Mindful Reflection: Hitchhiking Lessons #1 – Eastbound and Uncertain

July 30, 2026 | Brian Mitchell

A reflection on beginnings, doubt, and the roads that shape who we become.

On a cool September morning in 1974, my friend Leo dropped me off on the shoulder of a highway just east of the New Mexico–Texas state line.

Slung over my shoulder was a faded green Marine Corps “gunny sack” style canvas backpack that held nearly everything I owned. The bag was almost 30 years old and had been given to me by my father, Homer Morton Mitchell — a WWII hero who served in Okinawa and was later buried with his three Purple Hearts.

I adjusted the straps on my shoulders, pulled my Mack Trucks cap down against the desert sun, and looked east before turning back into oncoming traffic to ask for a ride.

Leo’s final words before driving away were simple – “You are crazy! Good luck.”

Then he disappeared down the highway. And just like that, the adventure—and the anxiety—began.

At the time, I was a young man trying to make my way home to Vermont after living and working for a concrete company near the New Mexico–Texas border. I had hitchhiked plenty around Vermont, but never anywhere else, and certainly never alone across America.

Standing there on the side of that highway, thumb out, I quickly discovered something about meaningful journeys. Excitement and uncertainty usually arrive together.

As the minutes stretched into an hour, and then longer, doubts began creeping into my mind.

Was it my long blond hair and mustache? Was it my worn Mack Trucks cap? Or was it that heavy Marine Corps backpack that made me look like I was carrying my entire life on my shoulders—because, in many ways, I was?

Hundreds of vehicles passed by. Every passing car seemed to reinforce my friend’s words.

“You are crazy!”

I laugh about that now, but at the time there was nothing funny about it.

Doubt has a way of arriving early in almost every worthwhile journey and it had quickly arrived in mine that morning.

The old canvas straps dug deeper into my shoulders as the day wore on. The backpack had no padding, and the desert heat was beginning to rise. I forced myself to keep smiling and put my thumb back into the air every time another vehicle passed.

Finally, a car pulled over. A young man leaned across the passenger seat and offered me a ride. He seemed comfortable with me almost immediately, though when I told him I was heading to Vermont, he looked more than a little puzzled. He may have been thinking the same thing as my friend had.

Somewhere along the ride, he asked me to roll a joint for him. Unfortunately for him, I was terrible at the job—even with two hands. So, after watching me struggle for a few moments, he finally took it away from me in complete disgust and rolled a perfect masterpiece with one hand while driving. I remember thinking: “If you’re that good at this with one hand, why did you ask me to do it?”

At the Big Spring, Texas exit, we shook hands and parted ways. I was grateful for the ride and even more grateful that my long journey east had officially begun.

But several more difficult hours waited for me in Big Spring. As morning drifted toward mid-day, discouragement slowly began replacing excitement. I started thinking seriously about spending the $150 cash in my pocket on a bus ticket home. The dream suddenly seemed much easier than the journey.

Then things became even more interesting. A Texas state trooper spotted me from the highway, made a U-turn, and headed back in my direction. Hitchhiking was illegal there.

Fortunately, I was standing near a bridge. I grabbed my backpack and hurried underneath it, crawling out of sight on the opposite side while my heart pounded in my chest.

And then another fear arrived. This was West Texas, man. As I crouched beneath that bridge, I became convinced I might be hiding near a nest of rattlesnakes or scorpions. Thankfully, none appeared. But fear has a way of making everything feel larger than it really is.

Eventually the trooper moved on. I climbed back up to the roadside tired, discouraged, dusty, and uncertain whether I was brave, foolish, or some combination of both.

What seemed like hours later, a pickup truck finally pulled over and stopped near me. The gentleman driving it turned out to be one of the kindest people I would meet on the entire trip. He bought me a large bucket of KFC chicken, let me drive his truck while he slept, and offered advice almost the entire way.

“Eat up, this may be the last good meal you’ll get.” And “Get a haircut, son,” he told me. “And shave that mustache. You’ll get more rides.” He may have been right.

After crossing the state line and passing through Texarkana, around 9 PM we rolled into Magnolia, Arkansas. I had been an incredibly long day. If anyone tells you that Texas is not huge  take it from me, they are misinformed.

My new friend knew the owner of a small motel in Magnolia and took me there for a room. We woke the motel owner up. Yes, they were sound asleep at 9 PM.

I somehow slept well that night despite all the uncertainty, anxiety, and discouragement that had visited me throughout the day. Perhaps it was because I was exhausted.

Looking back now, I realize day one of the journey taught me something important. Dreams are exciting. Goals are inspiring. New beginnings can feel energizing. But dreams, goals, and growth all require movement. And movement always costs something. Sometimes it costs comfort. Sometimes confidence. Sometimes certainty. Sometimes patience. But meaningful journeys rarely reveal their value at the beginning. Most often, they reveal it along the road or even years later.

Day two of my trip would challenge me even further and teach me more about people, trust, and perspective than I could have imagined standing beside that highway in West Texas.

But before the second day arrived, the first day taught me something I would never forget.

The dream is free. But the journey isn’t.

To be continued…