I need to rewind the tape, just a smidgen to remember and revisit an important piece of road I forgot to recount. When I was approaching Knoxville with Sonny, we had been creeping up into the higher elevations for a while, I remembered that sometimes the contour of a road mimics the earth so well that it almost floats the car through the scenery. That’s how I remember the foothills of the Smoky Mountains whenever we approach. This is the spot I began my novel as Luke Moore begins his matador approach to  hitchhiking. And while the novel has a dramatic beginning on a misty late evening in Tennessee, there is also a comedic story I’m afraid I have to tell. While I can tone it down a bit, it’s ribald, so you’ve been forewarned!

On my very first hitchhike to Florida and back, the day after I graduated from high school, I was on way back from Miami and my visit with Bob Munecas and his family and I stood hitchhiking above an exit in this very same spot in eastern Tennessee. It was the middle of the day and rides had been scarce since getting past Atlanta. The trip so far had already had enough thrills and chills to keep me in stories for years, (which is how things came to pass as you can see) and I was ready to get home and tell the JO’s all about it.

So, I stood and fidgeted on the highway trying to work some charisma into my routine without much luck.  There was Howard Johnson’s restaurant down past the shoulder of the road and a meal with an ice cream desert was a delusion with $6.79 in my thin wallet.

My reverie was interrupted by older model, pale blue, Chevy pick up truck pulled up right next me, after coming up the ramp slowly. The passenger window was open and an average looking man of average age with a John Deere hat and a pencil thin mustache leaned forward and in a near whisper he said something.  What I thought I heard was so foreign, so unexpected, that I was sure I had mis-heard it.

I politely asked, “Pardon me sir, what did you say?”

This time the request was louder. He said, “I’ll give you a ride if you let me suck your willy”

I believe my reaction was the exact definition of flummoxed. I was confused, perplexed and unable to react. Therefore, I relied on my good manner taught by my parents and the good Dominican Sisters.

“Pardon me sir?”

The third time, the man, whose face was reddening, raised his reedy voice and screamed, “I said, I’ll give you a ride if you let me suck your dick, your willy, your johnson. What’s wrong with you boy, you deef?”

No, I was struck dumb.

I thought was a rather worldly young lad until this exact point in my life and I simply froze like wax statue at Madame Tussaud’s, eyebrows arched into questioning v’s and the rest of my face stuck in a Holy Shit! mode.

This man who wanted to be way too friendly, shook his head in disgust, pulled a hole-shot and the pick up truck shot off like turkey under the gun.

I was left to disassemble this assault on everything that a full-blooded American product of Catholic schools never, ever, ever wanted to really think about. In the background, the banjos from the movie Deliverance started playing.

But I lived to see more than one on-the-fringe character on and off the road. But I never forgot Mr. John Deere.

As you might suspect the story doesn’t end here.

Three years later, I was hitchhiking under fairly unusual circumstance and here I was standing at this very same spot looking down at Ho-Jo’s and smiling about how John Deere had caught me off guard, and what a rube I had been. Sitting in Howard Johnson’s was my great friend Jerry McEntee, Charlie Pacquette and two young ladies who I had previously been riding with in a VW bug from Naples Florida. Jerry and I had driven a large U-Haul truck from Detroit to Naples filled with his Aunt’s furniture. Charlie and the fresh ladies came and picked us up. But five people in a VW bug for 12 or so hours was all I could take. I decided to try to hitchhike while my friends had lunch and see if I could keep ahead of them.

I stuck out my thumb and my good fortune produced a slowing pickup truck, light blue Chevy which rolled to a stop, passenger window rolled down and yep, old Mr. Pencil-Moustache-John-Deere hat was sitting in the drivers seat.

He stated, in a whisper, again, “I’ll give you a ride if you let me suck your……”

“Stop, stop, stop!” I raised my hand like a traffic cop. “Don’t say it you ^&*%$#$@!”

John Deere had the arched eyebrows this time and once again he snarked down the road double-time, but this time his brain was going kerbloowy, not mine.

There are sometimes in this life when everything intersects beautifully and I have to believe that life is not just some grand biology experiment and that God has a devilishly wicked sense of humor.

Back to the Present: On the Road to Atlanta: I picked up a couple of short rides and then had a very long wait in northern Georgia.  I remembered Kathy’s explanation of daydreaming, “You look like you’re  picking daisies in the field of your imagination,” as I had now been on the road just long enough to think this trip wasn’t completely bonkers. My imagination was starting to let loose….I swear I saw the driver of the black PT Cruiser passed me three times in an hour. The first time I thought he decided against picking me up again. If I wasn’t good enough to eat with him at the Waffle House, than he wasn’t going to deign me as good enough to take down the road. Then I saw him a second time, glaring at me. The third time, I was daydreaming about being on the Oprah show regaling the Mighty O with my witty repartee, and I felt the remaining hair on my bald spot rise up and tingle as the PT Cruiser shot by.  I have brief shiver of the chills, which was really crazy, because it was over 100 degrees again with that particularly heavy Georgia humidity.

I was rescued from the heat and illusions by an 18 wheeler. Yes, it was true, a big rig stopped and picked me up. My ride checklist was filling up!  As I opened the door a very loud hip-hop sound hit me in the face. I pulled myself up the steps and sat up high in the heavy duty air suspension truck seat. My driver leaned over and shook my hand, but did not turn down the volume.  The speakers must have been the standard truck equipment, because the sound was loud, but tinny. I have a terrible time understanding any lyrics, but this was so loud it was gobblygook to me.

After shifting into sixth gear, we picked up speed and he reached over and turned the volume down and said, “Names Triggerman,” and turned the music back up even louder than before. He was arm dancing, keeping time with the spasmodic beat and singing along with every lyric in perfect time. I tried to put a little seat jam together of my own, but let’s face it, is their anything more absurd than a 57 year old white guy groovin’ to Snoop Dog? I think not.

After what seemed a very long time, Triggerman popped out the cd and looked at me suspiciously and asked, “Do you like rap and hip-hop?”

I told him the truth.  “Both my sons are rap and hip-hop fans and most of it is completely lost on me. I don’t like the gangsters pretending or really being gangsters to sell records. But my oldest son has turned me on to some Tupac that I must admit catches my attention. My son Joe says Tupac is one of the great American poets.”

Triggerman’s eyes lit up. “Your son is telling the truth. The truth. That is exactly what Tupac is.”

That began a great conversation which I mostly held my own, especially on the Biggie and Tupac feud or so called feud.  Triggerman then threw me a curve and asked me who the greatest drummer of all time was.  Before I could formulate an answer, he told me: Neal Purt, the drummer of Rush. And to prove it he put on a cd and then kept up with Peart’s drumming on the steering wheel.

To be candid, I have never listened to Rush much, but it was a helluva drum solo and I privately made a pact to download some songs when I was back in Royal Oak.

After talking for a while, Triggerman turned to me and said, “You’re alright, I’m glad I picked you up. I rarely pick up hitchhikers, but I was bored. In fact the last guy I picked up was old like you, but down on his luck, you could tell by looking at him. I played him some tunes and I asked him: Do you like this? And this guy turned and said to me: I don’t like that jungle bunny shit!”

Triggerman was an African American.

“No freaking way,” I said.

“Freaking way. But I got even with him. Waited until it was the middle of the night and we were miles from nowhere. I pulled the truck over and told him to get out. He said there’s no way I’m going to get a ride out there and it’s cold…he was bitching and moaning, but I kicked his ass out of the truck. I never said a word when he asked me why. He should’ve known, but he was one dense cracker.”

We talked the entire ride from there on and it joined my previous trio of great rides in really getting me down the road a piece. The truck cab was pounding after we said our goodbyes and I stepped down off the big rig. All was well on the road. Except I saw a black PT Cruiser shoot past me as I trudged up the ramp. Although it turned out Triggerman was my last ride of the trip.

Before I head into the last moments on the road, unraveling the black PT Cruiser ball of yarn and how I met the Nutrition Twins in the Green Room at Fox 5 Atlanta, let’s take a moment to recognize the unsung heroines of this trip: the Comfort Station Duo, the Minivan Mavens, the Support Team Divas, my wife, the lovely Kathy and my youngest daughter Moira Clark.

It’s one thing for me to have a crazed idea slip into the real world and then voila’, I’m doing something eccentric. It’s quite another for a perfectly sane human being to first, grasp why her husband would behave so bizarrely. Second, go into a phase of denial, where Kathy put her fingers in her ears and sang show tunes whenever I discussed my plan. Third, to finally accept that her 57 year old husband was indeed going to cross-country hitchhike and finally to accept that marriage does encompass, “……for worse,” and agree to come along for the ride, in a manner of speaking.

I almost lost her a couple of days before we left when I was talking up the trip as “vacation.”  But, when our daughter Mo agreed to act as co-pilot and conspirator, the deal was sealed and I knew that somewhere, a couple of hours behind me were the two angels I needed to make this adventure complete.

The plan was that I would start off at least a couple of hours ahead of them, but if I did get in a jam with the bookstore signings or radio shows, they would be able to pick me up and move me down the road in time. They would also be able to take me to a good spot every morning and then go get breakfast or coffee at the various franchise joints that they would normally eschew.

Moira and Kathy had already spent 10 days together this summer traveling to Prague, Vienna, Budapest and Amsterdam, so this trip might seem like too much family time, all of our kids like traveling with Kathy. Heck, I like traveling with Kathy. Her Joe-the-Guide personality allows her to make friends quickly and she can sleep anywhere. Of course, these are only two of her many fine travel traits!

While this trip was sort of a step down from the earlier trip, they were in the trusty Grand Caravan complete with a well equipped cooler, XM satellite radio and the in-exhaustible conversation that only mothers and daughter possess. Both can also sing the heck of out show tunes and apparently when bored, make up songs.  Hence: It’s hot our here for a pimp… which was derived from the song in the movie Hustle and Flow with Terrence Howard singing:  You know it’s hard out here for a pimp….

They must have been getting really bored, because while it was really hot out there, I didn’t run into any pimps….maybe just a serial killer. But they made the trip for me and I am absolutely certain I would not have made it as far as I did without them.  Moira did my bookstore introductions, Kathy rang up credit card sales, Moira gave me helpful, yet direct feedback on the interviews (Dad, do you know you don’t answer the questions sometimes, you just say whatever you think is funny?) and they both were great morale boosters when I was melting on the road.

Here’s to the Comfort Station crew!

Tomorrow: end of the line…I promise!

The last hitchhike? Serial killer on my trail? Television interview: what’s my good side.. do I have a good side? Can I make it to Miami? Why did I only pack only two pair of socks? What’s a better road meal combo:  Payday and an apple or pretzels dipped in a small packet of Philadelphia cream cheese?

These are the questions that paraded through my scorched mind after Triggerman dropped me off and I waited for that last ride into Atlanta. A last minute TV interview had been offered for tomorrow, Thursday, August 12^th and Kathy and Moira agreed to go one city more than was in the original plan. It was now Wednesday afternoon and I snuck a look at my Droid phone to see how long I had been standing here with the sweat pooling in my white gym socks. Exactly 12 minutes.

I looked up and the police car was already beside me. The beefy officer inside tipped his sunglasses off his nose and up over his bristle haircut.

“Uh, fella, whatcha doing out here?”

“Well, Officer….Krupke, I’m hitchhiking to Atlanta this afternoon.”

“Uh, I don’t think so.”

‘No really, that’s what I’m doing officer. I know it might seem a bit strange, but you see, I’ve written a book, and……” I prattled on doing my song and dance that normally elicits a smile, some empathy. I mean who wouldn’t want to like me?

“Uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t much care. You’re done hitchhiking in Georgia. Move on down the ramp and don’t let me find you up here again. We clear?”

“But officer, really I’m an author promoting my book let me show it to you….”

“Fella, I don’t care if you’re the Queen of Sheba, this conversation is over and so is your hitchhiking days.”

Officer Krupke pushed his sunglasses back down on his nose, lowered his head and I realized he may have been more foresighted than even he knew. I picked up my backpack and as I hoisted it over my shoulder I saw blur of black PT Cruiser shoot past me, yet again.

I took out my phone and called Kathy and Moira as I trudged down the ramp. I was soon in the Comfort Station slugging down a cold one. Here was a major difference from 1971 when a cold one meant beer and now it meant bottled water.

“I’d say that cop is speaking the truth. It’s time to get off the road, Gerry.” Kathy said.

I thought about it as we clipped off the miles to Atlanta. I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel, but the heat and the challenges of getting rides was wearing me down fast. I needed a good nights sleep and then I’d make a decision with Kathy tomorrow.

I was very content to be in the air-conditioned mini-van instead of hitchhiking through Atlanta. It was always the most difficult city to get through in the 1970’s and it had grown four-fold since then. I was looking forward to catching up with Julie Sadlier, my unofficial second cousin who was also another mainstay back in the day when passing through town. Julie had moved to Atlanta right after high school and in a situation similar to Knoxville, if she wasn’t there, here dad, Jack Sadlier would let me stay with him. Just great folks, willing to help out a vagabond.

I was remembering Atlanta stories as we approached downtown: I have a lot of Atlanta stories. Mr. Sadlier giving Julie and I money to go see a Tom Jones concert, which we promptly pocketed and went out partying instead.  Gerry Reed and me working for two days in a furniture warehouse arranged by Mr. Sadlier until my right arm went numb from two much lifting. Meeting up with Gerry Reed and Scott Ouellette after Bob and Maria Munecas’ wedding in Miami and listening to Rick Purdy and Jim Chapman regale us with stories of running from the cops in the Gainesville cow-pie pastures in Julie and Mike Waring’s living room.  And Jerry McEntee and me stopped in the Ryder truck in a Kroger’s parking lot, opened up the back of the truck and sat in two upholstered chairs drinking beer until Julie came and showed us how to get to her house.

It seems crazy that we did this without cell phones or any real planning. We’d just show up. Looking back, it seems like more like a movie than a memory.

Back in the present, we met Julie at a nice restaurant and my son Joe’s friend Chelsea Phillips joined us also. We yakked and laughed and I must admit this is what I treasure most about the road, even today.

I had a nice swim and overnight at the Marriot Courtyard with another early morning call to be at the Fox 5 studio for a 7:40 interview. Moira insisted I wear my baggy cargo shorts with my polo shirt because it made me look like the a next-door-neighbor. I wonder where our children get there strong opinions from?

The three of us entered the Antebellum house that was the facade for the television station. It was great fun to do these interviews and shows with Kathy and Moira. I wasn’t really nervous, but with Kathy/Joe-the-Guide and her clone Moira/Clyde-the-Guide, we sailed through our tour d’ media with a lot of laughs and good cheer. This morning was no exception.

The producer of Good Day Atlanta ushered us back into the Green Room which was of course, green, and doubled as the make-up room. As I was getting my nose and shiny forehead powdered, two diminutive, high energy and attractive look-a-like women entered and introduced themselves as….well, the Nutrition Twins. There names were Tammy Lakatos Shames and Lyssie Lakatos. They were presenting a nutrition segment right after my interview and were joking that everyone in the studio was talking about the hitchhiker and not their nutrition advice. This was funny because if you stood Tammy and Lyssie next to the aging neighbor next door in cargo shorts, it was pretty clear that nutrition was going to be a lot more exciting than hitchhiking.

They were very nice and fun gals and after a minute of chatting, me turning my head from my make-up chair, Moira asked the twins, “Are you from New York?”

“We sure are!” They answered in unison.

“Do you know Jen Chiera…Frank…she just got married?”

“What…do we know Jen? Of course we do…..”

I’m not sure how Moira pulled this rabbit out of the hat, but here we were in the Green Room in Fox 5 Atlanta’s studio and Moira and the Nutrition Twins had a good friend in common in New York.  I suppose one might get tired of the expression: you can’t make this stuff up, but c’mon!

Now it was old home week which made me feel comfortable asking for a photo with the Hitchhiker and the Nutrition Twins which only garnered me one evil eye from Kathy. The stranger part of this story, and those of you who have read Getting There know this, is that the novel features several sets of twins that play an important part of the main character Luke Moore’s travels, warning him in unusual ways that danger might lie ahead. I immediately thought of the black PT Cruiser when both the twins pointed up to the Green Room’s television screen that was showing a Fox News brief announcing the capture of the alleged Flint, Michigan serial killer in Atlanta late last night (article in the Washington Post).

They both said, “Gerry, why are you out there hitchhiking when there’s people like this guy loose out there. You should stop this hitchhiking trip and go home with your beautiful wife and daughter!”

Life imitating art or vice versa? Who knows, but I a chill ran up my spine.

The Nutrition Twins were great folks and maybe even guides along the way. There Facebook page is aptly named, The Nutrition Twins and their website is: http://www.nutritiontwins.com/twins/.  Check it out…they’re good people.

But before I knew it I was being ushered onto the set and while I wasn’t nervous, I was a little awestruck, it was really cool to be doing this and I was like a tourist looking up at the skyscrapers in New York.  But like the previous interviews, everyone involve were incredibly friendly and supportive. I was sat in a chair on the set and while I was waiting for Mark Hayes, the host who was going to interview me, his co-host Suchita Vadlamani, came over and sat next to me and started asking me about the trip. She echoed the Nutrition Twins comments.

“Gerry, I’m sure this has been a great trip, but I’m going right over to tell your wife, it’s time to end this trip now. There are serial killers out there!”

Which is exactly what she did. Mark Hayes came over and introduced himself, and the one thing I have learned about these interviewers is that they don’t mess around. They are professionals and we were on the air and talking about…..me in a an instant. It was great fun. Mark was gentle and funny and promoted the book and also warned me about the serial killer.  (Click this link to watch the interview!) After the interview he spent ten minutes talking with Kathy, Moira and me. He had been a Detroit newscaster and his sons were big hockey players, a sport they had picked up in Detroit. It was a delightful experience and for some reason I thought we’d run into a bunch of big ego radio and tv people and exactly the opposite was true.

From Craig Fahle at WDET in Detroit, to Mark Hayne at WVXU in Cincinnati to Matt Shaffer Powell at WUOT in Knoxville (a Howard City, Michigan guy) to Cyrus Webb with Conversations Live (here is my online interview!) and all the folks at Fox 5 in Atlanta; they were all extraordinarily supportive to this fledgling author and media rube.

Kathy had received exactly the support she needed to pull me off the road and end this trip in Atlanta. I didn’t put up even a whimper of a fight. I was tired with all the attendant aches and pains a guy my age would aggregate from standing 100 degree heat on asphalt and concrete for three straight days.

I had rode the plume of the road again, and when that ride appeared on the side of the road any aging hitch in my giddy up disappeared as I high-stepped my way to the waiting car. There was an ever so fleeting moment, like the taste of a first cigarette, that I remembered exactly what it was like to be young. But pretty much, I was just a nearly old guy trying to prove god-knows-what while I was par-boiling on the side of I-75.

When I talked with friends, family and strangers about this trip I received only two reactions and this poll was split right down the middle. One group was intrigued and supportive: That’s a really interesting idea, I’ll bet you have a blast! The other reaction was: You’re oughta your freaking mind!

And those reactions sum up the adventure, and come to think of it, just about any real-honest to goodness escapade where a measure of risk in involved: I may be out of my mind, but I’m smiling at the memories.

Oh, so what happened to the black PT Cruiser and the mysterious driver that was trailing me? It turns out it wasn’t the alleged Flint serial stabber. He flew into Atlanta, so it wasn’t him. However, and there’s always a however in a good story, there was an interesting twist.

First a brief public service announcement for all married men: After leaving Fox 5, I was driving us back to the hotel to arrange for Moira’s flight home, get some breakfast and then head back to Detroit. Kathy noted that entire trip, she had wanted to stop at a Waffle House and get some waffles. The only WH Moira’s phone could find was a few miles away so I whined until Kathy agreed to the buffet breakfast at the hotel instead.

Husband’s please listen and don’t make the mistake I did, which will be memorialized as the Waffle House Whiff for the rest of my marriage. After trailing my sorry behind for 700 miles, did I have the good sense to take my lovely wife a few miles out of my way for a simple Waffle House waffle? Why no, I didn’t. I’ve been married 31 years and honest, I’m much better at not being stupid than I was, but I had a marriage blackout moment which began as we headed north on I-75.  Believe me, there are a whole lot of Waffle Houses on the 700 mile strip of I-75 between Atlanta and Detroit. After we approached the first one, I asked Kathy if I could make up for my transgression by stopping but she just held up her hand and said, “I’ll never ask you stop at a Waffle House again.” Oh man, this is the kind of gaffe that only jewelry can overcome!

The miles whiled away and Kathy only holds a grudge to the point is made and we made good time getting into mid-Tennessee.  We stopped for lunch at the Amish Deli and Gas.  Nope, once again, not making this up. I half expected to see a bunch of Italians in Amish garb, but instead it was two local girls dressed up in Amish get-ups and taking our order in that sweet Tennessee twang. What gave me a moment of pause was they were identical twins.

After lunch, Kathy was paying and I went out to gas up the car. I remembered that the deli and this gas station seemed familiar. As the gas pumped I saw an old sign with a faded Howard Johnson’s painted on it. Wait a minute, this was the same place, the same exit where that nervy perve had asked me about…well, my johnson.

The black PT Cruiser pulled up to the pump. The passenger window was rolled down. Three drops of cold sweat formed above the wrinkle on my brow. The driver’s eyes and mine locked as if a duel to see who could speak first. It hit me like the wind from an 18 wheeler: this grizzled, sallow, ancient person who had been tracking me was the same depraved ying-yang from this very same exit and the only thing that was different was the trade from pick-up to PT Cruiser.  Only this time he didn’t tell me he’d give me a ride if I’d….oh, you remember! This time he raised his arm and pointed a very large pistol aiming directly between my eyes, which crossed slightly as the barrel came into focus.

What happened next? I’m thinking that would be a great start for my next novel or short story. What do you think?

Some of you may have heard some of this song on one of my videos.  Here is the full version!  If the song does not start try clicking the link below.  You may need Quicktime to hear it!

Getting There

Getting There

Music and Lyrics by Michael Clark

Its been a while since I’ve shaved or cut my hair
Standing on the asphalt with my thumb up in the air
I was living day to day in a world without a care
There are no road maps, take your time while getting there

Watching as the world just turns
Contemplating all I’ve learned
One day I might find my way
Not thinking about yesterday
Meanwhile I’m getting there

I heard it through the grapevine

With my ear to the ground
Imagine all the people hearing silence as sound
So if you pick me up on the outskirts of town
I’ll share with you a tail and find a smile in that frown

(2nd chorus)
Watching as the world just turns
Contemplating all I’ve learned
Although I have a checkered past
Boy my luck is changing fast
Meanwhile I’m getting there

(repeat first verse)

(3rd chorus )
Watching as the world just turns
Contemplating all I’ve learned
I find my life in disrepair
It’s all a part of getting there
Meanwhile I’m getting there

Hey Gerry, got your message yesterday. We will unfortunately not be at the J.O. this year. It’s our year for the family reunion in which all of the people in the family that I knew are mostly gone. Anyway I did Google Gerrytales and read most of what is posted there. Oh by the way that was nice of you to say that the group going to Yellowstone was “good mannered, likeable and entertaining” I might use that as a reference one day. Anyway I did want to privately relate the way I remember the Heart Lake trip. I seem to recall that I didn’t want to go. Then I recall heading up the trail (I think Heart lake was up in the mountains, remember going a little farther up to where the snow was the morning of day two?) Also I clearly remember being under the water in Heart Lake and looking up and seeing mosquito’s waiting for me. The other thing that should have given us a clue that this might not be our best idea for a trip was on our way up we saw the guy being transported down on a mule. Jerry Reed with 5 cigarettes in his mouth trying to hide from the ever present mosquito’s and I know Scott was one, not sure who else who heard of a better way to take their “medicine” and came back in the tent in a hurry again attacked by the (see line above) ever present mosquito’s. If we leave the family reunion at an appropriate time we might try to stop by Mike and Jackie’s otherwise I am planning on being at the book signing Sunday where I can hear your confession and perform the sacrament of …..you guessed it….Extremeunction!!!!!! before you go on your crazed hitch-hiking adventure, See you then, Tim

I read in a Wall Street Journal article about author Jim Lynch’s book tour…he’s going to take his tour on a sailboat to various locations! Geez, that sounds a lot more relaxing than hitchhiking! It’s an interestingconcept…Jim’s website is at: http://www.jimlynchbooks.com/
Meanwhile, back at the Global Headquarters for Hitchhiking Tours (my garage) the planning process continues. It looks like Monday morning, August 9th is the send off, more details forthcoming. The kickoff book signing is still a go at Barnes and Noble in Royal Oak on Sunday, August 8th with the time still to be determined….onward!

Most of the mis-adventures of my youth started out with a harmless enough thought that would have best remained an errant meditation. Once spoken, the idea tended to gain steam like herd of buffalo being stampeded off a cliff.

At my age, I’ve found it’s best not to blame any one individual for a harebrained youthful idea, but for those of you who know us, it’s easy to find a culprit. Jimmy Colombo, Tim Roy, Joe Purtell, Gerry Reed, Scott Ouellette and me. Oh my, what a collection of off-kilter, living-on-the-knife edge, numbskulls. Our saving grace was we had good manners, were likeable and entertaining.

So, it came to pass that six of us decided it was a grand idea to pair up and hitchhike to Yellowstone Park on three separate routes and meet at the West Yellowstone Park gate on June 22, 1972 at noon. 

I realize as I’m writing that this story is best served as full course meal in the form of well thought out short story. Oh man, each of the hhiking duos had stories galore before we all landed up back in Royal Oak several weeks later. But here’s the condensed version from Jimmy’s and my perspective.

We were Team Canada. I have no idea why we chose to hhike through the heart of Michigan (staying for a semi-authorized overnight visit at Fr. Rekker’s cabin across from Camp Sancta Maria) through the UP, into northern Minnesota before were were trapped with 100 other hhitchhikers just outside Kenora, Saskatchewan on the Trans Canada Highway for twelve fricking hours!  I started the trip with $23.58 and I realized as my teeth chattered on a frigid Canadian summer night looking down at a chain of zombie hhitchikers with their thumbs dangling freakishly at their sides, that not only was this not fun, but that my budget did not include, well, anything! Can one have a mid-life crisis at 19 years old? Jimmy handled things much better than me. He went into some kind of an Italian trance for several hours and when he snapped back into our not-so-great reality he said, “Running in the woods with elusive Michigan  white-tail deer will save your mortal soul!” 

I want to point out here, that this story is not only directionally accurate, but entirely true. And I did steal part of this story for the fictional novel Getting There, proving again that real life is far more incredible than fiction.

After 12 hours, we finally hitched a ride to Regina, about 100 miles west and started another long wait, killing time by thinking of words that rhymed with Regina.   But then the Miracle of Austin and Jim occured.  Jimmy spotted the small, lime green Datsun first, remarking, “Hey, that looks like Austin Andres car!” 

This is when I learned that one should pause a half beat before replying, “Jimmy, we’re 1000 miles from home in the middle of the Canadian prairie and you’re hallucinating from no sleep, too many Mountain Dews and whatever you do when you start trancing out!”

Because, it was Austin Andres car and Austin was driving and Joe Purtell’s older brother Jim was riding shotgun and fortunately for us and unfortunately for them, they looked over groggily at the last possible second and saw us. And somewhere deep in the recesses of their St. Mary’s Domincan nun education, they did not pretend we didn’t exist…and they pulled over.

Ten days later they deposited us at the West Yellowstone gate at 11 am on June 22nd after taking us to Banff Provincial Park, Glacier National Park, a mini Calgarly stampede and weekend in a cabin in Yellowstone. When they left, Austin took a picture of me that is shown on the Gerry Tales facebook page. I had $19.02 left in my pocket.  I was apparently on the Austin and Jim 50 cent a day tour of awesome places.  I love those guys. (Although Jim Purtell did submit a bill to me three years ago for $42,000 from a purported iou I gave him on the back of a matchbook cover.)

But wait, there’s more. Tim, Joe, Gerry and Scott all showed up at noon at the West Gate and with no car and very limited funds, we managed to stay at Yellowstone for a week and for another week in the basement of the rectory of St. Rose Parish in Dillon, Montana.  Yes, recounting all those crazed days will have to wait. But, the photo below shows Joe, Jimmy, Scott and Tim  just after we finished our 24 hour backpacking journey into hell, otherwise known as Heart Lake.

Again, no need to point fingers on why we thought it was good idea to head into the most remote part of Yellowstone with no real outdoor gear.  That didn’t stop us. Here’s the synopsis: It was an 8 hour hike into the Heart Lake wilderness. About an hour into the walk a Spring mosquito hatch of epic proportions enveloped us like a biting cloud of humidity. Did that stop, us? Hell no! We marched on, pausing in the sulphur-stinking steam gysers that dotted our trip. When we finally made it to Heart Lake, it was the most beautiful sight any of had ever seen. We stripped, jumped in the lake and taunted the angry mob of skeeters that hovered like an alien spacecraft just offshore.  Unfortunately, the water was about 45 degrees so we now had to make six naked dashes to shore as the swarm laughed a collective ghoulish mosquito laugh before attacking.  We spent the rest of our time at Heart Lake in our very small tents before packing up in the morning and starting our hike back to the main road.

Oh, I forgot to mention that the road to Heart Lake is downhill, hence uphill on the way out.  The mosquitos seemed delighted to work their way through our sweat-filled clothes. 

The picture, courtesy of Scott Ouellette shows four of our “Heart-y” band and after reading this story, I’m sure you can see the collective thought bubble of “Who’s idea was that, anyway!”

More on the Yellowstone Adventures later!

You know, we can’t remember a time when there is more to worry about in the world and the mood of the country and frankly, your loyal JO Open Committee, is generally lower than a gnat’s navel. In recent meeting at the JO Open Executive Retreat Lodge (co-sponsored by the Dominican Nun Retirement Fund) we thought long and hard about the proper theme for this year’s JO Open. Should it be the Woe is Us Open? Or maybe the Geritol Iron Poor Blood Open?  Or how about the Downer Open, sponsored by the makers of Quaaludes?  Well, we rejected those downbeat ideas and in a rare moment of collective consensus and consciousness have thrown off the shroud of negativity and are hurtling down the highway of irrational exuberance! Yep, let’s face it, we are the founders of the Generation of Escapism, are we not? Let’s embrace our past, or at least what little we can remember of it and join us in celebrating the next quarter century of JO Opens! Hence, please save the date for:

 26^th Annual “What, Me Worry” JO Open

Saturday, August 7th, 2010         

Bald Mt. Golf Course

We intend to present the most exuberant, happy-go-lucky Open ever. Yes sir! You bet! Are you with us: Absotively!

And to rev up excitement for this years event, we are proud to announce the Up, Up With People Reunion Tour being promoted by Mr. Up With People himself: Stephen Fitzpatrick! Oh yeah, our own Newt Gingrich look-a-like has cast off his Captain of Industry work boots and bought the entire Up With People franchise. He’s hired Jim Tomasycki as his Musical Director and together they are on a mission to bring back that good old American song-and-dance enthusiasm. Picture Stephen and Jim in sequin covered white tuxedos (kinda like a Midwestern version of Nathan Lane and Mathew Broderick in the Producers)….with canes and top hats leading an all-start revue sprinkled with the likes of Austin Andres (playing sax, of course) with the sensational tap dancing duo the Tom Cats (Tom Bell and Tom Calverley, of course!)….hoofing and singing there way into America’s hearts! Wow, it’s going to be sompthin!

What we need from you is an upbeat attitude and of course…..money! You can send $65 in a check made out to Gerry Boylan and send to the address below….Yes, we know GB is recently been censured for improperly Hedging his Bets, but he’s bonded, or so he tells us. The check covers 18 holes of golf with a cart, a few golf balls to lose, and party and dinner at the most gracious Jackie and Mike Moore….who could ask for anything more?

We’ll be back with more info and foursomes, times etc.

Hope to see you all and more!

If you have an email address, please send an email to me….we have about 75% of us communicating via email….it’s faster and cheaper…so if you have an email address, please let us know by sending an email to gboylan@longpointcapital.com.  I can also be reached at (248) 591-6000.