Breaking Down In Arkansas

I stuck my thumb up for the umpteenth time. The umpteenth car swooshed past me, giving a berth wide enough that I could have lied down on the road. It was four o'clock on a Friday, and I was not in the best mood.

I'd hitchhiked my way into the small town of Harrison, Arkansas to grab lunch after dropping my car off at the mechanic's. I was only expecting a minor repair on my brakes. And then I'd received the call. You know, the call from the mechanic -the one that makes you open your eyes real wide and say: “wait, how much?” The call where it turns out your main cylinder is toast, and it's Friday, and they can't get to your car today, and they don't have the parts on site anyway. The call that means you're not going anywhere for a while.

So here I was, thumb in the breeze, walking three miles to pick up my crippled car for the weekend. When I finally did get a ride, it was from a white-haired man who told me: “I don't usually pick up hitchhikers, but the lord spoke to me today.” I assured him that I loved Jesus as much as the next guy, and he drove me all the way to the building's front door.

The mechanic, Thomas, shook his head when I walked in, as if to say “she didn't make it, son.” He sniffled into his gray mustache and handed me a piece of paper: a seventy-five dollar invoice for their inspection and diagnostic. Nothing like paying for terrible news.


“So, you live in this thing, huh?” he asked me,

“Yup,” I said. “That's why there's a bed back there.”

It wasn't his fault, but I really resented poor Thomas for the eight hundred dollars I was going to have to fork over on Monday to have my car fixed.

“So where are you gonna go for the weekend?”

“I don't know,” I said, handing him my debit card.

I really didn't. I'd called the local Walmart while trying to hitch a ride, and they categorically forbade parking and sleeping in their lot.

“You shouldn't drive too far in that thing,” said Thomas.

“I know. You told me on the phone.”

“Cause the brake could go at any time.”

“Right. Are you gonna swipe my card?”

“Oh,” he sniffled again, handing it back to me. “You have to swipe it. The machine's right there.”

I paid quietly.

“Say, you got a tent in there?”

“I do...”

Five minutes later, my Highlander was trotting along a winding county road. Every time I pressed the pedal, the brakes groaned like an old man on the toilet -I wondered if I would even make the ten miles to the campground Thomas had suggested. The road narrowed and climbed along a lush hillside, and soon I could see the Buffalo River curving around cliffs and woods. Eventually, I turned onto a gravel road that plummeted back down to the valley floor. This should be good, I thought, switching to a lower gear and putting the brake pedal to the metal. The car made a noise like a pterodactyl's death squawk and inched its way down the slope. I kept the pedal on the floor -there was almost nothing pushing back. A mile later, my poor Toyota limped back onto the flat terrain of the campground.

It was a lovely place -the gravel gave way to a white dust road that followed the curve of the the river, bordered by dozens of campsites. They were all empty. I drove a quick lap and picked the best-looking one: a grassy patch shaded by thick trees, with a short path to the beach and a view of the water from the fire-pit. I pitched my tent and organized my camp quickly, eager to go dunk my head in the river. Before heading down to the beach, I checked my phone: no service. Guess it's just a very expensive alarm clock for the weekend, I thought while tossing it into the tent along with my sleeping bag.

The water was a deep, dark green, and frigid. I spent a long time dipping my toes, chickening out, skipping rocks, and doing it all over again before finally taking the plunge. It was so cold it hurt, but I swam across the river to a tall cliff. I heaved myself onto the rocks and watched the sun go down, then realized it had been too long and I had to re-acclimate to the water temperature. There were no rocks to skip on this side, so I sucked it up and cannon-balled back into the water.

The rest of the evening was uneventful. The eight hundred dollar tab coming up was still stuck in my throat. I made some food, wrestled with the crappy firewood I'd bought from a farmer down the road, and crawled into my sleeping bag for the night.

I slept ten hours and got up around noon. Bright tents had bloomed here and there around the campground, but my nearest neighbors were still a good hundred feet away. Two big marshmallow clouds surfed a perfect blue sky, and the sun already felt heavy on my shoulders. I had an early lunch and decided to go on a hike in the welcome shade of the forest. I packed up my rucksack and headed toward Camp Erbie, six miles up the Buffalo River.

The forest was downright Jurassic. The rocky trail, criss-crossed by huge roots, vanished into glowing green grass. Vines crept out of the earth and wrapped themselves around trees, following their tortured branches hanging over the water. I'd read on a sign that the banks of the river housed some eight hundred species of plants, but I hadn't expected to see so many right away. I passed too many wildflowers to count -bright orange, purple, red, and all peppering the same radioactively green grass. I stopped every ten seconds to look at oddly-shaped ferns or at trees growing right out of the river. I had to force myself to put my camera away, or I wouldn't have made it a quarter-mile down the path. As I looked up, a shimmering flicker caught my eye. It was a blooming tree loaded with little white flowers swinging in the breeze; they looked like a flock of white hummingbirds.

I crossed several creeks, all running over smooth sandstone. The water was so shallow that when I stood in it, it barely reached halfway up the soles of my thick hiking boots. The creeks all ran over white or black plates of sandstone, and the thin sheet of water had carved them all into perfect little staircases. It was wild to think about how many millions of years it might have taken for these trickles of water to wear down rock into smoothly cut square steps.

Near the river, the air was pleasant and humid, but I eventually climbed high up the flank of the valley. Through the thick scrawl of branches, I could still see the deep Heineken green of the river. I wondered what types of sediments or other geological deposits had turned it that color, and cursed myself for sleeping through “Into to Geology” in college. Soon, I made my way higher so that the river was only a thick piece of green yarn threaded through sandy beaches. Valley slopes gave way to canyons in places, and cliffs of white sandstone towered above the water, marred by deep black pockmarks.

The trail wandered in and out of the shade on the clifftops, and I started sweating. The lush grass persisted beneath the cover of the trees, but where the path meandered into the mid-day Arkansas sun, only dry, yellow grass grew up to my waist. I drank some water and ate a power bar, only then realizing that I was standing in front of a trail sign. Lost in all the sights, I had already walked half the distance to Camp Erbie.


During the second three miles of the hike, my eyes struggled to settle on anything -there was simply too much to take in. My thoughts refused to stay fixated as well, and I thought a thousand boring and strange things on the rest of the hike: how excited I was to climb in Yosemite this summer, a stupid but funny scene from “Scrubs” (a TV show I used to watch in high school), a girl I used to have a crush on in college that I'd never worked up the guts to talk to, what I'd do for work once my trip ended, a different set-up I would try to get my crappy firewood to catch later that night, all the friends I'd left in Boston and all the ones I was hoping to make in Seattle, turning back three thousand feet below the summit of Mount Rainier because of a bad storm, climbing in New Hampshire on blazing summer days, my childhood in the San Francisco Bay Area, my little brother's upcoming graduation, and way too many more to list them all.

It kept going on and on, thought bleeding into thought, and all the while I walked down this amazing, beautiful trail, unable to keep up with the unfurling, discombobulated memories and dreams.

When I reached Camp Erbie, an old man was dragging his canoe onto the beach.

“How was it?” I called out to him.

“Perfect,” he replied with a smile.


He was right. Unwilling to break the spell by retracing my steps, I hiked up to the county road and thumbed a ride back to camp.

The Art of Dirtbagging

I spent the last three weeks living out of a 2005 Toyota Highlander with upwards of 200,000 miles on it. During this time, I hiked and climbed down the East Coast, and covered a meandering route from Boston to Clearwater, Florida.


While I won't pretend to be an expert after such a short time, I've learned a few tricks to live well below one's means -“dirtbagging,” as some of us call it with forlorn panache. Just in case you one day decide to flip your desk over, yell “I don't need this shit” in the middle of a work day, and strike out for the Pacific Northwest, here are some easy lessons on how to do it on the cheap.

1) Fast food joints now serve a purpose besides making you unhealthy and fat


It's the 21^st century. Fast food empires have succeeded in placing their boxy, generic locations on just about every street corner in America. I drive past them every day, and I always wage the same internal battle. If I'm on my way to a first date or an important meeting, it's: “how sweaty and winded will I get if I just stop for medium fries?” If I'm on my way home, it's: “do I get the four-piece of the six-piece chicken nugget to go with my large number two?”

But now, it's time for junk food chains to give back to the people they have fattened and diseased for so long (me). As a dirtbag, these “restaurants” present me with opportunities I could never have imagined as a well-adjusted member of society -namely, bottomless napkins and free changing rooms.

Sooner or later, toilet paper and paper towels run out. (Just ask any of my previous roommates who always abandoned little cardboard rolls on the spring-loaded cylinders that face the toilet -the act of popping it out, inserting a fresh roll, and popping it back in seemingly forever beyond them.) What are you gonna do? Buy more? Ludicrous. You're a dirtbag; you don't have that kind of walking-around money. However, what's to stop you from walking into a McDonald's or Wendy's, stuffing your pockets with the contents of an entire napkin dispenser, and walking right the hell back out? Certainly not the abused minimum-wage employees who daydream of pissing on the CEO's Egg McMuffin. Stuff your pockets with precious paper products and turn heels without spending a single red cent.

Just finished a long hike or an exhausting route? Are your clothes muddy and/or soaked in sweat? You don't want to dirty up your sleeping bag by changing in it, never mind the contortions required to get out of your sticky base-layer while lying down in the back of your car. The handicapped stall at your local Dairy Queen rivals the most spacious Macy's changing rooms. Here's a helpful hint for the gentlemen out there: men's rooms in southern states typically have diaper-changing stations as well (the South for gender equality?) in their handicapped stalls. Unfold that bad boy and it becomes a handy little table on which to lay out your clean clothes while you wriggle out of your dirty ones -welcome to the fancy life, you old dirtbag, you!

A final word on this topic: these maneuvers require a high degree of shamelessness when applied in more upscale establishments such as Subway or Chipotle, especially during off-hours when you might be the only “patron” in the restaurant. If you are bold enough for such a technique, you must meet the smiling and eager gaze of the three or four plastic-gloved employees behind the counter head-on. Smile right back at them, let out a sing-songy “hello, how are you today?” before veering right for the bathroom. No one will mind; they'll assume that you're merely washing your hands before purchasing your meal, as any god-fearing American would. When you exit in a different outfit, they'll be temporarily disoriented -you must pounce on this moment. Power-walk the hell right out of there before they can say a word.

And grab a handful of napkins on your way out, why don'tcha?

2) Sleeping in Walmart parking lots is your unalienable right 


Walmarts. The bastion of our shrinking middle class.

According to Business Insider, eight cents of every American dollar is spent at Walmart. The same source credits Walmart as the nation's largest employer, the most frequent destination typed into GPS Telenav, and the defendant in 4,851 lawsuits in the year 2000 alone. Without getting too political, I think it's fair to say that this gigantic corporation is fairly evil. They pay their workers a pittance, bust workers' unions left and right, and palpably worsen the health of surrounding residents. But now they too can give back to the people, or, more specifically, to the consummate dirtbag.

Did you know that 90 percent of Americans live within fifteen minutes of a Walmart? That their parking lots across the country cover a surface the size of Tampa? If you are driving across the country, think of Walmart as a free hotel for your car.

Not only are Walmarts everywhere, and I do mean everywhere, but they also conveniently leave the lights on in their parking lots all night long. While this does make falling asleep difficult, it will provide you with an illusory yet comforting sense of safety as you park alongside a handful of RVs and human beings who have decided to travel, live, and sleep in their cars (what's wrong with them?)

Now remember, while most Walmarts allow overnighters to sleep in their lots, there are exceptions. It's always a good idea to give the location of your choice a courtesy call to verify that they do permit the old park-n'-sleep before you completely disregard their response and do it anyway. They can't tow all of us!

Pro tip: whatever you do, DO NOT Google the words “Walmart,” “parking lot,” and “murder” before utilizing this technique.

3) Believe it or not, libraries still exist


Remember those things before iPhones and tablets? Like a bunch of pieces of paper all stuck together and they tell a story if you read them in order? I can't remember what they're called, but they're like a long Buzzfeed piece with no pictures or clicking. Those mysterious rectangles still have a faint pulse, and these days they reside in squat little buildings called libraries -if you're old enough, you may remember going to one in the early nineties.

Aside from being a museum of the boring, libraries do present the ordinary dirtbag with one modern convenience: free wifi.

You just take your tablet, phone, and other vital electronics inside, and connect. Warning: the librarians will look to you with a dusty, hopeful look -let them down easy. Ask them if there's a password for their wifi, and where you can plug in your computer, then walk head down to the nearest outlet. This will avoid awkward questions later such as “can I help you find anything?” or “need a recommendation for something to read?” -questions you're just not equipped to answer.

Once you're in, really milk this for all it's worth. An average stop at the library should last anywhere between six and eight hours, and your browser should have twelve to fifteen tabs open atany given time. Common sites you may wish to visit include, but are not limited to: Gmail, YouTube, Google, Amazon, Wikipedia, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Reddit, Tumblr, Netflix (obviously using somebody else's account) and Pinterest. Make sure to copiously ignore the surrounding shelves. They're only there to provide ambiance and collect dust.

For the advanced dirtbag, this whole operation can be pulled off without ever leaving the comfort of your home/car. Just park close enough to the building, find the library wifi, and connect. Push the seat down, grab a helping of uncooked Ramen, and enjoy the second half of “No Country for Old Men” on your phone.

Any feelings of guilt can be quelled by a thought along the lines of:“my taxes pay for this place anyway.” Never mind the fact that you're unemployed and at the Greene County Library in Georgia.

4) Always pick up hitchhikers; it's good for your self-esteem


If you still have a shred of dignity left at this point (if you don't, I applaud you; you can skip this next section), you may start to notice your self-esteem diminishing as you leech and mooch your way across the country. Don't worry, there's a solution, and as always, it's free: picking up hitchhikers!

These “leather-tramps” or “road kids” (people willingly hitching across the country) are typically as destitute as they come, and you can enjoy a superior smirk as you clear some room for their guitar or skateboard in the trunk while they offer their humble gratitude. Bask in their pestilential odor as you settle in for a drive, and feel your ego soaring to unimagined heights: “wow, their last shower must have been months ago...I'm squeaky clean compared to them.”

Say something princely like “well, I can take you as far as Tallahassee” or “we'll have to squeeze in, but there's enough room for all this stuff” to fully restore your wounded pride. Ask them if they have enough room, if the temperature is adequate, or if the choice of music suits them. Essentially, do everything in your power to lord the one difference between you and them: your wheels.

If that still doesn't do it, ask them about their travels, and rejoice as they regale you with tales of camping behind a Cracker Barrel, waiting six hours for a ride across town, and a really cool commune somewhere in Maine where they might stop for a couple weeks. If that still doesn't get you where you want to be, ask them something more profound, like why they decided to set off à la Jack Kerouac. 

Make sure you suppress your haughty giggling as they mumble something about their “restless spirit” through their muddy beard.
If these people don't savagely murder and eat you, you will drop them off with a revitalized sense of well-being and self-worth. But of course, this technique only works if you can fully repress the memory of washing your feet in a Wendy's bathroom sink that very morning.


That's it for now! I'm sure I'll learn plenty more along the way on the art of being a good dirtbag, and I'll be sure to report just as soon as I do. Until then, a huge shoutout to my friends Tony and Shannon (and their adorable baby Liam), who are allowing me to stay in their guest room for a week while I recover from my travels and plan the rest of my itinerary.

I'm not sure what they were going on about the other night, but they couldn't stop grinning when they asked me to tell them again about my camping stove catching fire...