Fog In

In July '62, I had just graduated from high school, and ready to hit the road with my new freedom.

West coast USA was the goal with the lure of the Seattle World's Fair thrown in for a specific target. My friend Chris and I were hitchhiking, but we had the luxury of one hundred dollars in Travelers Checks stashed for backup. We each had a suitcase with a blanket so that we could sleep in fields along the way. No sense trying to camp if you don't have camping gear.

We got to the World's Fair with time to spare. One phone exhibit, ATT allowed anyone in line to make a phone call for three minutes to anywhere in the United States free! Not inclined to long lines, I declined the opportunity. Besides that, Phones had limited utility anyway.

While coming back to Michigan along route 101, the coastal California highway, Chris and I ran into a snag of sorts. We were walking along the road, the surf was pounding on the rocks below, and to the right, the mountain climbed straight up. Not much room to maneuver. The one thing that we did have for consolation in our imagination was the dense fog that amplified the surf hitting the rock below.

We are walking, talking, hoping while moving down the road, but the prospects did not look good at this point. Content in our ignorance and armed with the ability to whistle in the dark, we continue to move down the road thinking that this might last all night. We were seeing America, why rush anyway?

Then, a new element appears behind us, slow moving lights. This seems unnatural. A car trailing two walkers. We know we are close to Big Sur, but not sure how far away it might be.

This continues for awhile, but the car never passes. Then we come upon a small inn nestled on the mountain. Chris decides this is our shot in the dark and we are determined to take it. We go inside, but it is hard to hang loose and pretend we're looking for casual coffee.

A Swiss immigrant, who happens to be the cook, befriends us. He is working here hoping to make a break through into mime. Neither Chris or I ever ran across any mimes in Keego, but we take him at his word, since he is the only one talking to us. When his shift is finished, he drives us further up the mountain in his old '39 Chevy and feeds us bread and cheese. We decline the wine as we don't view ourselves as continental just yet. We're working on it, but it probably means that we have to turn eighteen to be qualified. Next morning, the sky was clear as we traveled down the mountain, and we were on the road again.