the driver’s attention. Again, it worked and we were on the road to Albuquerque, New Mexico, then to Flagstaff, Arizona and on to Boulder Dam, or Hoover Dam as it is officially named, then to Barstow, California. Crossing Boulder Dam was a different experience because it was war time and sabotage was a threat then as terrorism is now. To cross the dam cars would be grouped in a convoy with a machine gun mounted Jeep in front and behind. No stopping, no getting out of line. We crossed the dam and went on our way. Many years later I returned to the dam and took the full tour, including the inside and lower spillway. (I must depart from my story telling to mention that I have long ago forgotten where we slept and ate on these final days of our travels. I think, because of the time constraint, we may have stayed with driver’s who were driving all night.) It was the 8th day of our travels, Saturday, May 1st, late in the evening that we entered Barstow, California. Up „till now the weather had been very nice. A little hot in New Mexico, but okay. Now, the weather became windy and cold, bitter cold.
Our ride dropped us off outside of Barstow where Route 58 to Mojave split off Route 66. It was not only cold and windy, but dark. We stood in the cold for awhile before deciding to walk back a short distance to a lone gas station. Our thinking was it would be warm in the station and we could possible get a ride out of there. Upon making this known to the station operator we were firmly told that the station was not a waiting area for drifters and for us to take a hike. We got the message and left.
Back at the intersection we took notice of a pile of discs, somewhat like a computer disc of today, only larger and heavier. We were battling the cold by sailing those discs into the dark of the night when a car slowed then came to a near stop. We chased after the car and as we did it slowly gathered speed and went down the road. About fifteen minutes later the same car did the same thing and we again chased after it. This happened another two or three times and each time we chased after it, until the last time when we shouted something at the car, gave it a “salute” and returned to the pile of discs. I guess the driver and whoever else had a good laughing time at our expense. That was the only mean thing that happened on the trip other than ten cents for a cup of water and being denied the warmth of the gas station.
We were freezing cold when a big rig stopped, announced he was going to Bakersfield and asked if we would like to ride along! Boy, did we ever. As I look back on our travels I must conclude that it was our youth to which most people responded. From there it was an easy day home, arriving in the afternoon of the 11th day, Monday, May 4th, 1943. We had missed one day of school.
Our trip was met with mixed emotions and opinions. Our parents were glad we were home and not anxious for us to take another.
I still recall my mother telling others how concerned she was when she got the first post card telling of our going on to Salt Lake City and then her fright when the post card arrived from Denver. She had said something like, “ Where are those kids going?”.
Our teachers were both congratulatory and critical. Some asked for telling of the story while others belittled us and our parents for having engaged in such a daring adventure, and particularly during a time of war. That I could never understand. What did the war have to do with it?
The only true and deserving criticism came from Gus who said we should never have wired my mother for money. That showed child dependence and not manhood. According to Gus, my Step-brother Herb’s best friend, we should have wired him and never let on to any problem. I always did like Gus. We were home and with a story that has lasted a life time.
Harold and I continued to be good friends, although distant in later years. He died in Oregon in 1998..
END
Outline of the nine day hitch-hiking trip in 1943 with Harold Bohanon
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