I believe it was back in September of 1999, when I was walking north on U.S. 95 somewhere near Beatty, Nevada when this older guy picked me up. He looked like he was in his 70s. He was coming from Mexico and going back to Northern California where he made his home. He told me that he was a Navy Frogman in World War II.
As a Navy Frogman, he would go onto an enemy beach at night and prepare it for a Marine amphibious assault. They would cut barbed wire, take out mines, get rid of enemy infrastructure and so on. One time he and his fellow Frogmen were trying to defuse a mine in the ocean and the mine exploded. I guess several Frogmen were killed; he and another guy survived.
He said that after the war, he did a job as a mercenary somewhere in Central America. He got caught by the local government or warlord and was thrown in prison. He heard a man screaming because he was probably being tortured--and, he thought, being killed.
I don't remember how long he spent in that prison, but he told me that he thought he was a goner. Then one evening something profound happened. He had an intense spiritual experience: he saw a vision of Jesus and this overwhelming sense of peace came over him. A few days later, he was released from prison and he did no more mercenary work after that.
He spent twenty or thirty years in the merchant marine as a cook. He had been retired for some time. His intestines were shot, so that is why he wore a bag on his side. He was married and divorced from an exotic dancer. His son was thrown in prison for robbing convenience stores. He seemed pretty wore out from living on the planet.
He told me something interesting. He said that whenever you go to a bar at a naval base where Marines and Navy personnel hang out, if you see a guy sitting at the bar drinking by himself, it is usually a Navy SEAL. So I asked him why. He said that you go through hell to become a Navy SEAL and so it separates you from the rest of the crowd. Also, he said that SEALs go on top-secret missions that nobody can know about, so they can't talk to anyone about their work. So who can they talk with?
It is lonely at the top.
I was hitchhiking in Iowa back in 1986 and I was talking with this guy about the Marines (I enjoy reading military history). Then he told me about the SEALs that they are the best-trained warriors in the world. He told about these four Marines that were sitting at a table in a bar and they were drunk and obnoxious and trying to pick a fight with somebody. Then this guy walked in and sat down at the bar and drank a beer quietly by himself. The Marines began making fun of him--they were trying to provoke something. The bartender walked over to the table of Marines and told them that the guy at the bar was a SEAL. The Marines quickly left the bar and never looked back.
"At the rebuke of His presence they fled." "A quiet word breaketh a bone." "The idols of Egypt are removed at his presence."
I guess you can say that that Navy SEAL's reputation preceded him.
[Originally published by Digihitch.com]
Freedom to Bear Arms
Carrying the Gun
Back in July of 1980, I was house sitting for some friends in Ames, Iowa. They and their two daughters were gone for a month or so seeing relatives in Southern California.
One day I decided to hit the road and see how far west I could get. I took my backpack and some of my belongings and began hitchhiking west on U.S. 30.
I got a few rides to Denison. Then this young lady picked me up near Dow City or Dunlap. She had a can of beer in her hand and offered me one; I declined the offer. I went to enough beer parties in high school; my beer-drinking days were pretty much over. She was fairly drunk and she would swerve over into the other lane every so often and then correct herself.
Finally, I said, "Hey, if you want, I can drive for you."
She said, "No. I'm doing just fine."
A few minutes later she barely missed hitting this tractor-trailer coming from the opposite direction.
I had had enough, so I said, "Pull over and let me out."
She pulled over onto the shoulder and I got out of the car. She gave me the finger and drove off. I was so glad to get out of that vehicle. That was the first time (and maybe the only time) I asked to get out of a car because the driver was drunk.
So I walked down the road and this guy picked me up. He had just graduated from the veterinary school at Iowa State University in Ames. This guy was going to Nebraska to take his boards for the state of Nebraska.
He dropped me off someplace and I later made it to Blair, Nebraska. The sun was setting as I walked down main street. I walked past this gas station and this kid that worked there was sitting in a chair.
He looked at my backpack and asked, "Where ya goin'?"
"I'm heading out west," I replied.
"Have a good trip."
"Thanks."
I walked through Blair and was a mile or so out of town, when a sheriff deputy stopped me. He asked me where I was going and then he checked my ID. At the time, I was a little annoyed that they would stop and check me. I was walking down the road minding my own business. What's the big deal, I thought. That was probably the first time I had been stopped by law enforcement for walking or hitchhiking. I was a little rattled about the whole thing.
The sheriff deputy gave me my ID back and I continued walking due west on U.S. 30.
The sun was down, so I decided to jump over this fence and hightail it to the railroad tracks. It wasn't long and I was walking down the tracks of the Union Pacific.
I had been walking for a while when all of a sudden this powerful light came around the bend behind me and this locomotive was bearing down on me! I didn't even hear it coming! I took evasive action, quickly jumped off the tracks and ran into the ditch. The four or five engines roared past with its grain cars in tow. That was a close one, I thought.
I later learned that the sound of the engine travels out from the sides of the locomotive, not from the front. I had been hitchhiking in New Mexico back in the late 1990s, when this man and his wife and kids picked me up. He worked as a welder for the Santa Fe Railroad. He told me about the sound traveling out from the sides and not from the front. He and his fellow welder almost got run over by a train while they were welding "frogs" on the tracks. They never heard the train coming--just like in my case.
So I continued to walk down the tracks. I then camped out in some grass. It was hot and humid--it was probably in the upper nineties that day. The mosquitoes were bad. I don't think I got much sleep that night.
The next morning I got a couple of rides to Fremont.
I was walking in downtown Fremont heading towards the railroad tracks (I was thinking about hopping a freight train) when a local cop stopped me.
"Where you going, son?" he asked.
"I'm heading west," I said.
"You're going in the wrong direction. Hop in and I'll give you a ride west of town."
"Sounds good."
He dropped me off near this pond of water; it looked like a state park or campsite. I thanked him for the ride and he drove off.
It was now around a hundred degrees and I was getting hot, so I spent some time swimming in the pond. After a while, I lay down on this picnic table and took a nap for an hour or two.
Then I heard this low rumbling. I woke up and saw this freight train slowly moving westward on the tracks maybe a hundred yards away. I quickly put on my socks and boots and grabbed my backpack and ran to this brand, spanking-new flatcar. It had my name written all over it.
I climbed onto the flatcar and put my backpack against the bulkhead. I sat down and rested my back against my backpack. The train merged from the siding onto the main line and gained some speed. I was now in business.
It was exhilarating and free, sitting on that flatcar watching the green Nebraska countryside go past. Eventually, I took off my boots and socks and sat on the flatcar barefoot. I felt even more free. The train was now traveling at around fifty miles per hour.
The Union Pacific tracks ran parallel with U.S. 30. Cars and pickups would drive down the highway and people would wave at me and laugh. I would wave back and smile. Some people would honk their horns. It was a lot of fun.
The train rolled through North Bend and Schuyler and finally slowed down and stopped in Columbus. We weren't stopped very long. They were switching out some cars, I'm guessing.
The train slowly moved out and we were heading west again.
My plan, when I left Ames, was to see some relatives in Ogallala, Nebraska. Well, I didn't know their names and I didn't know exactly where they lived in Ogallala. I just knew that I had some relatives in Ogallala and this is why I headed west. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense now, but back then I was twenty years old and all I wanted was an excuse to hit the road and head west. Relatives in Ogallala: sounds good to me. (I later did meet these relatives in Ogallala back in 1983--just before I hitchhiked to California for the first time.)
The train was now going down the tracks at a pretty good clip. I was absolutely enjoying everything about life on a flatcar when I saw this Nebraska Highway Patrol drive by on U.S. 30. I smiled and waved at him, but he didn't wave back. He gave me a dirty look. It was then that I began to think that maybe I wasn't supposed to be riding this freight train.
I didn't think it was illegal to hop freight trains (but that maybe some people might frown on it). My great-grandfather, who was born in County Roscommon in Ireland, lived for seventeen years in Australia herding sheep and prospecting for gold. He came to America and settled down in southwest Iowa. He used to ride freight trains between Iowa and western Nebraska all the time. But that was back in the late 1800s and early 1900s. I began to think that sitting on this flatcar in plain sight of everybody was not such a good idea.
The train rolled through Central City and soon began to slow down. As the train slowly made its way through the small town of Chapman, there was this cop in his car stopped at the intersection. I smiled and waved at him, but he didn't wave back. Then I began to get this sinking feeling. Maybe I better get off of this train ASAP.
Well, the train stopped maybe a quarter of a mile from where the cop was sitting. I saw the cop car back up and drive down the service road that ran parallel with the tracks. He stopped his car next to my flatcar and motioned for me to get off the train.
I looked at him and said, "Who me?"
He nodded his head as if to say, "Yes, you."
I put my socks and boots back on and climbed off of the flatcar. I didn't like this one bit.
I got in the car and the cop told me that it was illegal to ride freight trains. He drove me to Central City to the police station. He said that he was going to contact the "U.P." (Union Pacific) detectives and see if they wanted to prosecute me.
I sat at the police station as the officer phoned the Union Pacific. The guys in the jail asked me why I was there. I told them that I got caught riding a freight train. They howled in laughter. I sort of laughed, but not really.
The officer hung up the phone and told me that the Union Pacific didn't want to prosecute. He told me to get back in the car and that he would drive me east to the county line.
As we drove east on U.S. 30, the cop asked, "So Tim, do you ever think about where you will go when you die?"
I answered, "Yeah, I think about it all the time."
So he began to tell me about Jesus and the Gospel. We had an intense talk. I was not yet a Christian, but this cop definitely sowed some good seeds into me. I asked Christ into my life two years later. Getting caught on a freight train by a Christian cop was definitely the hand of God--but I didn't know it at the time.
I was restless and seeking something: truth, beauty, literary aspirations, freedom from Adamic slavery. I dropped out of high school twice because it was so oppressive and unchallenging. I was hungry and desperate. Heaven was on my mind. I was looking for God, but did not know how to truly access Him. In July 1980, I was not far from the Kingdom of Heaven.
The cop dropped me off in the middle of somewhere. It was ten o'clock at night, it was hot and humid and I forgot to fill up my water bottle back in Central City. I was not a happy camper. I thanked the officer for the ride and he turned around and drove west into the Nebraska night.
When the cop dropped me off, the last thing he said to me was, "Remember: pray without ceasing."
The next town was six miles away. So I walked past the corn fields and the hay fields of eastern Nebraska. I was thirsty. The noise of diesel engines roaring away pumping water into irrigation circles could be heard as I walked back east.
Eventually, I made it to the small town of Duncan. I found a water hydrant and drank a ton of water. I then found a pickup parked next to the railroad tracks. I climbed into the cab of the pickup and slept there that night.
The next morning, I walked to the shoulder of U.S. 30 and began thumbing for a ride to Columbus. Within half an hour, some guy walked up to the pickup that I had slept in the night before and drove off in it. Sometimes it is a good idea to get up early in the morning.
I got a ride to Columbus. This guy took me to the bus station. I met a lady there that helped me pay for a bus ticket to Des Moines. I got on the bus and it went through Omaha. I got off in Adel, Iowa that evening. Adel is just west of Des Moines on U.S. 6.
I phoned a friend in Ames. He picked me up in Adel and drove me back to Ames. He thought that it was funny that I hitchhiked to Nebraska and hopped a freight train. He thought it was really funny that a cop told me to get off the train. I didn't think it was so funny.
[Originally published by Digihitch.com]
Hoboes That Pass in the Night
Hobo Shoestring - King of the Rails
The Life of a Hobo
Hitchhiking Stories from Digihitch
The Road
Stobe the Hobo
This story is about my traveling to England, Wales and Ireland when I was twenty-one years old. I was an observer at the Francis Hughes (a hunger striker) funeral in Bellaghy, County Derry, Northern Ireland.
Back in 1980, 1981 and 1982 I lived in Ireland for a total of thirteen months. My dad paid for two trips and I paid for one trip to Ireland. In May of 1981, I took my hard-earned money and flew from Minneapolis to London (Gatwick Airport). I took a bus to Brighton and then to Southampton. In Southampton, I stopped by the police department and thanked the policeman who helped me the previous fall when I was temporarily down and out in Southampton; he helped me get a room at the Salvation Army.
From Southampton I took a bus into Wales, took the ferry across to Ireland (Wexford) and took a bus to Carlow. In Carlow I stopped at the local college to see if there were any notices for rooms for rent. Somehow I bumped into this guy named Brian. Brian was an instructor at the college and he said I could stay at his place for the summer, because he was going to Africa on a mission trip in about a week.
Brian lived in Athy*, County Kildare and we drove to his place; he let me sleep on the couch. The next day, Brian and I were watching the news and there was a story about Francis Hughes, a hunger striker, who had died at the prison in Long Kesh in Northern Ireland. Brian knew Francis Hughes' family very well. Brian was originally from Northern Ireland. Brian's first reaction to the news was that there could be riots in Northern Ireland. Bobby Sands, another hunger striker, had died a week before. This was all big news in Ireland; I later learned that the deaths of Sands and Hughes were big news in the United States as well.
So Brian looked at me and asked me if I wanted to go on a road trip into Northern Ireland. I said, no problem. So we headed north and Brian and I had an intense discussion about the troubles in the North. We stayed at his sister's place, I believe, in Antrim, County Antrim. The funeral of Francis Hughes would be in a day or so. Funerals in Irish culture are very important--everybody goes to funerals.
The day of the Francis Hughes funeral, we drove out to Bellaghy, County Derry. There were tons of people lining the roads. There were one or two British Army helicopters circling the neighborhood. Brian parked his car in a pasture maybe a mile or two from the Hughes family farm. We met a pretty reporter from the The Sunday Times newspaper--I think her name was Linda Melvern. Since she was English and she was in Republican (IRA) territory (historically, there have been tensions between the English and the Irish), she decided to hang out with us for most of the day--I think she felt safe being with us. It seemed like she was glad that there was an American in the outfit. She was really beautiful. A Northern Irishman, an English woman and an American: we were quite the team.
We walked to the Hughes farmhouse and walked inside. I met Francis Hughes' dad and mom and relatives.
Brian, who knew the Hughes family well, said, "This is Tim Shey from the United States." Mr. Hughes smiled and we shook hands.
I said something like, "I am sorry for the loss of your son, Mr. Hughes."
We met a few more people and then walked over to the casket to see the body. The body of Francis Hughes was very thin, emaciated. I think he died after forty-some days without food.
Brian told me that before Francis Hughes was captured by the British Army, he had dyed his hair blond and met these two British SAS (Special Air Services) men in a field. Hughes killed one SAS man and wounded the other; Hughes was wounded in the exchange of gunfire.
There was one story about Francis Hughes where he was in this farm house; it was surrounded by British soldiers. Hughes managed to get a British Army uniform and put it on. Hughes walked out of the house disguised as a British soldier and walked up to the British and said, "Be careful. Hughes is inside the house." Then he walked off and escaped.
Before the funeral procession to the local cemetery, Brian gave me a black armband [looking at a video of the funeral, we were actually wearing white armbands; it was a long time ago--sometimes it is hard to remember all of the details]--we were "stewards"--we were supposed to help keep back the crowds of people from the funeral procession. The British Army helicopters kept circling the area. Brian said that they were taking photographs of the people in the funeral.
Then several masked men appeared wearing black balaclavas (face masks); they escorted the coffin of Francis Hughes to the hearse. They followed the hearse to the cemetary. When they marched, they would chant, "Cle deas cle, cle deas cle." It sounded like "clay jazz clay", which means "left right left" in Gaelic (native Irish language).
The funeral procession walked for a while and was blocked at some intersection. Brian and I had to help push these people out of the way. There was this Canadian news cameraman right there filming everything; I may have made it on the nightly news in Canada. So the procession was diverted to another route to the cemetery somewhere in or around Bellaghy.
I don't remember too many details about the cemetery and what went on there. I think the masked men fired a few volleys from their rifles at the grave of Francis Hughes. After the cemetery, the crowds eventually dispersed. The beautiful English reporter caught up with us; somehow she strayed-off and lost sight of us. The three of us walked through the town of Bellaghy. There were these Scottish Highlanders (soldiers) sitting down, lounging around, smoking cigarettes, talking--they didn't seem too concerned about what was going on. There were no riots; there was a little trouble at the intersection where Brian and I were; I don't know of any other trouble during the funeral.
We said goodbye to Miss Melvern, got in the car and drove back towards Antrim. (Years later I read Linda Melvern's article on the Francis Hughes funeral at the Iowa State University Library in Ames, Iowa.) On the way, we noticed this car on the side of the road. It looked like they were broke down: both men were outside the car looking at a flat tire. So Brian pulled over and asked them if they needed any help.
They said something like, "Our car is broke down and we need to get to Belfast."
Brian said, "Hop in. We'll take you to Belfast." Belfast wasn't that far away from Antrim.
They both climbed into the back seat of Brian's car. One guy was older than the other: his name was Bob Jamieson of NBC News. The other, younger guy was the cameraman. They were in Northern Ireland covering the Francis Hughes funeral. The cameraman said he was very tired: he had to carry that heavy camera all over the place all day long. Bob Jamieson looked familiar; I am sure I had seen him on TV before.
So Brian drove them to Belfast to the Europa Hotel. Bob Jamieson and his cameraman were very grateful and thanked us.
Later that summer, in July, I took a train to Belfast and stayed for two or three days and attended a funeral of another hunger striker in West Belfast--somewhere near the Falls Road. I had bought these Army surplus jungle boots back in the States before I came to Ireland. I was walking back from the funeral and these kids noticed my Army jungle boots and said, "Must be with the IRA." I later was stopped by some British soldiers armed with rifles and they asked me a few questions. One soldier said, "Ah, my first American." Another soldier looked at my boots and asked me if I had been in the military in the States. We had a short, friendly chat and then I proceeded to walk back to downtown Belfast.
Brian and I drove back to Antrim and we stayed with his sister's family for another day or two and then we drove back to Athy. Brian soon left for Africa and I stayed in Athy where I soon began to write my first novella: a story about a thirty-something man named Johnny O'Sullivan from County Kerry who wanders and works in Ireland and England; I incorporated my experience of the Francis Hughes funeral into the story. I was twenty-one years old at the time and was heavily influenced by William Shakespeare, James Joyce and William Faulkner. The novella came to 73 pages in length; the title was Athy-upon-Barrow. I sent it to several publishers, but it was never accepted for publication.
I ended up staying in Ireland that time for nine and a half months. After I finished writing and typing the manuscript (it took me seven weeks), I worked on a farm in Killorglin, County Kerry and then a farm in County Laoish and County Kildare for a short time. I later flew back to the States in February 1982.
[Originally published by Digihitch.com]
Francis Hughes Funeral on YouTube
Francis Hughes - Wikipedia
Linda Melvern
Bob Jamieson - Wikipedia
*Athy Town, Co. Kildare, Ireland
**Barge on River Barrow
Hitchhiking Ireland, Northern Ireland, England and Wales
Thomas Sowell - A Brief History of the Irish
This is a story about an experience I had at a Christian cult.
I was hitchhiking in eastern Pennsylvania back in April 1998 when this man and his son picked me up. When I got in the car, immediately, this guy gave me the creeps. I noticed a Bible on the dashboard, so I thought maybe he was a Christian.
We got to talking and he asked me why I was hitchhiking. I told him that I was hitchhiking from Iowa to New York; I wanted to visit David Wilkerson's church at 51st and Broadway in Manhattan. I am a Christian and love to read the Bible, but when we would talk about Scripture and the things of God, everything this guy said didn't seem right--it didn't bear witness with my spirit.
So he said that he lived in a Christian community in Saugerties, New York--in the Catskill Mountains. He said that it would be all right if I wanted to stay the night and then hit the road the next day. It was okay by me.
We drove to Saugerties to the "Christian community." There were several buildings at the compound. There were probably 50 men, women and children. He showed me around the place and then this other guy showed me more of the place. I didn't like being there right away.
These little kids would walk up to me like little robots and say woodenly, "Welcome to our community. It is so nice that you are here." Or words to that effect. It seemed like little canned speeches. I would meet adults and they would say the same thing.
It was soon late afternoon and they had an evening fellowship meeting in the main building. It lasted maybe half an hour: singing, dancing, a little message from one of the leaders--the Spirit of Christianity was not there. It seemed so fake and artificial. The Presence of God was not there at all. It reminded me of a church back in Ames, Iowa that I used to go to back in 1987-1988--Great Commission Church [Fun, Games & Entertainment Church; now it's called Stonebrook Community Church]--very cultish.
For some reason, I noticed this guy on the other side of the room. You could tell that he hated being there: he would stay for a few minutes and then he would leave--he did this a few times.
After the meeting, we went to the building where everybody dined. I sat down at this table and the guy who I noticed at the meeting sat across from me. He knew that I was the new guy in town, so he asked me a lot of questions about hitchhiking. He had never gone hitchhiking before, so I told him to put his trust in God and that the Lord would protect him on the road. He finished his meal before everybody else and shook my hand and shook my hand and shook my hand and smiled at me and thanked me for telling him about hitchhiking. He walked out of the building and on purpose walked by the window where I could see him and he smiled at me. At the time, I wondered why I was seeing this.
After supper some of us sat down in the living room and I was surrounded by five people. They told me that they were the ONLY ONES doing the will of God and that I should stay there permanently. I told them that I had planned on staying one night and then I would head to New York City. I listened to their propaganda for at least three hours and then I went to bed.
I didn't sleep at all that night: I was on pins and needles. I told the Lord that I was in the pit of Hell and why did He put me here? I knew that God has everything under control, but I still wondered why I was at that cult.
Well, the next morning we all went to the morning fellowship meeting. The first thing that one of the elders said was, "Brother So-and-So escaped last night."
I stood there semi-shocked and said to myself, "Praise the Lord! That guy that I talked to last night escaped. Now I got to get out of here." Why would that elder use the word "escape"? Man, what a flogging idiot.
So after the morning meeting, I walked back to my dorm room and packed up my bag and walked out the front door.
The guy who picked me up in Pennsylvania was waiting for me outside and started yelling at me, "Tim, what are you doing?!" He looked very concerned as if something was wrong with me.
I smiled at him and said, "I'm hitting the road just like I said."
Then he took this piece of paper and read what was written on it and said, "No. I am your leader. You must obey me. We are the ONLY ONES doing the will of God. You must stay here."
I said, "Well, you boys keep up the good work, but I'm hitting the road." I even shook his hand; it was like shaking a limp piece of nothing. He was really ticked off that I was leaving.
So I walked on down the road and eventually got rides all the way to New Hamburg, New York where I took a train into Manhattan.
I was so glad to get out of that Christian cult and I was grateful that the Lord used me to help that guy escape that place. But then I told the Lord, "Please don't ever do that to me again."
"Not my will, but Thine be done." "Obedience is better than sacrifice."
Maybe the title of this entry should be "Escape from New York."
[Originally published by Digihitch.com]
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I Kings 20: 35-43: "And a certain man of the sons of the prophets said unto his neighbour in the word of the LORD, Smite me, I pray thee. And the man refused to smite him. Then said he unto him, Because thou hast not obeyed the voice of the LORD, behold, as soon as thou art departed from me, a lion shall slay thee. And as soon as he was departed from him, a lion found him, and slew him. Then he found another man, and said, Smite me, I pray thee. And the man smote him, so that in smiting he wounded him. So the prophet departed, and waited for the king by the way, and disguised himself with ashes upon his face. And as the king passed by, he cried unto the king: and he said, Thy servant went out into the midst of the battle; and, behold, a man turned aside, and brought a man unto me, and said, Keep this man: if by any means he be missing, then shall thy life be for his life, or else thou shalt pay a talent of silver. And as thy servant was busy here and there, he was gone. And the king of Israel said unto him, So shall thy judgment be; thyself hast decided it. And he hasted, and took the ashes away from his face; and the king of Israel discerned him that he was of the prophets. And he said unto him, Thus saith the LORD, Because thou hast let go out of thy hand a man whom I appointed to utter destruction, therefore thy life shall go for his life, and thy people for his people. And the king of Israel went to his house heavy and displeased, and came to Samaria."
If you obey the Lord, sometimes He will have you do crazy things--at least, crazy in the eyes of the world (unbelievers).
The Lord may even tell you to hit the road and hitchhike.
