Colorado was never the end game for me, I had originally set my sites on Big Sky, Montana. A very good friend of ours from Albany had moved to Montana. We had written letters back and forth and I liked what he was about. So Montana was the goal, and the West was the way. There was no consideration of traveling by car or by bus. Hitchhiking was only the way. Besides people where freer then and would often stop and take you for a great distance, if they were going somewhere. I was a climber or at least so I fancied myself as one. I had purchased a big heavy pair of leather hiking boots with Vibram soles. Heavy gripping rubber for climbing on rocks and a rather large green backpack. It was a Tough Traveller. Frameless because I was never a big fan of frame back packs. They were too bulky and rigid, took up too much room and never conformed to a space. I would not conform but my pack had to. The key to having new climbing boots is that you have to wear them everywhere. I would wear mine to parties, social events, and generally all around town. If I wasn't a climber with pitons and ropes and clips and rings, I was going to at least look and act the part of one. Willing to tell any one I was that I was heading to the mountains. We had just ended our lease on our cabin at Thompson's Lake in the Helderberg's and I could not face another winter in Albany, New York. I was determined to get to Big Sky. So on and uneventful morning I said my goodbyes to my friends and my poor Mom who worried for my future and lit out on the road. I never thought of myself as a writer then. I was and adventurer off on a new adventure. A skier in search of the next big mountain and the deeper snows. I had already used up all of the Adirondacks, Catskills, Berkshires, Green Mountains and White Mountains. There was simply no place with steeper mountains and deeper snows than the West. Visions of endless wide open snowfields with untouched virgin powder danced in my mind and filled my days and nights until I could no longer resist the call of the open road. So along with some heavy winter clothes I stuffed my copy of Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman into my pack and was gone. My favorite route west was not the Thomas E Dewey, Thruway as you might expect. I had always been partial to old Route 6 leaving Albany through Cherry Valley and west. My grandfather had grown up on a farm in western New York State and had often taken me there to visit his mom and his cousins. We had always driven Route 6 stopping at the towns and sightseeing along the way. My sister Linda and brother - in law John operated a cash crop farm there. I worked there for a summer in between College Semesters. It was during the early 70's. Farming was a bit too remote and also very time consuming. It gave me a great appreciation for their love of the land and the struggles of an individual family farm. I thought you would have better odds if you were a gambler in Los Vegas.
My most memorable trip to the family farm came when I was fourteen. My Uncle Buzzy, (Verne my grandfather's name) worked at a car dealership in Albany and had purchased a new 1964 Thunderbird. It was copper tone and it was a convertible. What was so unique about his car, was that when you put down the top. You would raise the trunk which opened front to back and the top of the car would disappear into the trunk and then you would lower the trunk. I thought this was the coolest thing ever. On this particular trip, just outside of Albany, my Uncle pulled to the side of the road and motioned for me to drive. I had arrived at manhood for sure. Was I not the coolest kid in the world? Driving a brand new copper tone thunderbird with the top down with one hand on the wheel, through the peaks and valleys of route 6 & 20 from Albany, to Rochester, New York at 14 years old.
This trip was my farewell bon voyage journey. I was hitchhiking with my old dog Dusty. He was a 12 year old Airedale Terrier Lab Cross and an all around mellow guy. It was a new experience for me to be hitching with a dog. The rides came easy, but when he became restless we were off on our own again on the side of the road. The actual journey could be done in a day, even if you had to get several rides. I remember making it in a long day.
While my family thought of me as an errant Vagabond, and lectured me about saving my money and making something of myself. They were also supportive of my wanderlust and allowed me the freedom of leaving my best friend in good hands. There was no better place for my good friend than to retire to farm life.
To Be Continued.....
A Song for the Lunar Eclipse:
"Dark Side of the Moon," Pink Floyd
