers and machinery. Hitchhike in
that morass and you might as well be waving at camels in the Sahara. You’re
screwed, and you don’t have enough water.
But in Pemberton, a car can pull over just about anywhere,
and it only took about 10 minutes of singing along to Tub Ring, Ween and
Mindless Self Indulgence, all of which were blasting out of Cam’s stereo,
before someone picked us up.
All I can say is this guy declined an interview, then told
us about his life as a Soviet soldier before letting us off outside Whistler’s
Upper Village, an all together horrible spot to cock a thumb.
Back in Vogler’s day, the Whistler community was smaller,
and he remembers the thumb scene as pretty intimate, basically a collection of
drivers and hitchhiking ski bums, all of them already acquainted. Rides came
easy in those days.
But, as far as Cam and I were concerned, those days might as
well be a part of the Cretaceous period. We weren’t getting anywhere. And Rick
was nowhere to be seen.
It was our positioning, of course. Staggered towns are a
hitchhiker’s nightmare. If you’re leaving Whistler for Squamish, then you want
to be leaving from Creekside. There are just too many turn-offs between the
Upper Village and Creekside. Same goes if you’re leaving Squamish for
Vancouver: You sure as hell don’t want to be starting out in Brackendale
because most people are just headed to the grocery store. It doesn’t always
work that way, especially at the beginning and end of the work day in a
commuter corridor. But it does happen, so try not to flip off all the people
who smile their way right past you.
Finally, a public bus picked us up, the driver apparently
amused by our Valhalla sign. The ride was appreciated, even though it totally
vanquished the ironic set-up Rick had left us with.
We had an easier time from Whistler Village. With big,
sloppy smiles and protruding thumbs, we quickly flagged a ride from a character
wishing to remain anonymous. To protect his identity, we’ll call him Volkswagon
— as in, The People’s Car.
Volks had theories on what’s happened to thumb culture since
Volger’s carefree days. He’s lived here since 1981, and done quite a bit of
hitching himself.
“I assume people are freaked out,” he said, “or just too
busy. When people are deep in their own heads, that means they’re busy. And
it’s harder for them to reach out to the rest of the world, or to someone on
the side of the road. They go hand-in-hand. The hitchhiker is a metaphor for
the rest of the world.”
Waving at Metaphors
Like many hikers on the Sea to Sky Highway, Cam and I were
headed to Vancouver Island, where we met up with Drew and some other friends.
Once there, we wanted to compare road friendliness. How would the TransCanada
stack up against the Sea to Sky?
We spent the night at friend’s house off some rural road
outside Parksville. In the morning, a father with three kids in the back of his
truck saw fit to pick up three disheveled young men, each with a backpack and
skateboard, and take us to the highway. But then the road turned cold.
If you’re a driver, you know what you should never do? You
should never wave at hitchhikers as you pass them. It’s rude, elitist and
infuriating. Frankly, a wave is not the type of social scenario being proposed.
However, pointing to your left or right in explanation of the short trip your
on — that’s totally cool. That means something cordial, kind and
democratic still passed between us, even if a pane of glass and high velocity
dulled the intimacy of the exchange.
Karma is crucial on the side of the road. And, as we waited
over an hour outside Parksville, I figured Cam’s line-cut in Horseshoe Bay had
sunk our prospects — that, and the fact that instead of a pretty blonde
in a dress, we had Drew, a shaggy redhead who flails a lot.
As with many things in life — like, for example, sex
— the longer it’s been since you’ve had it, the longer it’ll be until you
get it again. The same thing goes for thumbing. After an hour on the road, we
were screwed, and we had to call a friend from Nanaimo to drive down and get
us.
When the Means is the End
Hitchhiking is an amazing way to travel. While many travellers
focus on destinations, the hitchhiker usually focuses on the journey. The
destination is often incidental.
It’s also one of the few corners of human activity that
technology can’t digitize. How many people do you know who thumb rides over
Facebook or MSN Messenger? It just doesn’t work that way. And, while there’s
always the possibility that you will get raped, murdered, beaten or robbed
(another set of experiences not easily offered by Facebook or MSN), the more
likely scenario is that you will meet someone new, spend time with him or her
in a confined space, and, ultimately, learn something about someone other than
yourself.
The world could do with more of that.