Anarchist to Abolitionist: A Bad Quaker's Journey

Remember That Time I Was A Hobo?

I was young, full of energy, and fascinated by adventure. By my 16th year, I was still living on that huge corporate farm in California's San Joaquin Valley, near Kettelman City, where my father supervised a crew, and where I now worked part time as a farm hand. I went to Avenel high school during the day, worked the farm in the evening, and spent many nights in local beer bars taking money from bikers and rednecks that thought they could beat me playing pool. This was during a time when people weren't as obsessed with seeing your identification or adhering to Puritan restrictions. I didn't attempt to drink and I never caused any problems for the bar keepers, so they didn't mind me hanging around. To return the favor, I helped the bartender clean up when he closed at night.

By that time, I had acquired a crashed 1966 Mustang. With Dad's advice and instruction, I had spent a year rebuilding it and getting it on the road. It was a beauty, and it ran like nothing I had ever driven. Dad, having racing experience, gave me lessons on fast driving. Not because he wanted me to go fast, but he knew I would, so he wanted me to know how to do so as safely as possible.

That summer, I deceived my parents. I told them I had arranged to spend a few months with my cousin in San Jose. So, as soon as school was out, I jumped in my Mustang, with only a backpack of basic supplies and one change of clothes. I didn't drive to San Jose. I drove to a long term parking lot near Fresno, where I parked my car and walked to the freight yards.

During the years prior, at the beer bars, I listened to tales of men riding the rails and living the hobo life. The idea fascinated me. It sounded like something I absolutely had to try. I asked questions and learned some of the secrets to finding a safe car, how and when to board it, and how to know when to jump off. Around that same time the old movie "Endless Summer" was playing in the local movie house as a matinee. I would often cut class and slip down to the theater to spend an hour and a half dreaming of traveling and surfing.

The two dreams began to merge and a plan began to take shape in my mind. My plot centered around hopping a train in Fresno, riding it to Los Angeles, and then jumping a train up the California coast to Santa Maria. From there, I would hike and surf up the coast for the summer, ending in Oakland where I could ride the rails back to Fresno, arriving home before school started in the fall. It was a flawless plan that I had all worked out in my mind. Well, almost flawless.

When the day arrived, I drove my Mustang to the parking lot. I hid my wallet and the ignition key in the trunk of the car, hid the door key in a magnetic box under the hood, and walked to the rail yards. It had begun.

Wikipedia

I picked out a bulk rail car, the kind with three conical chambers used mostly for hauling dry products. Called "covered hopper cars," these cars often have a hidden enclave in each end near the coupler, where one or two people can safely ride. Hobos sometimes line the enclave in cardboard for comfort. I found one nicely lined with reading material on the walls. I had brought along a felt pen, so I added some of my art to the walls. Again, a man's gift makes room for him, and it's part of the hobo creed to always leave something behind that will make the next guy's ride easier.

The train pulled out of the Fresno yard just around sundown and headed south. What a ride! Down the majestic San Joaquin, up into the Sierra Nevada mountains, and around the legendary Tehachapi Loop! This was the life. I didn't want that day to ever end.

By the time I rolled into the Mojave yard, it was getting late and I was getting sleepy, but it was no time to take a chance of falling asleep. If I was on an east bound car, I could find myself headed toward the deadly Barsow yard, rather than the relative safety of the Los Angeles or Long Beach yards. The tricky part of the Mojave yard is that you couldn't tell which line you were on until you exited the yard and had picked up speed. Then, at the last safe moment to jump off, you either went south through the switch or east. I needed to go south, and as luck would have it, I had chosen the right car. Los Angeles here I come!

The plan was to not actually go all the way into the Long Beach yard, but to jump off at the Los Angeles switch yard and find a boxcar north towards Santa Maria. Boxcars are not as comfortable or safe as hoppers, as you have to ride on the roof. The old time folks used to ride inside boxcars, but that doesn't happen as much in modern times, as they are almost always locked. Anyway, that didn't happen. I fell hard asleep just outside of Mojave and didn't wake up until midday, sitting deep inside the Long Beach rail yard.

You could say, that was where my plans went off the rails, but I would never use such a hokey metaphor. So, rather than a peaceful ride up the coast courtesy of the Southern Pacific line, I paw-pounded-it west to Redondo Beach. For the next three months, I was a true beach bum, hitchhiking up the California coast, surfing on borrowed boards, courtesy of the locals. I dined on fresh abalone when I had a lucky dive, but more often than not, I trusted in the kindness of local mom and pop restaurants that let me mop or clean dishes for a meal.

I love the Pacific Ocean, but she doesn't seem to care for me. A good portion of the times that I would try to embrace her, she would spit me back up on the beach, usually head first. Sometimes face first. I can attribute two concussions to the Pacific that summer, but that didn't bother me too much at the time. As soon as my head stopped pounding and my vision returned to normal, I marched right back into her waves.

The bulk of my concussions came from two things, body surfing and dirt biking. They were, without a doubt, the two things I loved most as a teen. Since I was a very young child, I had believed I would be blind in my old age. So, in a way, I didn't want to get old. I wanted to live the completeness of my life right then. I never wanted to depend on others just to have a life, so I threw myself at the earth in defiance of its gravitational laws. There's a good likelihood I'll never see the Pacific again, but I miss her and would embrace her once more, just like I did back then, if I could. I would likely do the same on a dirt bike in the Mojave, given the chance.

We used to go to the beach all the time when I was a little kid, but I never went into the water until I was a teenager. Water was one of those things my mother held an illogical fear of, and she tried her best to instill it in me. She also had a fear of dogs, all snakes, and as I mentioned, hippies. The better you know me, the more ironic that all becomes.

I made it as far north as Morro Bay, but I didn't have the heart to go any further. I could have spent the rest of my life there; it felt so good, I didn't want to leave.

But, as September came, and the local police began giving me the stink-eye, I decided it was time to get back to my parents and my real home. I started walking east on California highway 41. Within minutes, I had a comfortable ride in the back of a pickup truck with several farm workers. I rode with them to Atascadero, then hitched a ride with an 18 wheeler to Fresno.

I can't say I ever planned something so carefully that failed so quickly, and yet became one of the best adventures of my life. My parents never caught on to the lie, and never knew about my (almost) endless summer. Nor did they ever know that, for one day, I was a hobo.

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