Every now and then the bug hits me, the bug, the thing… it, that urge or feeling beyond anxiety, beyond need. It’s a feeling that propels me to travel, to seek it out, whatever it is. It usually leads me to hitch hiking. Thumbing rides from state to state, park to park, city to city with nothing but a sleeping bag, change of clothes, maybe a few books and a harmonica. Sure, it’s silly and romantic, but I’m shameless about it. It’s my one white/male privilege I abuse and use beyond reproach. It’s my absurdly beatish and wannabe bluesy past time. My thumb, backpack, a few dollars, and a smile cracking on my face as I skip down the road, place to place.
There’s no greater feeling to me than riding hundreds of miles a day through desert heat, high mountain passes and dense forests, landing in some unknown countryside or town, meeting random folks, experiencing the kindness of strangers and the all to familiar sting of the mean and distrustful hordes. It’s real. It’s tiring. It’s thrilling.
The next few posts are about a recent trip I made through the US Southwest.... Enjoy....
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I've always had an affinity for those who live life on the margins, on the edges of society. This blog contains my reflections on squatting, struggles over housing and place, life in the global "slums," land occupations, guerilla gardening, hobo and traveler culture, and anarchism.... among other things.
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