The goal of our eleven-member commune was simple. Redefine life. We had cheap rent in a stately old mansion on Philadelphia’s fashionable Main Line. It awaited demolition, just like our former lives.

            It was to become an upscale apartment building. We desperately needed to transform into something other than our parents, but had not a clue of what that person might look like.

            We were halfway between the homes of Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier, the boxing legends of the day. We knew that life would not always be this easy. But we were center ring, relaxed and ready for the next punch.

            .  We kept our communal money in a cookie jar in the kitchen. Take some out when you need it. Put some in when you have it. Herb had recently picked up a rough-edged hitchhiker who crashed with us for a while. Had he noticed anyone taking the money? Would he help himself? The cookie jar became a focal point of trust. How much did I trust?

            Sheldon’s freak flag flapped proudly behind him as we headed toward the Pennsylvania Turnpike in his brown ’66 Plymouth on what I didn't know was a trip to discover a new way of living. His waist length ponytail had survived an epic battle with the rules at Temple Medical School. My well-worn Woodstock tee shirt had faded from yellow to gray. I was brimming with confidence and transformation; felt remade by the commune. But I was only five miles from my parent’s house and my zip code had hardly changed.

            The Apollo XI moon landing, two years earlier, implored us to think big and Woodstock put a exclamation point behind that. The highway was pulling me like gravity. A month earlier, I had nudged my girlfriend, Bernadette, to hitch alone across Canada. I felt that she needed to find herself and somehow didn't realize that I needed the same thing.

            Sheldon’s car stopped at the Valley Forge entrance. I pulled out my backpack. A voice came from the direction of the highway. I looked up. A guy was yelling to me from a red, late model Ford pickup that had pulled over.

            “Need a ride?”

            “Yeah, where you going?”

            “Just out for a ride; I can go either north or west.”

            “I’m heading north, is that okay?”

            “Sure.”

            I said goodbye to Sheldon, who rolled his eyes at my good luck. He said, “Figures!” 

I threw my backpack into the flatbed and was off. The turnpike entrance branched west towards Ohio or north towards New York. I planned to head toward Canada, and then to the west coast for what I thought was a summer vacation. 

            I learned a very important lesson on this first ride. Listen to my inner Zen teacher of hitchhiking. I quickly realized that I was sitting next to an unusual dude. He was looking for a hitchhiker to have someone to talk to. I know that barbers, massage therapists, bartenders…are de facto therapists. Add hitchhikers to the list. 

 

            Zen Rule Number One:  Do not think of yourself, grasshopper. Be receptive. Do not judge. We are all struggling souls. Accept gifts and learn.

 

            Besides, I needed to get to Canada.  Everything about him said that he didn’t have any close friends. My survival instincts were on alert. Luckily, I had a fair amount of practice hitching near Philly and the summer before around Europe. Yet, this guy seemed stranger than many of the oddballs that had picked me up. Do not seem concerned, grasshopper. Troubled souls will be your friend, if you will be theirs. Zen rule number one must never be broken. Don’t ever look at your ride like he’s crazy, is how I translated that.  

            Walt was in his early thirties and a bit pudgy. His protruding gut accentuated the store bought clothes that had a hippie style. This was the sure sign of a wannabe. The pickup cab smelled of patchouli oil and I noticed an alligator roach clip on the dashboard. I had Walt pretty well sized up before anything was said. He mentioned that he was having problems with his wife as he passed me a joint. 

           

            Zen Rule Number Two: Keep your wits.  If you embark on herbal  journeys, do not overdo. Always have clear thought. Your survival and needs must always come first. 

 

            And, I needed to get to Canada. The longer I talked, the farther we got. Gas cost about thirty-five cents a gallon. I was a lot cheaper than a therapist and became a sympathetic ear for his laundry list of problems with his wife. Then, I was cautiously honest with him.

            “I don’t think that you’ll stay married too long if you keep cheating on her.”

            I had a feeling that he might not like that perspective, and it was then that my luck ran out. He decided to turn around and head back to Philly.

 

            Zen Rule Number Three: Honesty is always the best policy. It just might not seem that way at the time.

 

            I was on the side of the road north of Allentown. Another ride took me to upstate New York. I was dropped off in a picture postcard setting of verdant fields, bellowing cows, and a mosaic of scattered farmhouses. There was one minor problem.

            It was starting to get dark, hours before sunset. A cooling wind soon got my attention.  Suddenly, I was in one of the most ridiculous rainstorms ever. It came down so hard that it hurt. Cars were stopping because the drivers couldn’t see. I could barely discern a distant farmhouse through the gray torrents. Getting there took on Brigadoon proportions. I didn’t think that I could make it.

 

            Zen Rule Number Four: The universe may test your resolve. There is always an answer.  Sometimes, it is right in front of you.  

 

            I decided to knock on the windows of the stopped cars. The first one was a blue Volkswagen bug with a young Japanese couple. The back seat looked empty. I felt good about my chances. When I knocked on the window, they pointed to the back seat where a baby was sleeping on a blanket. I walked to the next car. It was a travelling salesman in a late model brown Chrysler. He wore a grey suit with a blue tie that seemed tight and uncomfortable. He had neat, color coded shirts and suits on a wooden bar strung across the back seat. But the front passenger seat was empty. 

           

            Zen Rule Number Five: Release expectations. Be clear about what you want, but don’t be needy. 

           

            Well, maybe I cheated a little on that one and had some pleading in my eyes. It felt like I was in a hurricane with no rain gear. I had a fleeting thought about setting up my new, unused tent, which would have been a disaster.

           

            Zen Rule Number Six: Ignorance is bliss (for awhile). 

 

            Luckily, I didn’t discover that my tent was worthless in the rain until much later in the trip. I waved to him and he lowered his window just enough to talk.

            “Any chance you could take me in?”

            It wasn’t until recently that I looked back to this day and realized that the hitchhiking gods may have been testing my mettle that first day. What if I had gotten discouraged and turned around? I had $200. Just a fraction of that would have caught me a bus ride back to Philly. Those thoughts never occurred to me.

            From the look on his face, I could see that he thought hippies were from Mars. I’d seen that look many times. My strategy had always been the same. Ignore it.

 

            Zen Rule Number Seven: Every challenge has a reward.

 

             I pretended to not notice his expression, which was akin to how he might have looked after stepping in dog poop.        

            “What are you doing here?” he said.

            I knew that he was buying time to figure out how to say no to me.

            I smiled and said, “I’m hitching to Canada and got dropped off here. I just need to get to the nearest town.”

            I guess he couldn’t figure out how to say no, plus he lived in that town. He wouldn’t be stuck with me for too long. He got drenched opening the trunk for my backpack. After he mumbled something about the weather, I gave him a crash course in being cheery under difficult conditions. It was a hard sell. I noticed him eying my muddy tennis shoes on his meticulous floor mat.

            During the short ride, he told me a little about his linear life. He had just a hint of jealousy at my freedom, but this was easily negated by my sorry state. His world did not include casting your fate to the wind. But it did include a waiting, home cooked meal. I envisioned myself being there. Then my fantasy went on to a shower and a warm bed. No such luck. But, the hitching gods were kind. He took me to a homeless shelter in the clean and well-lit basement of a church. 

            There were about fifteen cots set up in a big empty space. Nearby was a kitchen with a large table and chairs next to it. I was too late for dinner, but they still had some food. Someone warmed up a plate for me. I realized that I hadn’t eaten all day as I wolfed it down. The director came over while I was eating and told me that he knew someone who was driving to Canada the next day and had arranged a ride.

            The snoring in the room that night hardly bothered me, and after a great sleep and breakfast, I was on my way to Canada. It was a warm sunny day. We crossed a bridge at Niagara Falls. There was a tollbooth with a sign that said Ten Cents. 

 

            Zen Rule Number Eight: Be generous of heart. 

 

            Okay, I realize that ten cents doesn’t sound like a lot. But it was a good feeling to contribute something.

            “I’ve got ten cents!” I said, realizing that was the first ten cents that I had spent on the trip. We drove across the bridge, which had a sign saying Welcome to Canada.

            My general destination was Vancouver, B.C.  Along the way, I would spend ten days camping in Banff National Park. Each evening, the provincial government provided a huge pot of soup for the travelers that had popped up like mushrooms. This spot was a magical respite from the road. I was prepared, having bought my pack, tent, and sleeping bag in downtown Philly just before the trip. I had been slowly figuring out how to pitch my tent along the way. The weather had been in my favor and I still had no clue that it was worthless in the rain.

             In the nearby town of Banff, I bought second-hand felt cowboy boots lined with fake fur. I was preparing to climb Mount Norquay. It loomed ahead at over eight thousand feet. I had rarely seen, and never climbed any mountains. I had no idea what I was doing.

 

            Zen Rule Number Nine: When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. 

 

            In this case in the teacher was a ragtag crew of other wanderers that may have climbed a mountain or two. No one had proper equipment. Fifteen of us exuberantly made the top. I looked at the mountains and lakes around me and had the sensation that gravity might forget about me and that I would float away. I felt like a giant that could bound miles at a time.

            I had to fight this feeling as I climbed down a sharp rocky ridge. To me, mountains had only existed in paintings and photographs. Huge, racing cumulus clouds were just over my head. My perspective was somehow shifting as sepia imbued sunset clouds raced by, as if they could transport me to the land I sought.

 

Zen Rule Number Ten: Sometimes outside influences are needed to help us find the answers within.

 

            My linear mind was starting to realize that all answers were not hidden within me in an accessible way. Sometimes they need to be plucked from a nearby tree before I realize that the same tree is inside me.

            Soon it was pitch black.  Our leaders must have figured out the route down the mountain by sense of feel. They stood below us and physically put our feet in cracks of the rocks. When we got to where they were, we did the same for those behind us. We couldn’t see far enough to be scared. All we could do was take a step at a time. Just like our lives.  

            A few days later, after tackling a second mountain, I looked at someone’s map.

 

            Zen rule Number Eleven: Set goals but keep your peripheral vision. 

 

            I noticed that Alaska didn’t seem that far away. Leaving Banff, I got a ride to where the nearby highway split in two, just like the Pennsylvania turnpike had earlier in the trip. The larger and busier branch headed west to Vancouver. The smaller road went north to The Yukon and Alaska. I stood on the highway with a cardboard sign that said Vancouver in large letters.  Below that in much smaller and less distinct letters, almost like an afterthought, it said or Alaska. 

            A guy pulled over in a black panel truck that looked like a turtle, with a homemade upper camping area. He jumped out and yelled to me in a strong Tennessee accent, “Hey, you got yourself a ride to Fairbanks!”

​

            Zen Rule Number Twelve:  Never look back.