I was leaving Hope, I had just finished my usual clam chowder with a bun at Rolly’s Restaurant. I crossed the bridge over the now much wider and slower-moving Fraser River on Highway #1 East. The highway was actually now going north through the spectacular and winding Fraser Canyon to Lytton. At Lytton, where the big Thompson River joins the mighty Fraser, #1 follows the Thompson north-east to Spences Bridge, skirting Ashcroft then to the junction in Cache Creek with #97, which proceeds north through the Cariboo all the way to Prince George. Meanwhile #1 turns more easterly towards Kamloops.
He was scrambling up from the side of the highway, scrambling hurriedly, waving his arm, hitchhiking in the same motion. He didn’t have a bag or a suitcase or even a backpack, he was obviously a short-haul hiker, likely going to Yale, the next small hamlet, or to Boston Bar, the next larger town. Short-haul hikers don’t carry a bag.
I didn’t have time to make my three second-character-analysis that I use to help me decide whether or not to stop.
I stopped. He got in; looked to be in his 50s with unkempt hair and a few days growth of beard. He had slept, or been lying on the ground in the clothes he was wearing.
He didn’t extend his hand or give his name or any customary greeting in response to my gesture and name.
“Going to Calgary, I hope!” he said.
“No, not Calgary,” I replied. “But I can get you to the junction with 97 at Cache Creek. I’m going to Clinton.”
“I’m going to Calgary,” he said, “I’m a drywaller. Can’t find a job in Vancouver. Heard there’s lots of work for drywallers in Calgary, lots of construction going on.”
“There’s lots of construction in Vancouver too,” I said. “All around Vancouver and down into the valley—Abbotsford, Chilliwack, lots of construction and new houses everywhere you look.”
“Not like Calgary!” he said. “Won’t be any trouble getting a job drywalling in Calgary!”
“You must have clothes and tools and drywalling stuff. Coveralls, boots. Where are they?”
“They’re on the bus, probably in Calgary now, waiting for me at the Greyhound Bus Depot in Calgary.”
“But you’re hikin’, ” I said. “How come you’re not on the bus with your tools and clothes?”
“Well, got on the bus in Vancouver on Friday, Friday morning. Driver put the suitcase with my clothes and a bag with my tools in the baggage compartment under the bus. Don’t need too many tools for drywallin’. ”
I silently wondered about that. And this was Sunday, Sunday afternoon. What happened?
“What happened?” I asked him aloud.
“Well the bus stops at quite a few places even though it’s the bus to Calgary—Coquitlam, Abbotsford, Chilliwack, Hope. Lot longer stop at Hope—half an hour, I think. So had some time, went down to the bar, had a few beers with the local boys and missed the bus. Bus was long gone when I got back to the depot. But they’ll keep my bag and tools in Calgary, they’ll be there when I get there.”
This guy’s situation didn’t arouse a lot of empathy in me.
“But that was Friday, Friday noon. Today’s Sunday!?”
“Ya, spent most of Saturday at the bar. Used up almost all my money. Don’t have enough left for another bus ticket to Calgary, that’s for sure! But I’ll make it to Winfield by tonight, got a friend in Winfield, stay with him tonight, maybe he’ll loan me a few bucks to get to Calgary, get started long as I get to Winfield tonight.”
“Winfield,” I said. “That’s close to Kelowna. It’s not on #1. You won’t get to Winfield staying on this highway.”
“Damn right I will! This highway goes right through Kelowna, right through Winfield. Been on this highway lots of times, goes right through Winfield, I know!”
He was more than assertive.
“I’ve been on this highway lots of times too,” I said assertively, “but it doesn’t go through Winfield, or Kelowna. After Kamloops it goes to Salmon Arm, Sicamous, Golden, Revelstoke, Banff and then to Calgary. But you’ll get to Calgary if you just stay on this highway.”
“And it’ll get me to Winfield too! G.D. right it’ll get me to Winfield. Know G.D. well, it goes right through Winfield!”
His tone had turned disagreeable, argumentative, like he was looking for some sort of confrontation.
I was silent, but I was thinking. I didn’t like this fellow and didn’t enjoy his company at all. He was obnoxious.
If our daughter Sheena, when she was younger, was with me she would have made an “L” with the index finger and thumb of her right hand as she held them against her forehead. This guy was a LOSER. There was a reason he couldn’t find or keep a drywalling job in Vancouver, probably several reasons.
I wanted him out of the truck.
We were almost at the 60 then 50 KPH speed zone in Boston Bar.
I had an inspiration.
“You know,” I said, slowing down, “I know somebody in Boston Bar. Haven’t said hello in a few years. Think I’ll do it today. I’ll turn around and go back after I drop you off across from FAS GAS just ahead. It’s still in the 50 K zone, changes to 90 up ahead there before the long hill. Best chance to get a ride in the 50 zone. Maybe even some trucker.” I tried to sound hopeful. (Truckers don’t pick up hitchhikers any more.)
He looked surprised, but didn’t say anything as I slowed down and stopped. He got out, shut the door hard. He didn’t have anything in the back of the truck. It didn’t take long.
I signalled out, but I didn’t turn the truck around. I accelerated, rather hard.
I looked in the rearview mirror—he hadn’t said thanks for the ride but now he was holding his arm and hand up in a farewell wave.
But no, it wasn’t a wave. He was giving me the finger.