Confessions of a Hitch Hiker

Confessions of a Hitch Hiker

Confessions of a Hitch Hiker
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Confessions

"Confessions..." is an on-going column where we invite readers to submit their most outrageous personal stories anonymously for everyone to read. These stories are real, and usually come from people who lead double lives. Due to the nature of the subject matter, all identities are kept anonymous to protect the person's job, and normal day-to-day life. Click Here for more Confessions stories.

My name is *****, and my friend is E. You are about to read about my wild adventures hitch hiking in Vancouver with my best friend.

It all started with a goal: get to a secret music festival on a tiny island you can only boat or hike to. The supplies: a 1-man tent (for 2 people), a backpack full of beers, an ounce of weed, and bubbles. ALL essentials. After a night getting wasted at a friend’s place across the island we were ready to hit the highway. We needed to travel 155 km before taking a boat to our next island destination. 

Hitch Hiker

Two girls, four thumbs; everyone said that’s how horror films start but my half logical-gut said otherwise. We were about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, all social constructions aside with a little illegality and a LOT of weed to get us through the hard times. Walking down the highway we whistled and rapped, pretending to be the most hick hitchhiker. I was standing there in my purple genie-pant onesie with my soul sister making fun of my crab walk as a car came barreling down the highway. We held out a sign hoping it would pull over, but instead they signaled thumbs up and kept driving. Thanks dude. We’re cool but not cool enough to get picked up. Go FUCK yourself.

Suddenly an R.V. whipped around the corner, going the opposite direction to which we were travelling. Thinking nothing of their recluse driving and we carried on our way. About 10 minutes later, that same R.V. was barreling towards us on our side of the highway…. And then it was pulling over… in a haze of dust cloud we sprinted toward the vehicle.

Out popped a tiny wiener dog wagging its little tail and jumping all over us. I thought maybe a petite flower child would follow but instead out stomped a giant with a head of hair as long as Gandalf’s and the stature of Gimly.

“ALLLLLLLLLL righhhht!! Ladies! I’m Denis and this here is Ian.” Said the giant pointing to a stubbly looking hobbit inside. Ian was wearing a Hawaiian shirt rocking the longest beard I think I’ve ever seen with the smoothest baldest roundest head.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Jump on in!” hollered Ian.

This was not a moment for second-guessing this was a moment to not give a fuck. Pulling my bag over my shoulder we jumped into the R.V. followed by the tiniest wiener dog you could ever imagine. He sat on his throne of wolf’s fur on the dashboard: they called him the Dash Hound. 

Dashhound

With another deeply bellied “ALLLLLLLLLL riiiiggghhhhht!” Denis was back in the drivers seat. “Want a beer?” asked Dennis as he chugged the rest of his and popped open another.

Well if I’m going to make it through this ride I sure as hell going to get drunk. I grabbed a beer and let the frosty cool liquid slide down my throat into my stomach, opening up my inhibitions.

“Where you guys headed?” asked my partner in crime.

“We’re going to play a metal show up near Campbell River.” 

Great, we’d jumped in bed with a bunch of metal heads. I looked around the R.V., it was crammed with amps, guitars, a taxidermy wolf, and an unknown animal horn.

THIS is how my death begins.

“Well that’s just the way were going. Cool if you drop us at the ferry?” I asked.

“Orrrrrr you devilish ladies could join us at our concert. Denis is going to DJ after and I can promise it might just blow your mind.” said Ian.

“Why not?” yelled E, my partner in crime.

Fuck! I’m now going to a party with a bunch of weirdo metal heads instead of making it on the first day to our secret underground music festival. BULLSHIT!

“We just have to make a pit stop at my friends house. “ Dennis started driving with his legs so he could better smoke a joint and drink his beer. The R.V. jostled back and forth across the road, hurling the dash hound to the far side of the window. I grabbed the joint; if I was about to die I was going to do it baked. Inhaling the thick smoke calmed my nerves and allowed me to sink deeper into my liberation.

15 minutes later, we were still alive and well, pulling to a halting stop at Dennis’ “friends” house. Sliding the R.V. door open Dennis howled out his famous “ALLLLLLLL righhhhhtttt” before embracing a man, who later became known as Richie.

“Look at the hotties I picked up off the road” yelled Denis while pointing to E and I.

“Want to see my sword collection?” asked Richie.

“Why the fuck not?” I yelled before following the strangers in full-leather and studded boots around to his “barn” of swords. To this day I have not seen a more extensive or terrifying sword collection. It was right out of Lord of the Rings, with everything from daggers, to hunting knives, to machetes.

I walked back outside to join the others in my 5th beer of the day, and probably their 10th.

“Chug! Chug! Chug! Alright boys who’s ready to take the bikes out?” I looked around noticing my surroundings. The numbers had doubled and the R.V. was suddenly surrounded by the baddest looking motorcycles of all times. Straight up hells angels shit. 

Despite my level of intoxication and the bikers, I wasn’t about to turn down a ride on a motorcycle. It is kind of THE dream vehicle after all. 

“Hey blondie! Want to take a ride on the back of Richie’s bike? “ Ian asked me.

“You want that island whore’s hair whipping along behind you. Don’t you Richie!” barked one of the lady bikers.

The beers had loosened me up enough to not give a fuck what they were calling me; I was ready to ride. Despite my complete unpreparedness for motorcycling (I was wearing a thin onesie after all and not a strip of leather) I was ready. Richie loosely fastened a helmet on my head and I jumped on the back of his Harley. 

“Be careful not to put your feet on the engine. You will fry your skin off.” Hollered Ian before the engine drowned him out. I have never felt like more of a badass then driving out of Richie, the swordsmen’s house.

One R.V.

12 bikers

1 Road

With the wind in my face, I’ve never felt freer then on that road. After weaving in and out of traffic, we finally made it to the metal concert. Or more accurately a giant property with a port-o-potty where this metal show was about to happen.

After the night of rocking out with metal heads I realized I’d had the culture all wrong. True they’re violent thrashers when listening to music but the rest of the time they’re some of the kindest, cleanest people I’ve met. The whole community was out to share their food, time, and laughter together.

Suddenly it was 5am, and we were exhausted. It was time to retreat into our one-man tent. E and I squished in barely fitting ourselves into the tiny little baby-sized contraption while the metal show was still at full-rage 20 feet away. Just try to sleep during a metal show I dare you. Somewhere around 6am Denis started DJing, and that’s when the music did a one eighty. One of his favourites: Shaggy. Yeah, you read that right. A metal head who looks like a cross between Gandolf and Gimly’s favourite DJing mix was Shaggy. That’s a straight identity fuck if I’ve ever seen one.

Day 2

Waking up from a haze of ringing ears and pain from being squashed in the tiniest tent alive, E and I were soaking wet. Everyone was gone. We stumbled into the middle of the field changing our clothes and scrambling back onto the road with our sign. After a free coffee from a stranger, day 2 had began. We waited on the road for about 20 minutes before a small man pulled over.

We tried to make conversation but the man responded with only a grunt every other minute. Finally we made it to the ferry with no stabbings or molestation from a man with fewer words than a mute.

Post Ferry- After making across islands we only had one more ferry ride and all we would have to do is find the magical festival known to few as *********. We stumbled off the ferry to the closest super market to buy some granola and apples. On exiting the supermarket, we heard twanging acoustic guitar and a crooning voice. He stood about 5 feet tall, skin and bones, wearing solely overalls with a piece of grass hanging off his lips: here we found the Littlest Hobo. He was the epitome of hick.

Having received a giant government settlement, he lived solely on the road out of his truck. He seemed to revel in the fact that he was a “rich” tiny hobo.

An hour later and E and I were flipped sideways in the front of his truck covered in chocolate and strawberries. He wanted to spoil us and sure as hell knew how to drive like someone’s who fear of death is inexistent. Barreling back and forth down the highway E and I were giddy attempting to eat chocolate with strawberries as we slid back and forth. He was like a creepy uncle but we weren’t about to give up the ride or the money he was practically throwing at us. Plus E and I have always loved teasing men, especially ones that have no chance in hell of getting either of us.

Suddenly the car had stopped. It looked like we might just have to clean ourselves up; we were dripping in chocolate which had turned from sexy to hot, wet and sticky. The littlest hobo pulled up to a private property and jumped out. 

“Girlies it’s time for a swim!” smirked the Littlest Hobo, obviously just wanting to see us get naked. He had hit the nail on the mark, with no swimsuits in sight and no inhibitions E and I threw our clothes off and cannonballed into the private lake. Grabbing some poor kids tube we swam deep into the glittering fresh turquoise lake. 

15 minutes later, I’m suddenly jumping from the cliff in the middle of the lake as the water slaps my body red. And then there’s people yelling at us from the dock. Apparently we were on private property.  

We swam back to the dock, and things got REAL awkward. As we emerged naked we realized the yelling people were a family here to kick us off their property. E and I tried to cover ourselves as we giggled and ran back to the truck, past the family with dropped jaws. The father started yelling at the Littlest Hobo but he wouldn’t take any of it.

“NATURE IS FREE MOTHER FUCKERS! YOU CAN PAY FOR IT BUT IT’S NOT YOURS TO OWN!” screamed the littlest Hobo before spitting in the fathers face and walking back to the truck.  And with that we were outta there, peeling off the dirt road.

When we finally reached the next island it was getting late and we needed to get to this music festival. One problem: we had no idea where it was. And there happened to be no signs in sight. It was getting later and later and our chances of finding it were looking slim. But finally a man pointed us in the right direction telling us that unless we had a boat, we’d have to hike the rest of the way into the festival. We jumped out of the car with one tiny flashlight and began the trek into the wilderness. An hour later we still hadn’t made it there and the flashlight was out of batteries. Now THIS is how I die.

We sat down on a log and contemplated how we would make it there. Suddenly a car came barreling out of the darkness. Out jumped a badass older Quebecois couple. They offered us a ride next to their furry creature in the backseat, a Husky. 

Finally we made it to **********. It was a magic paradise next to a lagoon. We walked further into the festival spotting a huge net suspended high up the trees with people climbing all over it. Climbing up a sketchy looking ladder we landed in the magical fairy net; it was a ginormous net suspended high in the clouds fit for a spider monkey. You could slide into the middle where all the trippers were laying in the middle mattress staring at the stars. Psychedelic paradise.

Fast forward to post-festival daze, it was time to attempt to return to normality. The Littliest Hobo had proceeded to go on a 48 hour long coke binge and seemed desperate for some human connection, meaning there was no way he would let us take another ride. He was now our chauffeur and guard keeping us always in arms reach. Where were we going? He wanted to continue the journey up north but I was insistent we return to Vancouver. 

“You aren’t even real travelers. Go back to the city with your daddies money. You two will never be REAL vagrants living life in the wind…on the road. “

“You can’t keep us forever. We’re going HOME. I’m going to go find a ride.”

“NO no no no no no..” stammered the littliest Hobo. “I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go. Let’s get back in my car.”

Feeling antsy but with lack of brain cells left from the festival, my exhaustion has hit me and I wasn’t about to turn down a ride. We hopped back in the car and were on the road back to the ferry.

Later in the afternoon the Littlest Hobo was getting agitated. He needed a kick and he needed it now. After calling some people, he stopped his car and picked up an ounce of blow. Snorted a couple lines on the dashboard and hopped back in the car as darkness descended. The night seemed to bask an errie glow on the Littlest Hobo’s pale complexion. It seemed he was spinning out of control and E and I were getting sucked into the cyclone. The car continued to rattle and swing back and forth down the highway, what at first was a game had became intimidating. This was no longer uninhibited fun, it had tread into dangerous territory.  As we approached our destination the littlest Hobo became desperate to continue our time together. He pulled over as much as possible to do blow, stop for McDonalds coffee, and every little adventure he could think of. He didn’t want us to go and it was clear he was desperate for our companionship. The games began to get crazier and crazier and my fear began to bubble up inside me.

As we continued to careen down the highway with this obviously fragile man, it became harder to handle the situation. He had been saying “Why not?” all weekend, and so far the only consequences we’d faced were temporarily deafened ears. But a line had to be drawn, and I could sense that E and I were both aware we had crossed it. The choice to continue was now straight up dangerous.  At the next gas station stop, we called a girlfriend from nearby and left the Littlest Hobo forever. It was a hard thing to do as he pleaded with us, promising all the adventures to come, but we had to be firm. Maybe he was right- maybe we were just weekend warriors. However, walking away from that situation didn’t feel so bad—the fact remained that we had a weekend of memories to ride on until the next metal band, until the next dash hound.

See the other entries in our confessions series :

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