Things Hikers Sometimes Do, Chapter Two: Hitchhiking (With Helpful Hints)

One of the things that makes those new to long distance hiking nervous is the prospect of having to hitch into towns for resupply.  But I think you'll find that unlike listening to Chris Collinsworth or watching Dance Moms, the more you do it, the more comfortable you'll be with it.

While on the CDT in 2012 I had to hitch into Encampment/Riverside from Battle Pass and then back again, because I am incredibly lazy and have no interest in walking 13 miles into and out of town.  Battle Pass is a notoriously tough hitch, but I got a lucky ride down from the pass.  The next day I had to hitch back to the trail, which turned out to be slightly more difficult.

11:00am Looks like rain; off to The Mangy Moose for one last beer.

11:20am No rain.  Start hitching at the intersection of Routes 230 and 70.

11:30am Still hitching.

11:40am Still hitching.

11:45am Reposition pack to make it more visible to passing cars.

11:52am Move 30 feet up Route 70.

12:00pm Go back to The Mangy Moose for another beer.  Is anyone heading up to Battle Pass anytime soon? No?  Watch Gunsmoke.

12:35pm Back to hitching.

12:45pm Is it because I’m a guy?  Throw a little leg out there just for fun.

12:50pm I mean, they can’t smell me from a passing car, can they?

1:00pm A red pickup pulls out behind me, stops, turns around, and comes back downhill to give me a lift.  This is either because he’s a really nice guy, or he still hasn’t filled up the crawlspace under his house with bodies.  I assume the former (mainly because he isn’t wearing anything made of human skin), throw my pack in the truck bed, and hop in.

This right here is a key moment in the hitch.  Introductions.  You have to keep in mind that the person giving you a ride has no idea whether or not you’re going to try to kill them, unless you’ve been holding a sign that says, “PROBABLY NOT GOING TO TRY TO KILL YOU.”  So it’s important to make a good first impression.  I usually use my trail name when I introduce myself, and sometimes they hear “Jester,” and other times they think my name is “Chester.”  Either name works -- not that weird, not that threatening.  All I’m saying is that if your trail name is “Breakfast Enema” or “Marmot Pounder,” you may want to go with “Hi!  I’m Steve!”

Which, by the way, ends up being the name of my ride.

It turns out that Steve is really into the idea of long distance hiking, might want to hike the CDT in two sections, might want to hike 500 miles in Montana, might want to hike The Winds.  And he might end up doing all of that, or he might not.  But one thing is for sure: we’re definitely going to be talking about gear for the next 20 minutes.

I’m not big into talking about gear.  I’ve worked at an outfitter, I go to hiker get-togethers, I’m occasionally on trail, and wherever I go I try to avoid getting sucked into talking about gear.  If you ask me what kind of pack I’m carrying, I’m probably going to say something like, “well, it’s blue.  And big enough to hold all of my stuff.  Oh, and it has these cool stretchy thingies where I attach my fuchsia Crocs.”  But when someone is nice enough to give you a ride, you talk about what they want to talk about.  If your driver is easily distracted, maybe you can knock them off track by telling them one of your stock hiking stories -- “The Time I Saw A Mountain Lion,” “The Time I Played Twister On Top Of Mount Whitney,” “The Time I Knocked Myself Unconscious With A Hiking Pole” -- but in this case Steve is focused, so we talk about gear.

Yes, backpacks, yes tents, yes hiking poles, but always, always, invariably: “Do you carry a gun?”  I don’t, and when talking with Steve I outline my reasoning, most of it having to do with the weight of a piece of gear that I will most likely never use.  I point out that I plan to pick up some bear spray in Lander, or Pinedale at the latest.  And while I’m busy extolling the virtues of bear spray, Steve reaches between the seats and, like a magician pulling a potentially lethal rabbit out of his hat, produces an enormous gun from I-know-not-where and slaps it into my hand.

At this point I am now confident that Steve is not planning on killing me.  Either that, or he’s an evil genius, his plan is incredibly elaborate, and I stand no chance against him.

“Is that too heavy?” he asks, as I envision the most hilarious carjacking in Wyoming history.  “Yep,” says I.  “Definitely don’t carry this.  If you really want to carry a gun, you’ll want to go way lighter.”  I hand the gun back to Steve before I accidentally shoot out the windshield, myself, or him, and it magically disappears once again between the seats.

As if nothing unusual has happened, Steve talks about my upcoming climb up Bridger Peak, places to eat in Rawlins, and how much it’s probably going to suck hiking through the Great Divide Basin.  And with that, we’ve arrived at Battle Pass.

As we pull up to the pass, Steve says, “let me just spin it here and I’ll drop you off on the other side of the road.”  Why was he heading back the way we had come?  Because as it turns out, STEVE WAS ONLY GOING TO THE POST OFFICE, less than a mile from where he picked me up, and drove 40 minutes out of his way round-trip to get me back to the trail.

So yeah, you might be nervous about hitching at first.  And some crazy things might happen when you ignore the advice your Mother always gave you about not taking rides from strangers.  But there are incredibly nice people out there in the world, and chances are that if someone is willing to give a filthy thru-hiker a lift, risking their safety and the safety of their vehicle’s interior, they’re one of the good ones.

With special thanks to: Pea Hicks, Lint, and, of course, Steve.

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