Hitch Hiking in Oregon 1969 — Part I

My grandparents were in their early 60’s (just about my age) in 1969, when I was 19 and thought I knew just about everything. That was the summer, after my freshman year, that I lived with a college friend and her family in Portland, Oregon while working and trying to save enough money to go back to Southern Oregon College in Ashland in the fall. (Here is a tip: if that is your goal — don’t work as a nurse’s aid in a rehab hospital. You’ll learn a lot, but you won’t make much money.) Sometime during that summer, I got three days off in a row, and Brenda and I decided to go to Ashland to play — because obviously there wasn’t anything to do in Portland.

In another brilliant flash of inspiration, we decided that we’d drive my perfectly good car (a 1963 Plymouth Valiant station-wagon) only as far as Eugene (about 100 miles from Brenda’s house) and, to save money, we’d hitchhike the rest of the 200 miles to Ashland (since gas was about 30 cents a gallon in July of 1969).

I’d never done anything so wild! Trust me when I tell you that I was a pretty good girl in those days. It was, after all the 60’s! Brenda assured me that she had done it plenty of times. And so that’s what we did. We drove my car to a spot just north of Eugene and parked it and got out on Interstate 5 and facing north, and backing south — we stuck out our right thumbs.

It was a long and exciting day, and one day I will tell you all about it; including the ride from Roseburg to Ashland (110 miles) with Twiggy, Flower, Mia, and Rock in a big boat of a car – me squeezed in between the driver, Mia, and Flower (these were all grown men, I kid you not) and Brenda between Rock and Twiggy in the back. Twiggy actually was and Rock was the most attractive (and coincidentally the most normal looking of the bunch). The story involves love and revenge and a hatchet under the driver’s seat. Brenda and I were so grateful to see the sunset from outside of that car at the northernmost Ashland exit. I don’t think we even noticed that we had another 3 miles to walk to the center of town! One day, I’ll tell you all about it.

Usually, that’s the story I tell; but the real story is about the trip back to Portland. We got out on northbound Interstate 5 early on Sunday, faced south and stuck our thumbs out and quickly got a ride to Gold Hill, barely 15 miles up the road. But the day was young. Back on the highway, thumbs out, and before you could say OMG, there was a county patrolman pulling over. He seemed a little bewildered. Here were two apparently well-kept young ladies, hitchhiking on his highway. He wanted to know why. I quickly put together a story (it’s a gift). I told him we were only going as far as my grandparents’ house in Grants Pass (not far, but in another county and I certainly had NO intention of letting them know what I was up to). That’s when the nice policeman invited us to join him in his patrol car and drove us to Rogue River, where — after a few minutes wait — we were met by a Josephine County patrol car. We got in and were driven Grants Pass, right up into my grandparent’s driveway.

Ok…now what, Einstein?

(to be continued)