The Summer of 1974

In the summer of 1974 I was 25 years old and had just finished my third year of teaching. In late June of that year I embarked on my first truly solo adventure that would, in the end, define travel for the rest of my life.

I had a one-way ticket from Montreal to Jasper, Alberta, a wallet full of travelers' checks and a well-worn copy of an ancient National Geographic article about the Canadian Rockies.

My father dropped me off at Windsor Station a few days after the school year ended and at 5:00 pm, on a late June afternoon, I took off, alone, on the then Canadian National daily Montreal-Vancouver run.

In 1974 I was a far different traveler than I am today. I'd packed enough picnic fare—hard boiled eggs, banana bread, baked chicken—to last me the forty eight hours it would take to get to Western Canada.

There are many aspects of this trip that are lost to memory, but what I do remember is that Jasper was my goal. I'd not really thought much about what I'd do after that, nor did I give any thought to getting home. I was able to live very much in the travel moment and not worry too much about what would happen tomorrow.

I was totally ill-prepared for this trip. Forty years ago there were not guide books, no blog posts, no Internet sites. I should have known to bring a warm jacket, but I didn't. Instead, I had a long sleeve flannel shirt and a thin cotton hoodie, one pair of jeans and one pair of shorts,

I did have, though, good hiking boots, warm socks, a fine backpack, a warm sleeping bag and a more-than-sufficient cook set.

Three days after leaving Montreal I arrived in Jasper, Alberta. I had a tent, a good sleeping bag and an open sense of adventure. Somehow, I found a free campsite on the fringe of town that was located on the banks of a river and loaded with other young people. A place like that might not exist today. There were o terrorists roaming the countryside and well all felt safe. Cities set up places like this for young people. It was a good time.

There were not facilities, no showers. Maybe there was a port-a-potty but that another one of those things I don't remember. All of this was perfectly fine with me. I was 25, it was the 70's. There was still a residue of hippie in me to embrace this sort of thing.

I fell in love with Jasper almost immediately. I bought a hiking guide, hooked up with other hikers, and spend days and days roaming the trails of Jasper National Park.

Once, with four recently graduated high school kids, we hiked deep into a nearby valley, pitched out tents on small islands and in too-fast-running river. It rained. We hunkered in. Looking back on it, it was such a foolish thing to do. The river could have flooded and we'd have been washed away.

But we were young and invincible and, honestly, I don't think any of us even thought of this possibility. I'm sure “flash flood” had never entered our vocabulary.

We'd seen bears earlier when we'd hiked other trails. All of us were from urban areas and didn't have a clue, but we knew enough to let the bears know we were coming. When we were on the trail the five us, one at a time, would shout...”Stay away bears!! Stay away bears.” We did this all day long ever four or five minutes. “Stay away bears!” It probably did the job.

Days later, after leaving these guys, and hitchhiking to Yoho National Park, I hiked into a gorgeous mountain lake that still had vestiges of ice on its fringes. It was early July and weather was perfect. I'd spend my days hiking over snow fields, climbing to look outs much higher up that where I was tenting. Mountain goats roamed the steep slopes above me. The days were brilliantly blue. Often, in the distance, I could hear avalanches tumbling down summer mountain sides.

I stayed so long in Yoho National park that I ran out of food. Taking a lead from other hikers, I hiked down the opposite side I'd ascended, found a resort and begged the restaurant staff to sell me some food. I came back with eggs, bread and a few bottles of Pepsi—even then. :)

I have no idea how many days I stayed in this gorgeous place, but I finally had to force myself away from the Canadian Rockies. The Summer I was there was simply perfect and one day rolled into the next-days spent hiking, meeting new people, enjoying the grand beauty this place had to offer.

From Yoho, I hitch hiked from there to Vancouver. The journey wasn't direct of course. Because I was always part of another hiking group and because we were young, our drivers often invited us to stay in their home. Thus I saw part of Alberta and BC I'd never have seen otherwise.

I lingered a few days in Vancouver, sleeping in a youth hostel nearer the beach. It was here that one of three anti-American sentiments was directed at me. Several of us were sitting on the beach one evening when a few aggressive, possibly drunk, Canadians wanted to know where we were from. I was still an innocent traveller and we told them the USA. They started to pick a fight, hurled anti-American sentiments at us. Luckily we got left with no ensuing damage.

After Vancouver I took a boat to Victoria, where I sailed yet again to Seattle and stayed with our family friend, Lucille Rabideau who'd moved back to Washington two years earlier. In Seattle I had a bed and three meals a day and a roof over my head. It was wonderful.

A few days later I moved on to Portland, Oregon then hitch hiked to Surf City—many miles to the west. Surf City, then, was a place of miles long, cold beaches, few homes and quiet isolation. I imagine it's quite different today.

It was 1974 and there were fewer regulations in place. I found a sand dune, and set up camp. At night I'd unroll my sleeping bag, make a “pillow” out of clothes and snuggle in under the starts. At dawn I'd wake, the sleeping bag's surface wet with dew. I'd let it dry out, then repack it. I spent my days roaming the beach, hanging with other young people who were camped out in the dunes.

I stayed almost a week. Once a day I'd wander into the local diner and order lunch—and use their bathroom to take a “shower.” I wasn't so much as dirty as I was salty, and this once a day bathing was enough to keep me clean. Once I met a local family who offered to bring me to their home and let me use their shower. I gladly accepted.

Each day I'd stroll for miles on the beach. The water was too cold for swimming, but there was plenty to look at in the water—crabs and starfish. In small eddy's cold water marine animals made their home.

I'd climb sand dunes that looked like small mountains. One sand dune was popular for hang gliding and I'd watch person after person fly off the hill. One woman tried, and immediately fell, rolling down the dune. An ambulance was called. She did no move. I've often wondered what happened to her

Evenings were spent around a campfire. Someone had caught fresh salmon and we cooked it over the open fire. It was one of the few times in my life when I enjoyed fish.

Twenty years later, in the summer of 1994, Steve and I returned to Surf City. For me it was a journey back to a place that had meant a lot of me twenty years earlier. We stayed in a motel. Very little had changed. We walked the beach and the trails that had been built in the sand dunes. I pondered how I could possibly have spent week living in my sleeping bag, sleeping in a sand dune. It was a wonderful journey back to the past.

From Surf City I hitched a ride to the Highway 1 and almost got arrested doing so—not for hitchhiking, but for walking on the wrong side of the road.

A State Trooper stopped me.

“Let me see some ID, please.”

Check

“Mr. Ladue, do you realize you're walking on thew wrong side of the road?”

“But, sir...where I live I'm doing the right thing.”

“Occupation?”

“Teacher”

“Height?”

“5' 8”, I guess.”

“Weight?”

etc., etc., etc.

I got a warning, in duplicate, which I still have.

Once on the coastal highway a beat up old pick up from the 1950's picked me up. On board were a motley crew of other hitchhikers, all heading south. Everyone smoked pot. The driver would occasionally get out and ask someone to take over. God only knows how stoned these drivers were. The things we do when we're young!

The ride lasted many hours until I got off in the city of Brookings, on the border of northern California. Another guy, Mike, got off with me. Together, we found ourselves a place on the beach, set up camp, prepared meals by night. Each evening he'd pull out his guitar and other campers would join us.

During the day I'd make my way into Brookings to “shower” as some restaurant and pick up a few supplies. Life was extraordinary simple.

We left Brookings, crossed into California, and hitchhiked south. By now July was coming to an end. A whole month had passed living in my tent or under the stars. It had been wonderful.

Mike had been born and raised in LA and was on his way home to visit family for the summer. We were both 25 and both of us were teachers, we so had a lot in common. He introduced me to the redwoods, and later to a group of friends living in Berkley and Davis where we stayed for a few days.

From Davis I flew on to LA for $29.00. Thank heavens for good travel journal keeping. I'd never know that figure today.

I knew some folks from the church I was in Plattsburgh who'd been stationed at the Air Base there and had relocated back to California.

I stayed with them for about a week, sleeping on the sofa, being awakened one morning and told to leave the house because there was an earthquake. I can still see the entire neighborhood standing in the middle of the street, in their pj's or underwear.

Their church had a day trip to Universal Studios and Disneyland and I took advantage of both opportunities. It was in Glendale, where they lived, that I first got introduce to Baskin-Robbins ice cream. Everyday I'd walk down to the shop and bring back enough for all of us.

By now it was getting towards the end of August and I really had to think about getting home. I'd flown by the seat of my pants the entire journey and had never really thought much about the return trip home. But school was going to start in two weeks and I really had to get back to Plattsburgh.

My LA friend suggested we go to the airport that night, bags packed, and surf the airlines to see what was available. Which is what I did. I had a credit card, and bought a LA—Cincinnati red-eye that stopped in Denver and Chicago. From Cincinnati I bought another ticket to Albany and then from Albany to Plattburgh. Imagine trying that today!

From the airport in Plattsburgh I walked all the way home. I was back “on the road” one last time. I entered my apartment that had been shut up since I'd left in June. The daisies I'd picked on a beautiful June day were dried out in a waterless vase. The paint job I'd started in the kitchen was still unfinished.

Immediately I went in to trip withdrawal. All those splendid summer days were now behind me.

School started a week later and life returned to normal.

For months after I returned I'd show my slides to anyone who'd sit through them. I did it so often that I'd memorized my narrative.

Occasionally, in some form of “out west” nostalgia, I'd pull out my cook stove, sit on the floor of my living room and cook a typical Summer of 1974 dinner—instant rice and package of soup mix and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Sometimes I'd even take out my sleeping bag, place the mattress pad , and sleep on the floor.

My journal records names of people I met, people who's lives transected mine for a short period, people who came and went that fantastic summer 40 years ago.

Have you had a good life, Robert A. Oliver? Where are you now Ellen Schaeffer? Did you fulfill your dreams Paul Wolger? Sadly, my journal barely surfaces the context in which I knew you, but our time together was good enough for me to record our time together.

Forty years have passed. I never once made contact with anyone from my journal, nor I have heard from them.

But all these people life on is what I learned during that summer—connect, enjoy each other's company, disconnect, move on. It's the way of travel then and it's the way of travel now.

What I did learn in that summer so long ago has held e in good stead in all subsequent travels.

My ability to leave Plattsburgh alone, navigate new countries, roll with the unexpected, change plans at a minute's notice and adapt to all sorts of different situations were all skills I learned, unknowingly then, during that eight week trip.

It was truly a landmark summer--one I still remember--even more so this summer, its 40^th anniversary. I had traveled to the center of my soul and ht summer has lingered in a corner of my memory for a very long time.

I will never travel that way again—not that I can't, but more that I don't want to. What's good for a 25 year isn't necessarily look for a 65 year old.

Still, it's nice to image how easy it was to sleep in city parks or in sand dunes along the Oregon coast.

I think there is a moment in young adulthood, or a series of them, when a door opens and the future in.

The Summer of 1974 was one of those moments.

Forty years later I still smile on that summer and am grateful beyond words for what it taught me.