Hitchhiking Idaho With Stewart Abbe

 

 

Forty five years is a long time. Just ask forty five year old men or women who are just getting used to what ‘middle aged’ means.

 

Right around forty five people either start feeling old, or fighting old. Both are a path to futility and failure, but that’s what feelings and fighting bring.

 

Forty five years ago I was an eighteen year old hitchhiking Idaho with Stewart Abbe, who was a year younger.

 

I was the big guy, he was the mid size. We didn’t project an image of danger with no ink or attitude, just a couple of all American boys getting a close up look at life on the road.

 

It was the summer of 1973, a transitional year for many young people. The sixties were over for the youth of 1967 and their summer of love. By 1973 they knew which path they were on: keep raising hell and protesting, or find a true love and be true to them.

 

 

Stewart found his true love, and she was as true a love as you’ve ever seen. He and I were college roommates in Springfield, Oregon while we went to UofO in Eugene. She lived in the neighborhood and liked being around Stew and I. Mostly Stew.

 

One night her dad visited and told us he knew what we were up to and was ready to act at the first sign of danger to his girl. I didn’t tell him Stew was in love with his daughter and that he’d said the same thing. I said the same thing, too.

 

Relationships are funny like that. We’re all ‘ready to act’ if something brings danger to our loved ones. More than once I’ve been told I sound kooky when I say things like, “Out of seven billion people on earth I’ve got four who I’ve got the green light to go if they say someone is bothering them.”

 

It’s my take on ‘extremism in defense of liberty is no vice.’ If my peeps need their liberty defended I’m ready with the extremism, whatever that might be.

 

Stewart got married, had kids, and then an accidental death. He never met my true love. We were together at his memorial. We drove the same ground Stewart and I covered hitchhiking Idaho.

 

 

Elaine and I stopped often and took pictures. She wondered why I wanted to stand in a field with hay bales. Stewart and I never stopped on our hitchhiking Idaho trip. One of us was supposed to be awake while the other slept.

 

We both conked out after we got picked up west of Boise heading east. Our ride dropped us off near the Snake River. It could have been named Mosquito River.

 

This time through I remembered the bugs and how I got stung on my eyelids and my face puffed up.

 

So far, so good? Stew and I argued about who should have stayed awake.

 

“I got the first nap,” he said.

 

“I got the first nap,” I said.

 

“I think I see the problem. One of couldn’t stay awake.”

 

“Now it’ll be even harder with my eyes swollen shut,” I said.

 

“Probably why I should take the first nap next time,” he said.

 

“Do I look tired?” I asked.

 

“You barely look alive,” he said.

 

I didn’t have a mirror.

 

===

 

Elaine and I made the sort of stops along the way no one could make hitchhiking Idaho.

 

One of our stops was looking for wagon ruts from Oregon Trail wagons.

 

They’re out in front of me, a faint outline in the grass. Can you see the sign that says “Wagon Ruts?”

 

 

Not every sight is well lit.

 

 

One stop Stew would have liked was the Minidoka internment camp set up for Japanese citizens in WWII.

 

Elaine and I looked for a sign on I-86 heading east with no success. Which only meant getting off the freeway and finding it.

 

The country store In Eden, Idaho had a printed slip of paper with instructions. The clerk gave us a suspicious look when we asked for directions. We left thinking it would be hard living next to what amounts to an American concentration camp and talking about it to tourists.

 

But we weren’t activist tourist out to right a wrong. We were more witnesses. And we weren’t alone.

 

 

Stew wouldn’t have lasted in Minidoka. He would have broken out one way or another. Most likely he’d have been an early volunteer in the 442nd and the recipient of many awards.

 

The 442nd Regiment received more than 18,000 awards, including 9,500 Purple Hearts, 5,200 Bronze Star Medals, 588 Silver Stars, 52 Distinguished Service Crosses, 7 Distinguished Unit Citations, and twenty-one Congressional Medal of Honors. The 442nd Regiment was the most decorated unit for its size and length of service in the history of American warfare. The 4,000 men who initially made up the unit in April 1943 had to be replaced nearly 2.5 times. In total, about 14,000 men served. The unit was awarded eight Presidential Unit Citations (5 earned in one month). Twenty-one of its members were awarded Medals of Honor. Its motto was “Go for Broke.”

 

Stewart had already won many awards in Boy Scouts, high school wrestling, and the ultimate status when a group on a traveling wrestling team tried to bully him. Instead of a salad tossing victim, the group fled in terror of a kid willing to stick a flaming tree branch in their faces.

 

After that incident Stew stood in a different light. He would give you a scar for life if you did him wrong. And that’s a friend to cherish, someone worthy of hitchhiking Idaho with.

 

===

 

Further on down the road Elaine and I stopped at Register Rock, which is now protected against anyone adding another name.

 

I took this shot through the cyclone fence.

 

 

Register Rock, which is approximately 2 miles away, is home to a huge boulder where Oregon Trail pioneers stopped for an evening of rest and many inscribed their names into the boulder. Currently this part of the park has a beautiful grassy area, nice picnic facilities with barbecue grills and fire pits, and a horseshoe area. It would also be a great place to stop for a picnic and for kids to run around if you are traveling on I-86.

 

I can’t say if Stew or I would have defaced the rocks in any way in 1973, but I don’t think we would have tagged it. And I don’t think we would have taken a piece along with us since we were headed out, not back.

 

But if we were headed back? Probably not. As a sixty three year old man married more than half my life I can say with authority: “Don’t chip on historical markers.” Just so we’re clear, or if my wife reads this.

 

As a couple we don’t steal and loot from significant areas.

 

“Honey, where did these piece of lava rock come from,” one would ask.

 

“I found it,” the other would say.

 

Case closed.

 

===

 

Forty five years ago the Oregon Trail seemed so much older than it does today. Lewis and Clark felt pre-historic, a fairy tale like Paul Bunyan. Then images like the print above show what it was like for some pioneers when things went wrong.

 

Getting married and having kids together bring things into a sharper focus. Do that and you know someone is always watching, always expecting you to do the right thing. And they should.

 

Whether blazing a new trail, walking an established pioneering route, hitchhiking, or flying along at 90 mph down the same path, the rules stay the same.

 

Take notice, pay attention, and look after one another. Leave something for others to know you by. Save memories together.

 

I remember Stewart Abbe hitchhiking Idaho and being ready for every turn life had for him. I learned from him and used what I learned this time.

 

“Honey, let me get the door for you,” I said.

 

“Okay. Are you crying?”

 

“Got something in my eye,” I said looking out over the big land.

It was Stew and I hitchhiking Idaho.