Intentional Vagabonds

Our small band of friends came together during our early teenage years. As I remember, I first met Spock in the Boy Scouts. Spock was always the sensible one, living up to his namesake. Through him I met Bill who lived close by in our suburban neighborhood next to Minneapolis. Bill and his family were a kind of catalyst in our bonding. Tom was a close friend of Bill and was the fourth major player of the times. I remember Tom as the strongest and most serious in nature. He later married a former girlfriend of mine, Kari. We looked up to Bill's big brother, John, who had a beautiful girlfriend, a '54 Chevy, and told many tales of exotic adventures. John dubbed us “The Faggy Four” which became an identifier only amongst ourselves.

Many of the tales John told us involved travel via thumb to distant locations. My first jaunt in to this frugal mode of transport was in the summer of 1969 when I was 15. I really can't remember how we coordinated the whole venture, but our destination was a campground somewhere along the North Shore of Lake Superior where we would meet another party. I'm not sure who was with me, but I think it was Bob Rutt. We departed “The Trailer” (a whole nother story) heading East on Highway 210. We linked up to I-35 heading North to Duluth. We thumbed down a Semi-Truck hauling nice big recreational boats. The driver let us climb up to the front boat, directly over the truck's cab. We sat quite comfortably in the two forward seats of the boat, all the world before us. Most of the details are long forgotten, but I clearly remember the feeling of complete youthful freedom soaring through me. The sky was wide open. We flew down the big hill in to Duluth with all of the magnificent Lake Superior before us.

Two years later Tom, Bill, and I found ourselves in Jasper, Alberta. There may have been another vagabond along, possibly Dirk Layman. We were camped at the obligatory hippy camp at the edge of town. During the day we'd go off on hikes and in the evening we'd drink beer, smoke, and carouse around the campfire. One night we went into town and visited a festive Pub. Beers were 25 cents each and one finger up meant two. Tom, being 18 already, was old enough to drink in Canada. I may have been two weeks away from legal age, Bill maybe a month. We drank a lot. It was fun. Around midnight, Bill and I were groovin' over by the jukebox. The Rolling Stones were rocking away with “Bitch.”

Our merriment was suddenly interrupted by the intrusion of a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman. He was unmounted at the time and he wore an unremarkable blue cop suit. He asked us how old we were. Probably with a great deal of slurring we answered, “Almost eighteen.” He asked us to follow him and we did, in a quite amiable way. As I've always told the story, we ended up spending the night in jail. A recent verification with Bill revealed that we were told to go to court the very next day and went back to our camp for the night. Either way, the next day we went before the Magistrate.

There we were, ragged and scraggily, standing before a man clad in a black robe and white wig. We were condemned for our violation of the Canadian legal drinking age law and asked how much money we had. Both of us were fined all the money we had, save maybe $20.00 to get us home. I bought a loaf of bread and a chunk of liverwurst. (Liverwurst turned out to be a poor choice for the road.) The next morning Bill and I began our return journey via thumb. I think Tom, being legal, headed out for more distant places.

And so our adventures became legend. At least in our own minds. Those times instilled in me a sense of adventure that remains secure despite the years gone by. Hitchhike across the country? Not at this point in my life. But the days on the road, the odysseys into the wild, and the spirit of seeking the unknown are strong memories that often spark plans for a new adventure.