In summer 1977, the Geneva Hills staff planned a road trip to Newfoundland to visit Bernice Coleman's hometown and relatives, whom she had not visited since marrying Tom and moving to Ohio as a young woman. A caravan consisting of Bernice's car and the old yellow GMC pickemup truck was assembled and packed full of travelers.
Stuart and I wanted a larger adventure, and decided to hitchhike - to Newfoundland, more than 2,000 miles. Stuart and I did not leave together - he left from Columbus, and then I left from Baltimore about three days later. We agreed to meet and camp on the ferry dock at Port au Basques and wait for the others to show up.
My hitching route took me through Boston, around New York and up through southern Maine, where I decided (or the rides decided, more like) to go up the Maine scenic coastal route, US Route 1. It was a beautiful summer day, and I had the feeling of complete freedom that comes with being a young man on his own, exploring the world.
I was let out at a very remote intersection, farmland and coastline surrounding me. As I looked around I noticed someone sitting on a fence about 1/2 a mile north of me, probably another hitchhiker. Hitchihiking etiquette demanded that I walk past him so he would continue to get first shot at the potential rides.
As I walked closer, I suddenly realized it was Stuart! Please try to imagine the sheer improbability of this meeting -- he had left three days earlier from Columbus and had made no plans for his route that I knew of, and neither had I. And then to find him sitting on a fence in a remote corner of Maine!
I was overwhelmed and made all due obeisance to Stuart. I got to my knees and grovelled at his feet, my backpack falling off over my shoulders and shouting 'I am not worthy!'. Stuart of course played it off as if it were a commonplace occurrence, and chuckled to himself a bit, accepting his due.
The next three or four days traveling with Stuart was one of the happiest times of my life. We had a scad of interesting encounters with people and wildlife, too many to detail here - but of note were the Night of the Slugs and The Hitchhiker's Dream Ride.
The first night we walked off the road just north of a small Maine town and set up our tents. It was already dark and we had a stove meal I have forgotten - probably involving box macaroni and cheese. We left everything out, vowing to 'clean it up in the morning'. The next morning I woke up and heard Stuart shouting. Outside, everything was covered with slugs - our tents, our cookware, our packs -- everything. I had left my pack open, and they were all over the inside of my pack as well. And our uncleaned dinner items were writhing with slugs.
Many years later when we lived together on Highland St in Columbus, we would make imaginary dinners of fresh slugs, fried quickly in a buttered pan til they popped and crackled, and then served with white rice.
In New Brunswick we were picked up by (I am not making this up) a young guy in a van, with comfortable chairs and even a napping couch. He said he was also driving to the ferry at Port-au-Basques - more than 500 miles away. He said to help ourselves to the beer and fresh sandwiches in the cooler and to just enjoy the ride. No ride before or since can top that for me, and I think it was Stuart's greatest ride as well.
Shugge