Growing up without a father in a household of six females, I became something of an escape artist. Because my mother and grandmother worked so many hours to support our family after his death, and because there was much quarreling among my older sisters, I learned to fly under the radar. In that airspace, I experienced more freedom than most boys my age, though without a sense of responsibility. The freedom I knew as a teenager and young adult allowed for two flight paths – one adventurous and full of discovery, the other susceptible, like Icarus, to the burning of wings. Above all, it allowed me to dream.

The early ’70s were the heydays of hitchhiking. Young men and women with bulky backpacks standing on the side of the road or at the entrance to an interstate highway was a common sight. Some were thumbing their way to and from college.

Some were of the California-type hippie cults. Others were social misfits – precursors to the modern homeless population. For me, it was a challenge – locate a place on a map and find a way to get there.

My first trips were during the spring of my junior year in high school. Inspired by older sisters who were part of the “movement,” my friend Tim and I thumbed our way to Rochester, where a sister was attending college.

Later that year we heard about a protest against the Vietnam War in D.C. Packs on backs, we headed to Pennsylvania, turning south on 79, catching the Turnpike to I-70, and then south toward Washington. The going was slow, and we ended up sleeping in an abandoned church somewhere in Maryland the first night. We made it to D.C. the next evening.

We had packed sleeping bags, but no tent. As night came, so did the rain. Desperate, we solicited a man on the street who directed us to the third floor of a dilapidated building nearby. What we hoped would be a community of political activists turned out to be a flophouse for drug addicts with stained mattresses on the floor, makeshift cots, and couches regurgitating their stuffings. There was the strong smell of urine and chemicals. It was quiet, and no one seemed to notice us as we spread out our sleeping bags in the farthest corner of the room. In the morning, however, the rain ceased. The rally we had come for was insignificant, so after a brief tour of the Lincoln and Washington Monuments, we hitched our way back home.

In ’72 my friend Randy and I headed for Colorado. This was a speedy trip in more ways than one. Our first driver spoke no English and drove 80 miles an hour all night in a rented car that smelled intensely like marijuana. By dawn we had made Omaha, where we parted ways with our foreign friend.

Less than half hour later we were picked by another speed demon, this one a serious trucker on 18 wheels with a mission to make up the time he lost due to his rendezvous with two women, one in Ohio, one in Indiana (two of a nationwide bevy!). The man could talk fast, and drive even faster, and after hours of unsolicited sex education of the kinky nature, we were thankfully delivered to Denver.

As my companions lost interest in hitchhiking, I was determined to explore the country by visiting friends who had moved to other places. There was Danny, an outstanding athlete at North Carolina State. There was Tim, who had moved to Maryland to build a sailboat worthy of the high seas. There was Lamont in San Diego, and Randy and Doug, who had moved to Colorado and were playing in a band.

The folks who picked me up along the road were, generally speaking, generous souls. There were the hippies in smoky vans. There was the older black man who sang folk songs about the legendary “Shine.” There was the lovely nurse who let me stay overnight in her apartment in Ohio, and there was the mescaline mystic in New Mexico.

However, the magic would be short-lived. Following the sensational Manson Family murders, a rash of serial killers – Bundy, “The Killer Clown”, “Son of Sam”, the “Zodiac killer”, and the “Hillside Strangler” – were making headlines. There was the perception that such predators were seeking easy targets on the roads, and by the late 70’s hitchhiking became nearly impossible.

In retrospect, it is clear that while I was often consumed by wanderlust, there was also a deep sense of commitment to home and family. I was a human boomerang for decades. I don’t travel much these days. But I’m satisfied to know that I did experience America in a unique fashion. And that I can still read a map!

Pete Howard, a teacher, musician, writer and house painter, lives in Dunkirk.