Hitchhiking Out West

When the plans for a friend’s bachelor party in Vegas were set, Bret suggested we go early and hitchhike through the Nevada desert to the Grand Canyon.

I agreed to the idea without much consideration. Of course, I understood that hitchhiking was potentially dangerous, but figured two adult men would fare decent odds. Most of our family didn’t share this sentiment though—in fact, I was almost surprised at the amount of pushback. On the way to the Newark airport, my dad—the man who once rode his motorcycle from Jersey to Oklahoma and slept in roadside ditches—said we were foolish. Besides the obvious danger, he worried that Bret and I would be targets for the police.

After flying to Vegas and filling our backpacks with a variety of canned foods, cliff bars, and packaged brownies from the supermarket, Bret and I started walking in the Nevada heat toward the highway. We entered from the ramp and turned to face the oncoming traffic. With thumbs out and smiles on, we began the guiltless plea of soliciting free rides. About 10 minutes later, a white van pulled over with “HIGHWAY SECURITY” written across its side. This proved to be a minor setback, though, as the patrolman was only concerned about our safety and allowed us to continue heading toward the next exit.

More time passed as we walked backwards with thumbs out. A Camaro sped by, and I quietly pled that the driver would stop for us. Bret overheard and said, “Don’t expect our first ride to be a ‘Beamer, Benz, or Bentley.‘” Another five minutes passed and then a new Mercedes Benz pulled over and beeped at us. Our first ride. I’ll never forget Bret’s face.

Our first driving companion was a Russian immigrant from New York who was on his way to Bryce Canyon. He agreed to drive us to a highway intersection about 1.5 hours away. He asked loads of questions about our trip, and we bonded over NY.

Our next driver was a local Utah resident, Trevor, who was on his way to the post office. He drove us about 15 minutes, and after a quick Wendy’s detour for chocolate Frosties, Bret and I were back out on the highway, walking backwards with thumbs out in the desert heat.

It took about 10 minutes for our third driver, Grant, to pull off to the side of the road. Grant was a semi-pro mountain biker, who travels the country to train and compete on various trails. He drove a large, beat-up maroon truck that housed his biking gear. Having some familiarity with the area, Grant drove us up the mountain and dropped us off at a trailhead bordering the highway. Bret broke out his drone for some aerial photography of the nearby mountains.

The next ride required patience. Just when I started to doubt, a white pickup pulled off to the side. We were surprised to see a lone woman, Michelle, as the driver. Michelle was a native Arizonan.

“Where ya from?’ she asked.

“New York,” I responded.

“I’ve never been that far north, but I spent a few years on the East Coast in Atlanta.”

“How did you like Atlanta?” said Bret from the backseat.

“Was great,” said Michelle. “‘Cept it was full of black people.”

Bret and I exchanged quick glances.

We drove us another 1.5 hours to an intersection in a ghost town with one rundown motel and a dollar store. Bret and I stood at that intersection, snacking on beef jerky and watching cars and tractor trailers pass, for a good while.

Eventually, a blue minivan pulled over and a couple stepped out to rearrange their trunk for our gear. They were a French couple touring the US. The woman barely spoke English but asked us a few questions. We learned that she was a ski instructor in the French Alps, while her husband worked as a research technician for the GE wind turbine division. Fortunately, since they were also heading to the Grand Canyon, we were able to get a ride to the ranger information booth at the park entrance. At this time, the sun was starting to set, and the temperature was dropping quickly. Bret and I said our goodbyes and continued walking on the road to the Grand Canyon North Rim Lodge, where we planned to spend the night.

One might expect the information booth to be located close to the canyon, but this was not the case. Bret and I were walking for about 20 minutes when we started to realize that we may have to camp out in the woods. (Later, we learned that mountain lions were common in that area.) Hope began to fade as the number of cars passing us grew scarce. I feebly held out my thumb.

But as we were scoping out a wooded area to set up camp, a minivan stopped on the shoulder and a woman, Debbie, offered us a ride. She was leaving the Grand Canyon after a short visit with her daughter. She admitted that they almost didn’t stop for us, but then thought that her son would be the type stupid enough to hitchhike, and the mom instincts kicked in. We were relieved and grateful to not spend the first night outside. Debbie also fed us cookies.

And just like that, six rides and 262 miles later, crossing three states (Nevada, Utah, and Arizona), we arrived at the Grand Canyon. (We later got two more rides leaving the South Rim, raising the total distance to over 300 miles.) Bret and I asked each driver why they decided to help us. Nearly all of them said that we looked (relatively) clean and decent. The large backpacks and signs helped too. I figured this would be a one-time experience, but one year later we would be stuck in Germany without a ride to the train station and, well, the thumbs went out…