u/hickjack

The good: sidewalks to walk on. The bad: millions of vehicles clogging the road. The ugly: my sweaty sunburnt face.

It takes me an hour to reach a Taco Bell near the city limits. I eat a cheesy bean and rice burrito and chill out. When the heat breaks I make a sign for Newport. I’m certain I’m in the clear, that I’ve escaped the tourist trap unharmed. The highway goes straight to Newport, and rush hour is still underway. One of these drivers lives there. I’ll get a ride within minutes.

It’s the most traffic I’ve ever seen while hitchhiking. Thousands of vehicles pour past me. A few drivers give me the straight ahead point: “I’d pick you up but I’m not going very far.” Yeah right. People waiting in the turning lane for the light to change stare at me and take pictures. A few wave.

I’m still feeling positive. There’s probably 40 minutes before sunset, another 40 minutes of gloaming after that. I have time.

I’m looking toward the sinking sun when a police SUV passes me. The driver and I lock eyes. He wags his finger at me, “No, no, no.”

I tell myself it’s fine, keep smiling, keep holding my thumb out. But the expressions of the people passing me changes—they look terrified. I turn my head slightly to make sure Hog-head kept going. He didn’t. He’s in the turning lane behind me with his blue lights on, like I’m about to run and he’ll have to chase me down. I lower my thumb and wonder how bad this is going to be.

The cop leaps out of his cruiser and strides toward me while muttering into his chest radio. He barks this big introduction at me like he’s a drill sergeant, like I care about his title or rank or name.

The energy he’s putting out is atrocious, vile, combative. He’s only about five foot five, even with his SS boots on, and he’s wearing Nascar fan sunglasses. His front left tooth is dead and gray. Bullies probably tortured this guy in high school. If there is ever a public awareness campaign for Little Man Syndrome, he’ll be the poster child. I’m in for it.

“Sir are you aware that it is illegal for you to be soliciting a ride out here?”

“Are you sure of that?”

I’m not trying to argue, but I’m fairly sure what I’m doing isn’t illegal. I was born and raised in Tennessee, and I know about the hitchhiking laws, but maybe he knows something I don’t.

“100 percent,” he says immediately.

I might as well have started walking right then. He was already on a power trip and immune to reason from the moment he got out of his car.

”I don’t think it is illegal.”

“It 100 percent is.”

”How sure are you about that?”

“100 percent.”

”Can you show me the law?”

”I sure can, buddy. You got an ID?”

I hand him my license, even though he has no reason to ask for it.

“How’d you end up in this part of this country?”
“I hitchhiked here.”

“Of course you did!” He rolls his eyes, whips around, and marches to his cruiser.

I turn around and watch the sunset. I feel l’m facing down a firing squad. The people passing me look afraid. They didn’t look that way until the cop stopped. It really says something about public perception that most people are more alarmed by a cop than a roadside vagrant.

He comes storming back, my ID in one hand, his phone in the other. He’s already talking before he reaches me.

“Got it pulled for you right here, boss. I don’t make the laws, just enforce them.”

There is victory in his voice, satisfaction.

He shoves his phone toward me so I can see. I instinctually reach for it, as one normally does. He jerks it back like it’s his gun. I lean closer and read the law closely.

I begin to slowly read it a second time aloud, but he’s impatient and pulls his phone away.

”Hold on a minute.”

He sighs and moves it back.

When I finish reading, I say, “What this says doesn’t apply to me.”

”It 100 percent does. What you’re doing is 100 percent illegal.”

”It’s not. You’re misreading the law.”

I take a small step toward him so I can read the law aloud again. He jumps back and puts his palm on his gun.

“You’re crowding me! I’m gonna need you to step back!”

I step back immediately.

”There’s no reason for you to be treating me like this. I’m not a criminal.”

“I didn’t say you were a criminal but you can’t be out here doing this!”

“I can.”

“Listen buddy—you’re holding me up, wasting my time arguing. There are other things I need to be out there taking care of.”

“Obviously not.”

“Obviously so!”

”I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You have! I’m telling you what you’re doing is illegal! I’m telling you! I’m telling you right now!”

This isn’t the kind of guy who’s used to being told no.

“It doesn’t matter what you tell me. It’s either illegal or it’s not—and it’s not. Listen, I’ve been doing this for a while and nobody’s ever given me any trouble like this.”

“That doesn’t matter!”

“Cops have even given me rides before.”

“Well that’s good for you!” He violently shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. There’s a city ordinance against panhandling.”

“I wasn’t asking for money.”

“That don’t matter! You were soliciting!” He points at the word "solicit” on his phone. “It says it right here!”

“That’s the title of the law. That just says what the law is concerning. What I’m doing isn’t illegal.”

“It says it right there! What do you mean it’s not illegal?!”

“You’re misreading it. It doesn’t say what you think it does.”

He points at the title again—it says it right there.”

“It doesn’t.”

It’s pointless. This guy probably hasn’t read a book since high school. And he certainly hasn’t learned how to admit he was wrong yet, and unfortunately for the general public, probably never will.

He’s gesturing with his phone, yelling, and trying to stand as straight as he can in an attempt to stare me down without looking up. His demeanor reminds me of the version of the Rumpelstiltskin fairy tale that ends with the odd little man getting so angry that he stomps himself into pieces while throwing a temper-tantrum.

“Well you can’t solicit a ride within city limits. It’s a new ordinance. You have to go out there to the county line and do it.”

He points up the road, which stretches on for miles.

“How far is that?”

Grinning, dismissive: “Don’t have a clue.”

“Could you give me a ride there?”

“I’m not a taxi service.” He crosses his T-Rex arms and smirks. “But I can give you a ride to jail if you want.”

His dead tooth looks black in the fading scarlet sunlight.

“Obviously I don’t want to go to jail.”

“Then you better start walking.”

There is nothing more I can say or do. Some people are immune to reason. I’ve fought the good fight, but I never had a chance of winning. There are a million laws on the books. Cops can arrest anyone for anything at any time in this country. We live in an authoritarian state. Whether or not the charges will stick is irrelevant. It’s the threat of jail time, public embarrassment, court costs, and potential lost wages that keep people in line. And nothing will happen to this guy if he unjustly arrests me, besides maybe a brief talking-to from his boss.

Pigeon Forge tourists don’t want to see vagrants on the streets, and the local pigs have been trained to run them off or lock them up. This one thought he’d get in my face and I’d tuck tail and run, like the other vehicle-free people he’s encountered before.

I never had a chance.

“Then it looks like I’m gonna start walking.”

“Good decision.”

We disengage. I amble up the sidewalk, shaking with adrenaline. He walks toward his car. 

He barks again to let me know he’s won: “Now you have a nice day!”

I get a few hundred yards down the road and turn around. He’s still sitting there watching me. I guess the other calls he needed to take care of sorted themselves out.

I keep walking.

Right on the edge of Appalachia in the northwestern most part of South Carolina.

From Wikipedia:

Construction on Stumphouse tunnel began in 1856 when the George Collyer Company of London brought many Irish workers into the area for this project. Many of the workers lived in housing on top of Stumphouse mountain called Tunnel Hill. By 1859, the State of South Carolina had spent over a million dollars on the tunnel and refused to spend any more on the project, therefore the tunnel work was abandoned. The tunnel had been excavated to a length of 1,617 feet of the planned 5,863 total feet.[5][6] Today, where the tunnel was meant to end on the other side of the mountain, there remains a mound of earth (intended for the railway tracks) submerged during the summer months under Crystal Lake, located just west of Highway 28.

“I hope you don’t mind my truck. Rides rough, got no suspension.”

It’s an old Dodge Reading work truck, beat to hell and dirty. Steve bought it off some kid who pulled the entire truck apart one night while he was tweaking on crystal and left a bunch of stuff out when he put it back together.

Most of the dashboard is missing. Wires, electronic components, and duct tape hang down around my feet.

Steve puts on a dingy white cowboy hat with a yellow smiley face pin on the front and drives. He’s small and wiry. Dark wrinkled skin. Early sixties. Gnarled hands. He’s a military brat. Born in Louisiana but moved to a different place every four years. Couldn’t keep friends. Always got into fights when he changed schools.

“I learned early on to kick the bully in the face first thing, right off the bat. That’s the best thing a person can do.”

He coughs and mentions how bad his COPD has gotten while he lights a cheap cigarette, then tells me he’s in the process of selling or giving away all his stuff so he can move to Washington State.

“It’s real bad around here.” I can barely hear him with the windows down. “These local people are liars. They’ll do you dirty. Don’t trust nobody. Half of ‘em are on meth. Didn’t know how bad it was till I moved up here.”

“Yeah it’s bad in Tennessee too,” I say. “But a lot of people are switching to Fentanyl. I reckon you can get one of those little blue pills for two dollars.”

He nods his head and says, “I used to deal coke and heroin, got strung out on both. Now I just smoke a little weed. Don’t even drink.” He hits his cigarette and speaks so quietly that I only catch about half of what he says next. “Rough two years…wife going behind my back…exploiting me…tellin people I laid hands on her…telling lies…making me out to be bad guy…made me move out…restraining order…lying damn sister…hypocrit Christians and politicians.”

We leave Georgia and enter North Carolina.
I tell him about my travel plans, tell him I’m trying to write a book about it.

“I used to write Hallmark cards in prison.” The cigarette has gone out but is still wedged between his jagged fingers. “Editors kept suggesting all these changes and telling me to cut the wordcount down. I said, ‘fuck that’ and just quit doing it.”

“What’d they send you to prison for?”

“Caved in one guy’s skull with a pipe wrench. Second time castrated a guy with a load of birdshot. They weren’t tryin to do anything to me. They’s tryin to hurt other people.”

We stop downtown and he offers to call his old fentanal dealer who lives nearby so I’d have a place to stay the night. I tell him I’m okay, that I’ll figure it out. He gives me his number and says to call him if I get locked up and need bail. We shake hands and I thank him and hop out.

I’m not sure where I am or what I’m going to do next. But not knowing feels good.

Made it into South Carolina and got dropped off at Stumphouse Tunnel. Got a ride through the mountains to North Carolina with a Mexican guy who spoke no English. We tried to communicate via Google Translate, but had difficulties due to bad service and my phone was stuck on the voice of a small girl.

Not much in Cashiers. Found a dude who let me ride in the back of his truck to Highlands, which is a resort/shopping town for upper class. I felt like a fly in the potato salad, and when I caught a tube necked flat faced man staring at me from behind the wheel of a bright red Ferrari, I knew it was time to go.

A local builder saved me from the judgement of the bourgeois and took me to Franklin. I wandered around some, then staggered into traffic and stuck out my thumb since there was nowhere to stand. It actually worked. A tiny frogman from Florida who was chain smoking Montego lights drove me a few miles down the road, then a nurse drove me to a nearby spring to get water. Afterwards she took me all the way to Bryson City where we drank beer and watched the sunset from a rooftop brewery. She let me crash in her guest bedroom. I slept like the dead.

Took forever to get a ride to Cherokee the next day. It kind of felt like being in another country, and it was odd being the only whitey around. But the people were nice. I sat in Burger King and caught up on my writing while a rail-thin Native American teenage boy zoomed around the parking lot on an electric scooter.

Camped out in Dillsboro in a guys backyard. Highway kept me up all night.

Still trucking along. Mercury guide me 👍

Good little dawgs

A hidden gem in southern Appalachia

Im havin it my way in the BK solarium

Day 7, Ride 19

I take a few pictures of Ellijay and walk across town to Hardee’s. Maybe it’s the beer, or the pain, or the lack of water, but I feel like I’m having a heatstroke. It’s hot and stuffy like an attic inside Hardee’s, but I’m too beat to find anywhere else to rest.

I sit, drink, and write for a few hours. Turns out it’s cold enough to store meat inside the restaurant. I was just overheated.

A thin girl with pale skin, dark lipstick, and black braided hair poking out from under her work cap finds me a piece of cardboard and tells me the best way to reach Blue Ridge. 

I go outside. I may have waited too late. It’s nearly dark. I try my luck at the nearest intersection anyways. Most of the vehicles that pass have their headlights on. Another twenty minutes and it’ll be full dark. But I’m not worried, nor do I feel the need to locate a camping spot. I’m certain that someone is coming down the road for me—and they’re not going to be much longer.

A few cars pass, a few trucks. A Wilford Brimley lookalike on a motorcycle smiles and waves. A couple pass, and a small baby blue SUV with a busted taillight pulls over. I briefly talk with the driver, then climb in.

The car is full of clutter, smells of dogs, and the windshield is cracked. The woman driving is named Shantasta. She’s on her way to work, and she’s wearing a pressed and immaculately clean Waffle House uniform.

“I really appreciate you stopping. It’s about too dark to get a ride.”

“Oh, I know how it feels to be on foot. I got put in jail in Dalton once and when I got out my sister wouldn’t come get me so I’s homeless there for 2 years. But I had everything I needed within walking distance.”

She agrees to drop me at the Bigfoot Museum that’s half way between Ellijay and Blue Ridge.

”I believe in Bigfoot.”

“Yeah?”

“Fully, wholeheartedly. I believe there were two of ‘em on the ark with Noah.”

“You think?”

“I sure do. There ain’t nothing God can’t do. And they’re still finding Gigantopithecus fossils all the time. They’ve been around forever.”

The highway is dark and straight ahead of us, the sky cobalt blue over the pines. I cut it as close as I could. 5 more minutes and I would’ve been a shadow on the shoulder.

I ask Shantasta if she’s from the area.

“Nope. I got dragged here by my mom when I was 16. She was chasing a dream—turned out to be a drunk! Terrible man. A lot of bad things happened to her because of that choice.”

“They still together?”

“Hell no! I think he died a while ago.”

“Do you like living here?”

“Eh, it’s expensive. 1200 dollars for an apartment is too much. All anybody does is work all the time and barely have enough to live. I miss Florida.”

We ride a while and I ask her if she thinks this is Appalachia.

“Yeah I do.”

“Me too. Feels a lot like home.”

I tell her how thankful I am again, and she drops me at the (closed) museum. I duck around back and set up my tent between the building and a kudzu covered hill. I spend most of the night sneezing.

If any Cryptids pass by my tent during the night, they do so quietly.

I made camp in the woods after I escaped Helen. Next morning woke up at 6am to thunder, tried but couldn’t beat the rain. Ended up trying to pack my tent while still inside my tent. Didnt work. Got soaked.

A kindhearted British lady gave me a ride to the Bus Graveyard, then I got another ride north and finally got to meet the world famous Sam G and get a tour of Sam G Land.

Turned east and made it into South Carolina. Ended up sleeping in the garage of a guy who owned a giant industrial warehouse fan so I got to dry all my wet gear in like 10 minutes.

There’s been some difficult moments but I’m getting to see cool places and meet great people. Still moving along 👍

I’ve been lucky with rides and covered a lot of ground quickly. I caught a WILD ride across Dalton and passed out in some woods near Chatsworth.

Had some difficulty hitching out the next day, but eventually this cool couple picked me up and drove me to Ellijay, then we shared pizza and beer. Day started terribly, ended great.

Went to the Bigfoot Museum the next day. I want to believe, but I’m still not convinced.

Caught a ride to Blue Ridge, shared some homemade Pumpkin Meade with the local bookstore owner.

Made it to Blairsville and hung out with the local grocer and shared stories for most of the day. He was one of the cooler people I’ve ever met.

Made camp behind the local Methodist church, went to the service the next morning to hear the choir sing and met an ex-con who gave me ride up to Murphy, NC.

Visited Clays Corner the day after and met the owner of the legendary Possum Drop.

Went back down in to Georgia and passed through Hiwassee, then the German themed tourist town, Helen.

I’m still movin along. Thanks for the support 👍

It’s been called the Grand Canyon of the South. Pictures do not do it justice.

As soon as I leave Paradise Garden, the vibes turn ugly. I feel like I’m being watched, like every car that passes me already has 911 dialed on their phone and is waiting for any excuse to push the call button. 

I pass a sign for Hay’s State Prison, and realize I’m going to be walking for a long time. A mile or two later I stop in front of a thrift store and try to thumb. It feels obscene, like I’m standing there with my pants down.

I pack up and move on. A few miles after that, I stop on the edge of town where the four-lane opens up near the last traffic light. It feels a little better, but not much.

Forty minutes pass. The sun is hot but I don’t want to put my boonie hat or sunglasses on. I’m trying to look as trustworthy as possible.

A man on a Harley passes me, then comes back. He parks a hundred yards away in the nearest parking lot, then starts walking toward me. His walk is stilted, his body language rigid. He has intentions. I’m about to find out what they are. It’s a long couple minutes as he draws closer. I grow tired of waiting and meet him halfway.

“How’s it going?” I ask.

“I’m good. You havin a rough time, buddy?”

“Not really. Just out traveling.”

That was the last thing he expected to hear. It’s clear he had some kind of speech rehearsed, and now we’re already off script.

He says something about how hard his life was before he got clean. Something about church. Tells me God told him to stop.

“Can I pray for you, brother?”

“If you want.”

He prays for my situation to improve and for me to get to know the Lord. When he’s done, he pulls a twenty out of his pocket.

“I’m okay, really.”

“No, I want you to have it. This is from God. God gave you this money.”

We shake hands and I thank him. He goes off, his walk much looser. He has obeyed a direct command from God. For the next few days or weeks, he’ll walk with a little extra pep in his step.

Thirty or forty minutes pass. Nobody pretends to slow down. I’m eyeballing a patch of pine trees behind me. Then a pickup truck pulls over with urgency, like I’m drowning in rough seas, and the truck is a lifeboat.

Corey. Late twenties. Lime green High-Vis T-shirt. Dirty boots. Tanned forearms. 

“You’re lucky I got off work early. You’d never get a ride around here. There’s a prison back there.”

I tell him how seeing the sign made me nervous, and I thank him for stopping.

“A couple years ago, I reckon this guy escaped and went to that thrift store back there and got some new clothes. Somebody thought he was a hitchhiker picked him up and took him sixty miles down the road and he either tried or did kill somebody. Just what I heard though.”

I feel blessed to have a ride, and I let him know it. 

Corey is from Franklin, North Carolina. Has two kids. He once hiked the Appalachian Trail for 11 days—not knowing if he really wanted to do the whole thing—and when he reached the first river ford, he decided he was done. 

Instead of dropping me at the intersection I need, he takes me up the mountain and down into the next valley, claiming the road uphill is too dangerous to walk. He’s right. The cutout is narrow and winding, the shoulder two inches wide, a sheer blasted rock face on one side, a steep bluff on the other.

We shake hands and he drops me at a gas station somewhere between Lafayette and Dalton. It’s near dark, but I have a feeling I can catch one more ride.

(Pics are from Paradise Garden, GA—Google Howard Finster)

So I’m currently on the road and thumbing my way through the Appalachian Mountains. I’ve been wanting to post more about my story and explain why I’m doing this, but I’ve had very little time in between getting rides.

Warning: I tried to make it short, but many words lie ahead.

Around eight years ago I injured my back, and since then, my life has changed dramatically. Before then, I thought there was some kind of safely net in place to help good people when bad things happen to them. Turns out there isn’t.

It wasn’t long until I couldn’t do my job anymore. I had a little money saved so I thought I’d take a sabbatical of sorts and concentrate on fixing my back, but it continued to deteriorate. I saw doctors, chiropractors, and physical therapists, but nothing helped. Most of them treated me like I was addict looking for pills. They looked at my x-rays and shrugged, told me I was too young to have back problems, told me to come back when my spine degerates more so they have something clear to operate on.

Around this time I began to write as a way to deal with my problems. I fell in love with the creative process. I’m a highschool dropout and I did not attend college, but I’d always been a big reader, so I put all my spare time and energy into emulating my favorite writers until I finally found my own voice.

Some days the pain was so intense I wondered how I was going to live the rest of my life without being able to escape it. I worked a few part time jobs but standing or sitting all day made my pain so intense that all I could do was think about the one thing in my power I could do to make it stop.

I lived on the bare minimum, and if it wasn’t for my family and friends putting me up, I don’t know what I would’ve done or where I would’ve stayed.

Years passed.

I wrote like my life depended on it, and a few of my short stories got published/podcasted, but none of my literary babies grew up to play in the big-leagues and pull me out of poverty (I’m still a very proud father). The literary gatekeepers don’t want my novels, and though I had one screenplay come somewhat close to getting produced, it ultimately fell through.

Last year I applied and was promptly denied disability. Judge said there wasn’t enough evidence of my injury. I asked him if there was a machine that measured pain. He looked at me like he wanted me to die. Then I lost my health insurance because of decisions made by the most recent batch of brilliant politicians, so any chance of me receiving a medical intervention evaporated.

That’s brings us to now.

I’m tired of waiting on things to change before I live the life I want to live. My back is only getting worse. I might be using a walker in ten years, or be in a wheelchair.

I recently got out of a relationship, and I have no money, no kids, nothing tying me down. I love to travel. I love to write. And since I first began doing it a few years ago, I’ve always enjoyed the intimacy that comes with hitchhiking. Mixing these elements together pointed me to a certain conclusion.

I decided I’d hitchhike across the country and write a book about it. But that’s been done and it seemed like a massive undertaking. Then I started thinking about how the story of the region I was born and raised in—Appalachia—is always told by people outside the region. And we all know how widespread the negative cultural depictions are. I’m not afraid of hillbillies. I am they and they are me. I know the culture. I understand the customs and language. I’m tired of seeing YouTube videos with millions of views that show influencers treating my home like it’s a dangerous third world country. I want to document what’s really going on, find out how the mountain people are doing, and see how they treat a random person standing on the side of the road. Also, I admire the Buddist wisdom that you need to take a good look into your backyard before you venture out into the world.

So I tied up my loose ends so I’d have the whole summer to vagabond around Appalachia and write about the things I see and experience. I’m thinking about it like a prose documentary. Hopefully I’ll have a worthwhile book when I’m done. I’m currently two weeks in, and it’s going well. I’m dealing with a significant amount of pain, but I think I can handle it. There’s nothing I hate more than starting except quitting. I went to Huntsville, AL first because I wanted to start at the southernmost end of the region and work my way north. I’ll be going through North Carolina, Eastern Kentucky, and West Virginia soon. I’ll likely be on the road for another month or two.

I’m going to occasionally post small segments of my manuscript in progress as I go, and hopefully I’ll have the time to post regular short updates and photos.

Any insight to the region would be appreciated. travel recs, or suggestions for people I should interview. Or if you know of a friendly couch or yard I could crash on for a night.

Wish me luck 👍

I got a few rides and ended up in a nice little town called Collinsville. Met these cool people whose family has lived in the area for centuries. Apparently the town was built on a Native American settlement so their yard and driveway are so full of arrowheads they don’t know what to do with them all.

About 70% of the town is Hispanic. It was surreal to find myself in an Appalachian / Mexican town, but the vibes were good and the people were nice. Mexican Mayberry vibes for sure.

I’ll be in Georgia soon 👍

I got sunburnt yesterday

There wasn’t much going on but I met some cool people. It was more like a large town than a small city. Now I’m headed east. Hopefully I’ll be in Georgia soon 👍