Yesterday a conversation on brought back memories of an episode early in my travels in 1987. In the conversation I wrote,

I remember hitchhiking out of Estes Park many moons ago when I was just starting my travels. From my memory the breaks weren’t working properly on the vehicle that picked me. The driver managed to slow down, but I had to run, throw my pack in and then jump in after it.

You might ask why I chose to take the ride? Looking back over the years, a similar question goes through my mind - adventure and youth?

Estes Park had come up in the conversation and memories of my brief visit there came back from nowhere. Sharing the story, I was struck by how I had this vivid and visceral recollection of the open road, freedom, possibilities and adventure. The memories excited me.

Today I went back to my journals to see how I had recorded the story, and how accurately I had portrayed it. The day was April 29th, 1987, Day 6 of a trip of then unknown length. Here is the relevant section from my journal (I am trying to get back to Denver from Estes Park),

I stood there (I-36) for a while, thumbing and eventually a very beat up car pulled over. A guy jumped out of the car, as it rolled backwards(!), and I chucked my camera bag in, onto a pile of rubbish, then I climbed onto a collapsed back seat and my rucksack was chucked on top of me. The car rolled backwards and then slowly pulled off. The window next to me was broken. Almost non-existent in fact. The car kept on cutting out on the hills, and at one point we had to stop and work on the engine for half an hour. They were going to Denver, but had to make do with limping to Boulder. Cyclists kept on passing us, and then we’d pass them. From there I caught a bus to Denver.