On that very hot and dusty summers day in 1972, I held out my thumb an willed and old Chevy truck to a stop. “Haa nizaa goh?” (How far?) “A’ayiddi ji’, Cowsprings Ji.” (A short way, just to Cowsprings.) It was a brief ride but it was progress nonetheless. I had walked out that morning from my sheepcamp four and a half miles off U.S. 160 that courses through our portion of the Rez. A week before 4th of July events in neighboring towns, I was fueled with expectations. It was an excitement of that unknown that was partially responsible for getting me out. The sheepcamp had plenty of kids to do chores and I might as well been one less mouth to feed. It was filled with backbreaking work. It was too hot to hang out there on the southern slope of Maii’ Ya azh Mesa. The lengthy walk gave me time to think and daydream of possibilities. Wearing my best worn clothing and 5 dollars in my pocket, I felt ready for the world. Walking towards the looming dark body of Black Mesa, taunting my progress, I had no reservation about my exit.
I was a 15 year old Diné boy journeying outward for the first time. I felt charmed. Rides came fairly easy for me as I exhibited no threat to the traveling public. Catching rides in old pick-up trucks, RVs, sportscars and even converted school buses gave me much needed diversity. It was as much about getting to a destination as it was about good conversations. I recall being fed and fawned over by some middle class family in an RV going through Monument Valley late in the afternoon. I recall spending days with a “tribe” in amazing schoolbuses no longer yellow. No one asked me where I was coming from, where I was going. It was sweetly fragranced, sorta like healing ceremony. I even recall a couple in a caddy arguing, close to physical aggression. The lady in a beehive ‘do got very drunk up in the passengers seat. A direct result of angry words exchanged like I was not even there. The slicked-back-hair guy did turn slightly and apologized. I didn’t care. Unfortunately, I was used to it.
Many times I stood with one foot on the asphalt and no idea where or which direction I should travel. This was always remedied with a toss of a boot. Whichever direction the toe points, there I go. Some journeys go as far as the nearest N’daa Ceremony, (summer Enemy Way ceremony). There I end up helping out with chores or became one. I learned then just how large the Rez was. With the exception of the Alaska part, the film “Into the Wild” could have been my story. Riding the vastness of our American West was following that tug of the heart. Through Arizona, New Mexico, California, Nevada and Colorado, I made many friends and some that remain strangers. I traveled safe and only in western New Mexico did I ever get close to being in an accident. A marine guy going back to San Diego fell asleep at the wheel and we ran off interstate 40 at 65 mph. We were shook up and very dusty, beyond that we were very blessed. I rarely felt fear. I learned then, too, that you get back what you send out emotionally and otherwise.
I came home a couple of times during the course of the summer just to get a mutton fix, change clothing and clean up. I felt as if my absence was not noticed and that was alright.
These days I pick up hitchhikers with caution. Learning to read people beforehand is another lesson of the road. Some people offer money but usually a good conversation is all that’s required. I readily offer rides on or near the Rez because stories are so much more in my language. These days with my high profile situation, I drive under a different name. At times, I am Paul. Paul likes to just listen and allow others to share stories of the road. Durring the first weekend of July, I never feel more independent, and most free. Ho zho‘ 4th of July. Ho zho.’
