Up From Wage Slavery

In between my first two semesters of grad school, Jack Beckett O’Neill told me he was interested in hitchhiking to a relative’s wedding in Seattle.  He didn’t have a car and after our adventure in South America the previous year he told me he was done taking airplanes. He wasn’t afraid of flying but felt it was unnatural to lift off of the earth from one location and land back on another.  He said the process was too disconnecting. Jack was connected to the earth like no one else I had ever met. So I didn’t question his decision. It made sense. I decided to join the hitchhiking adventure and visit my old roommate Dan Schmidt who lives in Seattle.  Jack hitched from Denver to Fort Collins and we took off together from there. We each took a backpack with clothes, a sleeping bag, books to read, some cardboard and a marker to make signs, and a couple days of food. I also ripped the western states out of a road atlas for navigation.  This was before the days of smartphones and fancy hand-held electronic maps. Actually, I think we were just behind the times.

First thing in the morning, we walked from the house where I was staying to a major road on the west side of town.  Here we wrote our first sign. I think it said, “Need a Ride to Seattle 4 Wedding”. After about 20 minutes of waiting with our thumbs out, a cop pulled over and educated us about the illegality of hitchhiking in the city of Fort Collins.  He was polite though, and asked nicely to keep walking until we reached the city limits. Our request for a ride across the town was refused on account of his chief’s policy against using patrol cars as taxis.

After a couple of blocks of walking, we decided to put out our thumbs again.  This time watching out for cops even more intently as rides. We managed to escape city limits with a combination of walking and a ride out of town.

Rural Colorado (the mountainous portion of the state at least) is relatively easy to get a ride, which you would expect as one of my first rules of hitchhiking is “the more mountainous the terrain, the easier to get a ride.  The flatter the ground, the longer it takes to get picked up.” This is a rule that I have found to be consistent in US, Canada, and possibly other countries as well. Soon after we left Fort Collins, a girl picked us up off the side of highway 285 and took us all the way to Laramie, WY, where she attended the only university in that sparsely populated state.  

It was here, trying to hitch in Wyoming for the first time, where I learned another key rule of hitchhiking.  “Rule 2: Wyoming, although mountainous in areas, has vast plains where it is near impossible to get a ride.” Wyoming is one of those special places where exposure to the elements will give you frostbite and sunburn at the same time. Compounding these injuries is the almost instantaneous dehydration that comes from exposure to the constant dry winds at high elevation.  The added insult to these injuries is that almost every vehicle that passes is a huge truck with loads of open space in the bed that could easily accommodate a couple of stranded hobos. An empty truck passing me by shouldn’t hurt more than a small VW Bug with no space, either way I’m not getting picked up. But it doesn’t work that way. The bigger and more free space in the vehicle, the more painful it is to see it fly by.

Finally, as the sun was setting on our first day, we were dropped off on the outskirts of the the largest city in Wyoming, the sprawling 50,000 of Casper.  The group of Mexican laborers who squeezed us in on the final ride of the day remind me of the third rule of hitchhiking. “Rule 3: The larger and more empty the vehicle the less likely you will get picked up, and the tighter the squeeze the more likely they are to stop for you.”  

Our first night on the road was spend sleeping in the open grass alongside the N. Platte River on the edge of town.  On the walk towards town in the morning Jack found a dead rabbit on the road and inspected it as a potential meat source.  Rigamortis hadn’t set in yet and it didn’t seem buggy but the prospect of building a fire out in the open and the time it would take to prepare and cook dissuaded us.  He sadly tossed it into the grass and we continued to a coffee shop instead. Nobody wanted to pick us up in Casper so we continued walking until we exited the west side of town.

As we sat on the roadside we got in our first argument about hitchhiking strategy.  I thought it was key to wear a clean shirt and look fresh. Jack liked his dirty old plaid shirt and never cared what other people thought.  “If they are going to pick us up they will pick us up.” He said. “Nobody is going to change their mind because of the clothes I am wearing.”  “You could at least wear deodorant.” I mentioned, even though I knew he didn’t even wear deodorant back at home.

“The drivers can’t tell I’m not wearing poisonous chemicals under my arms.”

“You look like your aren’t wearing deodorant and if we ever get a ride they will know it’s true!”

When things are going well, nobody argues.  But getting passed by hundreds of big empty pickup trucks in the hot wind really made us irritable.

Most of what I remember from this second day is standing on the side of two lane highways and not getting rides.  That and walking. Walking feels like you are making progress even if you only make a few miles in an hour. In fact, I can’t remember a single ride through Wyoming that day, although we must have received a few because I clearly remember walking over the Montana border right before the sun set.  

We were in the Big Sky state for about 5 minutes when a cop driving towards the border pulled a u-turn and greeted us on the side of the road.  When he pulled up we weren’t hitching but actually scouring the hillside for a good spot to spend the night. We were not on a well traveled road and were exhausted from the difficult day crossing Wyoming.  

“What are you doing here?” he asked, accusatorily.

“Hitching to a wedding in Seattle.” I said.  “I checked the law before we left and saw that hitchhiking is totally legal in the state of Montana.”  I answered in a defensive tone.

“It’s not that it is illegal, just that the people in my county don’t want you here.” He explained.  “How long will it take you to get through?” He continued.

“Well, we just crossed in from Wyoming so it might be a while.  Yours is the first car we have seen in Montana.” We didn’t tell him that we were about to hop the barbed wire fence and sleep in the sagebrush of some unwelcoming rancher’s land.

“You don’t have any weapons do you”

“Just pocket knives”

“Okay. It looks like I am goin’ to have to get you out of here myself.”

(Apparently, his chief didn’t have a no taxi policy, as long as the riff raff was kept out.)  He frisked us down and confiscated our knives before putting Jack in the cage in the back. He allowed me (Maybe the less threatening looking one?) to ride in the front with him.  

The drive through Carbon County was beautiful!  The residents may not have wanted us there but I was glad to have been able to ride past the ranches, farms, and hills in the comfort of the front seat of a cop car.  I don’t know if it was as comfortable for Jack. He was a tall dude and the cage behind my seat forced his long legs to stay cramped up with his knees near his chest.

The cop, who put on a tough and gruff front at first, opened up to our questions after a while.  He was young, didn’t seem very tough at all, and had lived all his life in that rural county. It actually felt more like we were riding with a boy scout than a cop.  At one point, about halfway through our 45-minute ride, we heard the sound of a siren… coming from inside the squad car. Startled, I looked over to see the officer pick up and answer his cell phone.  Burying my face to avoid laughing out loud, I realized this man was clearly living the dream! Even his cell ringer was a siren!

We finally exited Carbon County at the town of Laurel along Interstate 90.  He dropped us off at a gas station and we were thankful that he didn’t ask for any details about where we were staying for the night.  We were out of Carbon County and he didn’t give a damn what we did from there.

The sun had just set so we didn’t have much time to find a spot to sleep.  We walked towards the train tracks and found an empty field with some cottonwood trees to shelter us.  Because there were trees and bushes in between us and the town, we felt comfortable making a small cooking fire to heat up our well deserved dinner.  A year earlier, on our trip across South America, I learned that Jack had the ability to go for long periods of time eating little or nothing at all. But when food did arrive, he would scarf it down!  when sharing a meal with Jack I would have to shovel the food into my mouth or I won’t get enough to eat. This night I was prepared. Within a couple short minutes the pan was empty.

The next morning we packed up our bags as a freight train rolled by our camp.  We were a short distance from I90 so we decided to take the highway. Thumbing along an interstate is generally the least enjoyable form of hitchhiking.  The noise and wind from the vehicles is an assault on the senses and the watching all the speedy cars zip by makes me dizzy. It isn’t as bad if when I don’t look at the cars but who wants to pick up a hitcher who is afraid to make eye contact?  

In addition, I have another rule of hitchhiking which states, “The more traveled a road, the smaller percentage of cars will stop.”  For example, on a highway, it is likely you will be passed by 200 cars before one picks you up. On an empty dirt road, however, the ratio might be closer to one in five that stop to give a ride.  With those examples both scenarios might have you waiting the same amount of time because the back road 5 cars may pass per hour while 200 pass in the same time on the highway. It isn’t always the time that is difficult though.  The emotional drain of being rejected by 199 people, and the physical dizziness that results from looking 200 people in the eye as they zip by at 75 are both incredibly draining. For these reasons, it is generally more enjoyable to hitch on back roads than on the highway system.

For this stretch of the trip we decided that the highway was the way to go because of the direct route that I90 took.  

Turns out that we barely made it to the highway when an old Indian from South Dakota stopped for us.  He was a kind old Christian man who encouraged us to give up the rambling gambling lifestyle, sober up, and settle down.  While we were technically rambling, we were also relatively sober and not into the other vices he had assumed. Nonetheless, we agreed to straighten out our lives.  He insisted on buying us the Big Breakfast at McDonald’s which I happily accepted and Jack ate to be polite. That was the first and last time I ever saw jack eat McDonald’s!  After we stuffed ourselves with greasy sausages, hash browns, eggs, biscuits, and syrupy pancakes, all three of waddled back to the Indian’s Honda and took a nap. Jack later told me that was as good evidence as any that Mickey D’s is poisonous.  It caused all of us to fall asleep right after eating. He had a very good point.

Less than an hour later, we all awoke and the old man steered his car back on Westbound I-90.  He told us of his wild days, stories of being homeless and hitchhiking, and of joining the Indian movement that took over and occupied Alcatraz Island in 1969.  He dropped us off in Missoula around lunch time but because we made so much progress with that one ride we decided to stay and relax in Missoula instead of continuing on.  Because we were on our third day without a shower we made our way to the Clark Fork River to take a natural bath.

As we crossed over a railroad bridge in the middle of town we passed a trio of panhandlers.  When we walked by, the dirtiest of them yelled at me.”Hey! Are you a real Rammie?” “Huh?” I asked.  “Are you a real Rammy? Did you go to CSU?” “Yes. I graduated in ‘06. Poli-sci, Econ, History!” I responded.  “No way!” he exclaimed. “I majored in music and poli-sci! I’m Jim Stobie. Nice to meet you.”

To be honest, internally I was thinking, “Dang! This is what a double major from Colorado State University gets you.  Homeless, dirty, and panhandling on a railroad bridge in Montana.” But who was I to judge? I was on the same bridge looking for a place to sleep!  So we decided to join forces for the night. I bought a case of beer for the group and they shared their food, which was supplied by a local food pantry.  

I think the other two hobos were a couple but I don’t remember much about them.  Jim, on the other hand, left an impression. At first, I thought he was lacking in mental capacity.  He was playing “music” on a portable toy keyboard and put his hat out where passers-by could throw some coins.  I say “music” because there were no batteries in the keyboard. It made no sound except maybe the faint click, click, click of his fingers on the keys.  But as we spend time together I realized he was actually playing songs. It was his way of practicing while on the road. I remember hearing that Beethoven was deaf and removed the legs of his piano and sat on the floor so he could “hear” the tune.  This wasn’t so much different, was it?

We talked a lot about train hopping.  CSU has a train track that runs through campus.  Both of us hopped our first train on the edge of campus.  I had only hopped a couple of times at that point, and never more than 45 miles.  Jim, on the other hand, had already become a pro. Jack and I were interested in taking a freight train for part of our trip so Jim gave us many pointers- which trains had top priority (hotshots), where to jump on and off,  how to avoid getting caught, etc. Jim’s train-hopping advice would come in handy both later in the trip and later in life.

That night we all slept along the train tracks, using cardboard and furnace filters-rescued from the dumpster-for sleeping pads.

Jack and I left Jim Stobie and his friends first thing in the morning to continue our journey towards Seattle.  Getting rides continued to be easy in the mountains of Montana and Idaho. Just before Coeur D’alene, we a guy in an 80’s Chevy picked us up.  Another rule of hitchhiking is the nicer the car, the less likely the driver is to pick you up and the beaters always stop. This guy told us that about 20 years before, he picked up a hitchhiker who put a knife to his throat and demanded money.  “What happened after you have him your wallet?” We asked. “I didn’t give him any money.” He explained. “I put the pedal to the metal and told him I’d roll the car! If I die, we both die!” At this point, the hitchhiker had a change of heart and asked to be dropped off.

Jack and I were curious why he was still picking up hitchhikers.  “Aren’t you nervous we might try to pull off the same stunt as that other guy?” Jack asked. “No, now I carry a gun.”  “Do you have it with you right now?” “Yup.” Satisfied with his protection methods, we changed the subject.

Heading west from Spokane the journey became a little more complicated.  Hitchhiking is illegal in the state of Washington. Well, it was illegal in 2008.  I am not sure if the law has changed but I can’t imagine some hobo lobbyist group has the organizational influence to deregulate that one.  With some luck, we were picked up rather quickly by a couple of guys in a pickup on the onramp to interstate 90. We jumped in the back for the most dehydrating few hours of my life. I had heard that eastern Washington was drier than the west coast but I wasn’t expecting what could have easily been eastern Colorado, with hundreds of miles of huge dry wheat fields. The early August air was hot and dry.  Combining that with 80 mph winds in the truck bed, we dried out pretty fast. Although completely exposed to the elements, I actually really like riding in the back of a truck. I find the experience more immersive. I don’t think I ever asked Jack, but I bet he enjoyed those experiences as well.

We were dropped off at a gas station/ice cream shop of some sort, if my memory is correct,  just beyond the Columbia River. (Probably in the town of Vantage.) The river’s size was striking to me as I had never seen a large river like that in the western half of the US.  We couldn’t decide how to continue hitchhiking from here because we were concerned about getting in trouble with the law. Jack noticed a couple of girls in their late teens or early twenties eating ice cream and decided to strike up a conversation.  This was out of the ordinary for Jack as he was not the type to ever hit on random girls. But desperate times… so he walked right up to them and asked where they were going. They were headed the right direction so he flat out asked them for a ride. They hesitated but said yes.  Excitedly, we jumped in the back seat of their little car and rode all the way from the semi-arid center of the state up and over the Cascade Mountains to the wet western slope and into Seattle. They dropped us off in downtown Seattle where we split up for the weekend. Jack somehow found his people and my old college friend and roommate Dan Schmidt picked me up for the weekend.  

I had a great time camping and hiking at the base of Mount Rainier with Dan and some of his Seattle friends while Jack attended the wedding.  We met up together on Monday morning in downtown Seattle and decided to take a bus to Olympia. Big cities can be the most difficult places to get rides out of anyway, and with the whole illegality thing, and based on some info from the local hobo population, we decided on the bus.  

After using the library facilities in the capital city, we got back on the road.  Libraries are great for hitchhikers, hobos, and other riff raff because they can be found in every city, often near transportation centers, everyone is welcome to loiter, the bathrooms are cleaned regularly, the internet is free, and sometimes the librarians are even useful for finding other resources like free meals, lodging and maps.

It turns out that early August is a wonderful time to walk along highways in the Northwest because it is berry season! Black, red and other berries grew wild everywhere we walked and hitched.  Because of this we didn’t have to buy any fruit for about half of the trip. Long waits became much more fun and filling!

It was getting late into the evening and we were still about 45 miles from the Oregon border.  We really wanted to get into a state that was friendly to leather tramps. Not only were we hitching in Washington state, but our pickup spot was under a “hitchhikers prohibited” sign.  Finally a black guy in his 40s picked us up in his unassuming mid-sized car and said he could drive us all the way to Portland. He was a friendly guy who showed real interest in Jack and me and our adventure.  We let him how thankful we were since we were worried about getting busted by the cops. He joked that if it was hard for us to get a ride it would be impossible for him (a big, buff, black dude) to get a ride. He thought that was really funny for some reason.  But what he thought was even more hilarious was about 30 minutes into the ride when we asked what he did for a living. “I thought you would never ask, hahahahaha!” “well?” “I’m a cop!” he boomed! Not only was he a cop but he was also an instructor at a police academy.  And for some reason, he thought picking up hitchhikers was hilarious.

It was already dark when the off-duty cop dropped us on the side of the highway in Portland.  Another benefit of the Northwest, besides the abundance of berries, was the trees made finding hidden shelter easy.  We walked less than one hundred yards off the side of the highway and set up our home in the thicket for the night. Neither of us was tired yet so we hiked to a light rail stop that we saw in the distance.  We took a ride downtown and explored Portland for a couple of hours before making our way back to our home for the night.

Tuesday morning we rose early, filled on wild berries, and started hitching.  It was difficult to get out of Portland but the weather was nice and we weren’t afraid of being arrested, so there was no complaining.  The rides east came quickly and followed the scenic Columbia River along the Oregon-Washington border.

In mid afternoon, we got dropped off in an old town called La Grande.  It had a cool old west feel to it with wide streets and 100 year old brick buildings.  It felt like it hit its heyday in 1890 and hasn’t changed much since. Our last driver told us he thought this town was a shift change stop for trains rolling through so we asked to get dropped off to try our luck on a freight.  Walking through town we realized that there were many good jumping on points so we picked up snacks and water at the grocery store and found a semi-hidden spot behind a warehouse that backed to the tracks. Jim Stobie had taught us to identify what is called a “hotshot” train which has highest priority and isn’t likely to sit on a siding in the middle of nowhere for days on end.  Sitting on the track was one of these trains. It had about five engines and about one hundred containers, some stacked double high. There were no grain cars with their covered porches, which are the best rides to sit unseen, but we found a couple of well cars with shorter containers so we had “porches” that were semi-hidden from the side view. We didn’t have much protection from weather but we were riding through a dry part of the country in August and felt good about our chances.

When the train started to move we quickly loaded our backpacks and running alongside the train, grabbed on the side ladder and jumped on!  There is a complex burst of adrenaline that comes from hopping a freight! First, there is the physical action of jumping on something so big and powerful that my additional weight is an imperceptibly small addition to its load.  The train doesn’t notice or care if I mount successfully, can’t get on at all, or slip and fall under the wheels. Complete focus on foot and hand placement is key to a successful hop and survival.

The next key element is to get hidden and remain unseen.  Hopping on and off are not only the most dangerous moments physically, but also legally.  Nothing makes the railroad cops aka “the bull” happier than roughing up and/or arresting hobo lowlifes.  In and around the railyard is where you are most likely to get caught and dragged off a freight so we kept our heads down and thoughts to ourselves.

The third element in train hopping adrenaline is the fact that you don’t know where you are you are going and you definitely don’t know when you will get there!  From our launching point in La Grande, Oregon we had a pretty good idea we would be headed East and because we were on a hot shot we figured we wouldn’t be taking any detours to a coal mine or grain elevator or abandoned siding in the middle of nowhere.  That was just an assumption, of course. We obviously couldn’t ask the conductor for confirmation.

As soon as we got past the railroad buildings, out of the yard, and out of town  we poked our heads up to examine our situation. The “porches” on the two connecting well cars looked big before we got in, and they were big-about 8’ by 8’ on each car.  The problem is they weren’t solid on the bottom but actually two steel beams crossed in an X on the bottom of the well. The rest was open to the moving ground before. On the end of each of the cars there were places to sit with our feet dangling in the open well before. There were also small areas under these benches that would become our sleeping areas.  These hidden spots under the benches were difficult to get to but also hard to see and hard to accidently roll out of- a crucial feature to keep us from becoming peanut butter, squashed on the track.

The sun set soon after we got on the train so we each rolled out our sleeping bags under the benches of our cars.  The cars were close enough that you could easily step back and forth between them. So even though we were sleeping on different cars, we were only a few feet apart.  The train was loud but the night was comfortable and I think I went to sleep fairly easily-all things considered.

Suddenly, I was awakened by voices coming from a few feet away!  It was about 4:00 in the morning and by the size of the city, I figured we were in Boise, ID. (Remember, we didn’t have smartphones, just pages ripped out of a USA atlas.) “Jack”, I whispered. “Who is that?”  Then I saw. Walking right next to our train were railroad workers. We were stopped in the yard right in front of the railroad office and in plain sight of the bright lights. “Should we run?” “No, I don’t think they have seen us yet.”  So we laid low and quiet. Just then, an engine rolled by on the next track over. There was a worker standing on the outside of the engine, just a few feet above us. There is no way he didn’t see us, he was looking right over the top of us.  But he kept rolling. Somehow, we weren’t seen!

We soon began rolling and again I fell asleep.  We briefly stopped a couple more times but made it to Pocatello by morning.  This might have been another shift-change city because we were stopped here for about 30 minutes or so.  We were on the far end of the yard and hidden from view so were able to jump off the train and stretch our legs without being seen.  We had been stopped for such a long time we were discussing jumping off for good when the first ripple Jerked the cars forward.

When a train starts from a complete stop the cars lurch forward suddenly.  Often, you have a second or two to prepare because you can hear the snapping of the cars ahead of you.  Sometimes, though, you can’t. The first time I was on a freight train, years earlier, I was knocked off my feet and landed on my back when the boxcar I was in jerked forward.  Inside a boxcar is the safest place to learn this lesson. On the open container cars that Jack and I were riding, getting knocked off our feet could easily put us on the track.  Because of this, waiting for the train to move was not relaxing. It was necessary to hold on or sit in a braced position the entire time.

The ride southeast from Pocatello into southwest Wyoming was my favorite stretch of the freight ride. The tracks go south of the Teton Mountains through beautiful rural scenery.  One of the coolest things about riding on the rails is the views of forgotten America. While cities and population were originally built around the rail lines, it has been generations since rail was the transportation mode of choice.  In cities, the best examples of brick architecture are along the rail lines. In rural areas, ghost towns and abandoned buildings are often found along the rail. Southwestern Wyoming showed us the remains of century-old ranches that have been abandoned for generations.  

“Hotshot” is a misnomer.  Yes, we were riding on the fastest train on the rail.  No, it was not fast. We jumped off the freight train in the sunset as it slowed down outside of Rock Springs, WY.  We had been riding just over 24 hours and traveled about 650 miles. At this point we were out of water and low on food.  We had no interest in spending another night on the train and plus, Jim Stobie warned us about riding a freight through the Air Force Base in Cheyenne.  Apparently, the US Gov’t doesn’t like hobos sneaking onto the base-intentionally or not.

Trains often slow down through towns so as soon as our freight was going slow enough that we felt reasonably safe jumping we threw our bags and jumped off after them.  We didn’t want to miss our one chance if the train picked up speed again. Within a few seconds after jumping, the train came to a complete stop. Oh well. At this point we were parched so walked directly to the first store we could find and filled up our gallon jugs.

I don’t have any recollection of where we slept that night but I remember grabbing coffee at a gas station first thing in the morning and walking out to the highway for a ride.  There wasn’t much on ramp traffic so we started walking along the highway, hoping to get a ride from someone already on I-80. I don’t really enjoy walking along highways but sitting, waiting for a ride can feel even worse.  We hadn’t walked for long when we came to a tunnel. It was only about a quarter mile long but walking through a highway tunnel, without much of a shoulder, was terrifying! We ran through as fast as possible with our big backpacks bouncing on our shoulders. When there is a really good pick up point, like a wide on ramp with lots of traffic, sitting and waiting is worth it.  On the other hand, progress is made when walking and even if the relative distance walked is tiny, it feels good to know that you are closer to your destination. On both legs of the trip it felt like we walked across half the state of Wyoming and got rides the other half. In reality, we probably only walked 20 miles total but the feeling of making progress kept our spirits up even when nobody was stopping for us.

We finally got picked up by a semi carrying mail between Salt Lake City and Cheyenne as we approached Rock Springs. This was the first and only ride we got from a big rig the entire trip.  When I talk to people about hitchhiking they often ask if I get rides from truckers but in reality these rides are few and far between. Once, a trucker in South Dakota told me it was against most company policies for the drivers to have non-approved passengers in the truck with them.  The trucker dropped us off on the outskirts of Cheyenne and a couple of short rides later we were back home in Fort Collins.

In total, we spent eight days of traveling about 2,600 miles.  Riding by rail and riding by thumb proved to be about equal in speed, and that is with a well timed ride on a hotshot train.  In general, I would say hitchhiking is the speedier choice unless you look unusually dirty or are traveling with your dogs. If one were to drive the same rout it would take about 20 hours each way, not counting breaks to stretch and fill up.  That would be two full days of driving. The method that Jack and I took did take twice as long but we didn’t get cramped legs.

Postscript:

Jack and I didn’t go on any more major adventures after the Seattle hitchhiking trip.  He decided to go back to the West Coast to work on a crabbing boat for a while, then had a couple adventures and jobs in western Colorado and New Mexico.  I finished grad school and began teaching full time. We got together a couple more times for short hikes and small camping trips but that was all.

In Mid April 2011 I got a phone call from my mom with the news that Jack, while working on a farm in Las Trampas, NM, had a sudden asthma attack and died.  Jack lived more in 23 years than most live in 80. But his full life doesn’t make his death any less of a tragedy. In fact, the opposite is true. He lived so much and he had so much more to live.

He still inspires me to ignore the masses, adventure big, respect both people and the earth and embrace challenges.

A few months after Jack died I was working on my house and listening to AM radio in the background.  It was Friday and Mike Rosen was talking about movies on KOA. I wasn’t listening too closely but then heard a vaguely familiar voice.  He was interviewing a local filmmaker whose train hopping documentary was featured on PBS. “Attack of the Stobe Hobo” was the name of the film!  It was James Stobie, the same hobo that Jack and I had met along the train tracks of Missoula, Montana three years earlier!

I had no idea that Jim documented his travels and was thrilled to hear his voice!  It may seem strange because Jack and I only spent one day with him, but to me, Jim felt like a connection to Jack.  Even though Jack and I had known each other for almost two decades and had gone on huge adventures together, we didn’t have any common friends.  We never went to school together and neither one of us had other friends join us on any of our adventures. Because of this, I never had anyone who I could share Jack stories with.  Jim Stobie, however, was the only person I knew who had ever joined Jack and me on an adventure!

Within a few years of filming “Attack of the Stobe Hobo”, Jim started a youtube channel dedicated to his train hopping adventures.  Although I only hopped freights a couple of times after the Seattle trip, I became a regular viewer of Jim’s hopping videos. I never met him again but only exchanges emails.  We hoped to meet Fall of 2017 but to no avail. In early November 2017 While watching his latest video, I noticed a comment on his video about rumors of a train accident.  Within a few days, it was confirmed. Jim Stobie, aka Stobe the Hobo, was killed while walking along a train bridge in Maryland.

I miss Jack.  I miss Stobe. They were very different people and my connection to Jack was very real and close while my connection to Stobe was mostly virtual.  But there were some things they shared. They both walked to their own beat. Neither one was afraid of being different. They both embraced discomfort, unafraid to live a life outside the boundaries of mainstream America.   They both represent adventure, freedom from the boring, uninspired world of 9 to 5, freedom from the restrictive and unimaginative rules of society. The both lived.

Adventure In Peace Jack Beckett O’Neill and Stobe the Hobo.  The world lacks a spirit of adventure without the two of you.