Wednesday, Oct 7.
So I’m helping my nine-year old cousin clean up after supper, and I came to a realization. Keegan picks up after himself better than my roommates do. Sorry guys, but fail. I bet if he lived with me, his empties would be neatly sorted outside — just saying. That said, Amit hasn’t asked me for help with his homework or airplane rides yet, but the day probably isn’t too far off for either.
But yeah, here I am, still alive . . . so far. My sister texted me today asking if I was dead — I replied not quite — I was actually drinking a coffee in a bookstore. And so the great Alaskan Adventure begins. Or . . Yukonite. Close enough.
The intent was to keep a journal all along the way — I suppose it’s still the intent, but like most of my good intentions seeing it to fruition often has a way for falling by the wayside. Lucky Lager is often involved.
God, I haven’t seen Cool Runnings in a long time. I wonder what those guys are up to now.
Distractions. Anyway.
So I won’t assume that this ramble becomes anything more coherent as the words keep coming, especially with the little cousins periodically bouncing off of me, but we’ll see.
The plans originally called to begin dropping some lines in the journal before my hitchhiking journey began — preparation for the trip, thoughts, feelings, reflections on a somewhat ramshackle and spontaneous plan: i.e. a mid-October jaunt to White Horse via thumb-powered rocket sled and back down to Vancouver. In reality, the preparation consisted of little more than the borrowing of some vital supplies, the purchase of a new (used) iPod, and the decision of whether or not to take my guitar. (I did, though it hasn’t gotten terribly much use so far. Again, the good intentions.)
I was expecting that the night before I would be a little more on edge — going into the unknown, an unsure way to travel, potential dangers, blah blah blah. What if no one picks me up? Surely I would take that as a personal rejection. Is there something wrong with me? Is it something I said? Why don’t you like me, mysterious stranger?
However, I had priorities. The Broke Spokes were playing and as a friend I had an obligation to get drunk and sing along to their anarcho sea-chants. One thing led to another, I got a hot tip, and about three in the morning I had drunkenly secured my first ride from a friend of a friend. I figured my Momma Bear wouldn’t mind me texting her the news, as she was, not surprisingly, somewhere between mortified and horrified at the thought of the trip.
Wednesday, Oct 14.
Shit, eh. Good intentions. So here I am, sitting in the living room of a virtual stranger, in a place I had never heard of before this trip, and extremely thankful that I got here in the first place, because I almost didn’t make it here last night. I’m drinking her coffee and listening to CCR. Life is good. But I’ll get back to that. I’ve got some catching up to do. Procrastination is a funny thing sometimes.
So yes, I had approached my mother with the idea, using considerable hesitation. When I asked my dad how best to handle the situation, he replied that maybe I shouldn’t tell her until I come back. Ah, if only — but I was staying with family farther down the road, and I know how quickly word can spread around the mother hens, especially with such a contentious master plan. So after a week or so of summing up the courage, I called my momma bear. I explained how since graduating I wasn’t really doing much, hadn’t gotten a job in the six weeks since the end of tree-planting season, how I didn’t particularly want a job for that matter. And I had so much family spread out across the country that I hadn’t seen in an admonish-ably long period of time, because I was either schooling or tied up working my ass off to pay for the fucking institution.
She seemed to understand my motives. “Oh, you could take your truck, or the bus wouldn’t be too expensive, I think it would be a neat little holiday.”
I gulped. This was the moment I had waited all week for. “Well, actually I was thinking about . . .”
I had to do it eventually. ”Tell Mom” was written on the top of my To-do list (which is still unfinished and currently in my back pocket, for the record).
“Hitchhiking.” I breathed out.
Now, this won’t translate well on paper, so next time you see me ask for the impression. To start, try imagining your mother’s reaction. Shrill and petrified.

“Oh no! Oh Matthew, no! Oh, don’t do that! Why would you do that?!” And so on and so forth.
Among the methods I used to rationalize it was “But (cousin) Bjorn is in Afghanistan. That’s way more dangerous!”
She brushed it off with a terse “Well, he’s not my son!”
I also said that taking my truck would be just as dangerous, if not more. The 1988 Chev half-ton was my dad’s for the last 15 years until he bought a newer one a couple years back. When paired with its little camper in the bush, it was affectionately dubbed “The Thunder Christ” by our cook, Cook Dave Who Played in That Metal Band That Opened For Slayer Once. Alone it is known as Thunder Wagon, or perhaps Thunderlips. She is missing various door handles, her stereo, and functional vents, she leaks three different kinds of fluid, and her tailgate is held up with a rope, among other things. Momma Eileen had to cede points on that one. That said, Thunder Wagon is still pretty. I even dressed her up in pink flagging tape.
Anyway, I think my mother knows by now that when I set my mind to something like this, she probably won’t talk me out of it. But she was happy to know that I evidently seem to network well when combined with beers.
Stay tuned as Matt continues his wacky adventures across the country.