When I extend my thumb for the first ride of a hitchhiking journey, the simple hand gesture transforms my interaction with the world. In a minute I might still be standing on the shoulder, or I might be zooming down the road, introducing myself to a stranger.
On a Friday morning I walked south on Moab’s Main Street with my backpack and an extra gallon of water. I held out my thumb even though I was still walking to the edge of town, and a car swerved to the curb within 30 seconds. I hopped in.
He was a local business owner headed just a few minutes south — the first of four drivers to give me rides that day.
The second was a man with 3 kids who works for the BLM fire department, and the third was a really sweet guy from Bend, Oregon who was driving to Telluride. He gave me a gift of cannabis, rolling papers, and a lighter.
At this point I’d traveled only 22 miles in four hours, but my fourth driver took me as far south on 191 as I needed to go — a few miles past Blanding.
He was from Tucson. We talked about geology: “I have a friend who’s a geologist, but he’s kind of an asshole about it if you ask him questions.” I said I knew a geologist who was the same way. Later, when I told him I’d hiked the Pacific Crest Trail, he said “I know someone who started a podcast about that. Actually, she’s dating that geologist I mentioned.” That’s when we realized we knew the same couple. (As a side note, the guy isn’t actually an asshole, and they’re married now. I’m parked in their driveway as I edit this!)
My goal from Blanding was to take SR 95 & 24, the lowest-traffic highways I’ve hitched so far, 165 miles northwest through Hite and Hanksville.
I walked past some farmhouses and driveways until I found a private place to camp on the wide floor of a wash. I fell asleep to the sound of rain, wondering if I would get flooded out of my spot.
The wash stayed dry, but it was raining again when I left camp and walked to my next waiting spot.
I was picked up by the first guy who passed. He was a fellow through-hiker living in Colorado.
After a two-hour wait, a man who works at Natural Bridges National Monument picked me up; we were both from Portland. He gave me beer, cheese, and water, which I enjoyed as I waited three hours for my next lift.
Two or three hours is longer than I normally have to wait for a ride, but considering the low density of traffic — only a few cars every hour — my ride:traffic ratio was actually very high. I had wondered if this might be the case. When you hitchhike on a busy road, people assume “someone else will pick him up soon.” Out here, people realize “if I don’t give him a ride, who will?”
It’s like fishing in a lake that only has a few fish but they’re extra hungry.
Did you notice that I got six rides in a row from men traveling alone? That’s typical. It’s also typical that I’m a male who hitchhikes solo. Overall, hitchhiking is safer than people think, but it is true that women are more likely to fall victim to sexual assault — 5x more likely, according to one California study I found. Plenty of women do it successfully without major problems, and I like to think I’d be one of them if I were a woman, but the truth is that my male privilege has always given me an extra layer of security in these kinds of situations and I don’t know how I’d feel if I didn’t have that.
The next ride came from a friendly male/female couple from Anchorage. They were about to start a six-day backpacking and packrafting trip, and they drove 20 miles out of their way to drop me at a campground where they thought I’d have good luck in the morning.
Leprechaun Canyon campground was full of at least a dozen different groups. I pitched my tent near someone else’s camp — far enough away, I thought. An hour or two later, when I was already in bed for the night, my neighbor returned and brought with him the sound of country music, expletives, and beers cracking open. He made passive-aggressive remarks at people and their dogs. When he noticed my tent he unleashed some highly unpleasant sentiments in my direction, and I felt an urge to argue with him, or leave, but I decided to ignore him and stay put. I figured anyone who drives to a popular campground on a Saturday night and then complains about other campers is looking for something to be mad about.
I woke up at 3:30 and vanished from camp to avoid confrontation with Mr. Angry in the morning. For an hour I followed the white shoulder line lit by stars, startling a cow. I made my bed on a flat area near the highway without setting up my tent. A big pack of coyotes yipped and whined in the distance; another pack answered down the canyon. Dew collected on my sleeping bag and I rested until pre-dawn lit the eastern sky.
The morning was silent; I could hear white noise growing and reflecting off the canyons a full minute before I saw the vehicle approaching. This gave me time to jump up and get into position. After a two hour wait — and three people who stopped to ask if I was OK — a couple who were returning to Colorado after a canyoneering trip made space for me in their truck.
They were going through Moab on their way home, so they were the only ride I needed that day. We talked about life goals and ideas. They dropped me off close to where I lived. As I was saying goodbye to them, my friend happened to be driving by, and he drove me the the remaining two blocks home.
I love this method of travel as a social experiment because I meet the most interesting, generous people, who often surprise me with their personalities and perspectives. I also see the condescending looks from people who speed by in empty cars. It’s a lesson in setting aside your expectations, embracing discomfort, loosening your grip on secure planning, and opening up to the beautiful surprises unfolding before you.
An earlier version of this story appeared in the Moab Sun News.
