Hitching from Louisiana to Texas
May 1980 - Through Louisiana to Texas
This was the first time I had been hitch-hiking in years, since I was a teenager travelling down the A303 in the south of England, going from my home in Winchester to Minehead - a jaded little seaside town on the edge of Exmoor in north-west Somerset, where I had had a couple of holiday jobs washing dishes and waiting tables, and where I had made some lifelong friends.
“Both tunes featured here are by Clarence Garlow, and were recorded in 1954 for Modern Records Flair label, Catalog number 1021. Clarence was from Beaumont Texas. ‘Crawfishin’ ‘ is self explanatory - while the other side ‘Route 90’ is the old highway from New Orleans to Houston. It now shares the same roadway as Interest 10 after they join up in Lafayette.”
Interstate 10 was a far cry from the A303. For starters, one had to stand on an on-ramp to catch a ride. Much of the traffic was local, and I wanted get some miles under my belt on that first day, taking a good bite out of the journey ahead. It was a toss-up as to whether to take 10 to Baton Rouge, or take the smaller Route 90 through bayou country through New Iberia and on to Lafayette, where the road would merge with 10. The distance was roughly the same, the traffic a little heavier on 10, but the sights potentially more rewarding on 90. A pick-up truck pulled over and the driver said: “I’m headed to Baton Rouge - any good?” Very good indeed! And so the decision for 10 was made, and I climbed in, setting my bag at my feet, and down the road we went.
Soon we were going over the Bonnet Carre Spillway, built by the Army Corp of Engineers way back when to control flooding by the Mississippi. When the river is really high, the spillway is opened and the water flows into Lake Ponchartrain, from where it flows into the Gulf. From one huge and vast expanse of water to another inestimably huger and magnificently vaster.
The guy behind the wheel described the route as we sped along, pointing out places he had lived before, and a couple of former work places. He delivered air-conditioners for a living, and was returning to Baton Rouge after dropping off a load in Kenner the evening before. “Stayed with mah brother-in-law last night in Metairie,” he said, wiping his brow. “Guess we hit that bourbon a bit too hard last night. Ting is, ah don’ git to see him very often, and when we do, we kindah whup it up. Don’ really plan on it, but it seems to happen every durn tahm,” grimacing and wiping his brow again.
Rolled past the beginnings of Interstate 55, at La Place, which shoots dead north a thousand miles to Chicago, and then the highway was elevated over a series of bayous, with long fingers of open water reaching through the swamp lands, shacks built on stilts with boats tied to small piers - a water-centric existence with an economy built around an odd mix of shrimping, working on oil rigs and behind the counters of the myriad little fish fries that cluster amongst the little townships and parishes dotted in the verdant forests bordering the road.
The parishes, once Catholic areas from when the French and the Spanish dominated the areas, remain as names only, designating self-governing areas. French names mingle with German, Spanish and English. We pass Gramercy, then Lutcher, both in St James Parish, Ascension Parish, and then at Sorrento, 61 strikes off for Minnesota.
Highway 61! Oh Bob Dylan, wherefore art thou? This highway has long been mythologized as the place that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil, right there at the crossroads of 49 and 61. The amount of blues musicians that were born within spitting distance of that road is truly amazing. To mention just a few: Bo Carter, Elmore James, Ishman Bracey, Tommy Johnson and Charley Patton, Willie Dixon, Arthur Crudup, Tommy McClennan, Otis Spann, Jimmy Read, BB King and Albert King, Big Bill Broonzy, Mississippi John Hurt, Jimmy Rogers, Sonny Boy Williamson, Sunnyland Slim, John Lee Hooker, Ike Turner, Little Junior Parker, Willie Brown, Eddie Boyd, Son House, James Cotton, Robert Wilkins and Big Walter Horton. Get the idea?
The last few miles of 10 were the last to be built, and was finished in 1978, and so the road had only been open a scant couple of years. The woods on either side of the road, ever present for much of the journey, thinned as we hit the outskirts of Baton Rouge, giving way to the now familiar American landscape of strip development, billboards, car dealerships and fast food joints.
We pulled into an industrial area adjacent to the highway, and I got out, grinned and gave the man my thanks. It was lunch time, and a food truck had pulled in just behind us, and I frugally scanned the menu, buying a shrimp roll and water, and eating it by the on-ramp.
A long red convertible pulled over, driven by a sharply dressed black dude. Now ‘dude’ is a word I usually avoid, but in this case it fitted perfectly. Dressed in a white suit with a red kerchief knotted around his neck, he looked a million dollars, and acted the part. “Lafayette do ya?” and it sure enough would.
The car purred along as the dude expertly and effortlessly threaded the car through the lunch time traffic, and soon we were out of town. “Been along here before?” He asked, and without waiting for my answer explained that soon we would be headed “over the longest bridge in the world”. And he was right. Interstate 10 crossed the Atchafalaya River and swamp that lies between Baton Rouge and Lafayette, and the bridge is over 18 miles long. The Swamp Expressway was completed in the early 70’s, and is an engineering marvel. That part of the swamp that was designated as the route was cleared of trees to create a bayou over three hundred feet wide, and the concrete bridge-come-roadway was cast in sections at a plant east of Lake Ponchartrain, and then shipped by barge all the way. Took them days to get each load here, and yet the whole job was completed within three years, all the components being hoisted into place by huge cranes on barges.
And now you roll mile after mile after mile, with swamp and water on every side, sometimes clear expanses of water dotted with craft and odd little islands, and then wooded swamps. Birds, cranes, long necked white herons, waterfowl poking about in the murk, small flat bottomed aluminium boats putt-putt here and there, fishing or just going to the bar, or going home. And still the bridge stretched ahead.
I asked the dude what it was that he did. He flashed a mad grin, leant over and said confidentially, but very proudly: “I’m a crook.” Er, OK, I smiled back and said something like “Jolly good” and didn’t pursue the line of questioning any further. He was certainly charming and a good driver. That was enough for me to know.
The bridge finally came to an end and we hit Lafayette. “You wanna come and meet my folks?' He asked. “We’re having a party this evening.”
Oh man, I was sorely tempted, but I’d only been traveling a few hours and America was stretching before me, beckoning, beckoning. All really crazy, for I had no place to go and all the time to get there, but I wanted to make time, wanted to get to Texas, wanted to keep moving, wanted to watch the telephone poles whizz by, wanted to get past the horizon, wanted to move, move and then move some more. I was all an itch for the next town, the next mile, wanted to hear the sound of revolving rubber, that hum and thrum of road.
Life is full of roads not taken, of choices being made, dies being cast, and we never know whether the choice really was right, but when it’s been taken, why look back? Why question? Go, go, go was the predicator of the moment. And so I went, bidding the dude goodbye, and watched that mysterious long red automobile disappear around a long bending turn. And the dude was gone.
The next ride called into question the previous decision. Climbing into a rather battered saloon, I looked at my latest driver. A grey skinned old man, all mottled with strange growths over his face, held the wheel with one hand, and patted my thigh with the other.
“Like to party, man, like to party?” And I had him sussed within moments. This had happened couple of times before in the US. I had worn an earring in one ear since the seventies, and in the UK that was cool. It just meant you wore an earring. Turned out that in the US it signified gayness. Now, let usual gay caveats be stated. I don’t care who is gay and who is not. It’s just that I am not. And even if I had been, the thought of getting into sexual situations with this repulsive old man would have been out of the question.
It is not that far from Lafayette to Lake Charles, but under these kind of circumstances the miles do seem to lengthen. After a few more miles I could take it no more, and demanded he let me out. All of a sudden, that itch to move, move and move was taken over by a supreme desire to be by myself. Grumbling that I was no fun, he reluctantly pulled over and let me out. So here I was, seeing signs for Crowley and Lake Charles in one direction, and Lafayette in the other, and all I can think of was Nellie Lutcher and a Capitol 78 I had back home entitled ‘Lake Charles Boogie’, and the voice of my old dear departed buddy Mike Leadbitter, regaling me with tales of his travels in Crowley, in the 60’s, talking with Jay Miller, producer of Slim Harpo, Lighnin’ Slim and countless others.
And then up the road was Lake Charles, not just of dear old Nellie, but also the home of Eddie Shuler and his mythic Goldband label. Oh what joys dwelt hereabouts.
I walked across the blacktop towards the on ramp, and waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually another ride pulled up, a beautiful all white Lincoln from the 1930’s, driven by an elderly man, his wife in the passenger seat. I climbed in the back. “What a great car!” was the obvious and inevitable remark. “Like it, eh? I found it on a farm a few years ago. They had used it for a chicken coop. Took me a couple of years to get her ship shape, but it’s been worth it - she’s a looker.” And obviously a goer too, as we zoomed soundlessly towards Nellie’s hometown.
Hit city limits in the late afternoon, trying to grab a few glimpses of the town from my back seat. All I could see were houses, hotels, a huge cemetery, churches and billboards. And then we were on the ancient steel bridge over the Calcasieu River between Lake Charles and Westlake. The bridge is over a mile long, and from it we got a pretty good shot of Westlake in all its gritty and grimy glory, and then it was behind us, growing smaller in the rear view mirrors.
The Lincoln and its proud owners were going north just before Orange, Texas, and kindly went out of their way to put me over the state-line before back tracking a few miles for their turn off. In retrospect, I was not quite sure how much of a kindness this would turn out to be. Besides the ramp were probably about twenty would be riders, varying in attire, ethnicity and appearance. A few Mexicans, an African American or two, but mostly white, and all obviously down on their luck. Tanned, tousled and tattered were all, some desperate looking, a couple derelict and dirty. Jeez, this ain’t gonna work. Any sane driver, giving this lot just one look, is gonna keep on keeping on, and reading my mind, one guy, looking at me, the new arrival, with obvious disdain, said, “You’ll never get a ride from here, and anyway, the cops keep coming by and taking people off.”
Just what that meant and what I was supposed to do about it was unclear, but what was clear was that he was right, I’d never get a ride by staying here. We were right on the eastern side of this little town, and there was hardly any traffic at this ramp.
Wearily and warily, I walked along the service road adjoining the highway, past a few hotels and gas stations, until I had walked a mile or so clear through the town. No cops so far… On the western side there was a truck stop, and there I hunkered down, dog tired, at a coffee counter and pondered my next move. The Texas night was closing in, big eighteen wheel trucks lumbered past the window, easing onto the on ramp to 10, doing a slow dance through the gears as they got away, puffs of dark exhaust from the tall stacks back of each side of the tractor cab signalling each gear change, and then, one by one, with an occasional blast on an air horn, they were gone, heading west.
I started to wonder just what was I doing here, in this strange and foreign land, where I knew no one, was tired and hungry and had no idea where I was going to lay me down that night. Thought of my four children, back in England, who at that moment had no idea of just where in the USA their father was, and what he was doing. And most of all, why?
There was no answer to that question, and neither was there solace in asking it… What I had to do, right then, was follow the mantra learned for just such situations from a line in an old Kerouac book: “One fast move or I am a dead man.” And so I paid my tab, grabbed my bag and leaving this little air conditioned oasis, strode into the humid night, past the big lights high up on poles surrounded by hundreds of moths and flying fluttering insects, their buzzing mingling with the hum of electricity, the rumble of trucks on the highway, and if I could have had the ability to hear it, the drip drop of my sweat. Man, it was hot out here.
I don’t know how long I stood there at the bottom of the ramp. A few hours, certainly. Now and then I’d gaze back at the truck stop, with its a/c and the cold white glare of the coffee counter, but I knew I’d never make Houston that night if I went back in there, and finally a pick-up pulled over, and was going to Houston. When people pick you up on the road, it is not just out of a sense of being the Good Samaritan, but rather a need to have someone to talk with, to ease the loneliness of the road, and to help stay awake. I did my best to be a good passenger, but my eyes kept closing, my head continually drooped and I’d find myself suddenly sitting upright with a guilty start, grieved that I wasn’t paying my fare with attention and interest.
The driver was a young cowboy, hat and all, and who worked on the oilfields east of Houston. He was getting back to his sweet young wife and baby daughter after five days on the job, and was eager to get home and back to the job he really wanted, being a dad rolling around the lawn with his baby, giggling, with pride and joy. The money grabbing part of his life was now behind him for a glorious forty eight hours, and he was gonna have a ball.
Rolled through Beaumont, home of Clarence Garlow, and then thru Baytown and then Houston reared up on the horizon, skyscrapers all a dazzle in the electric night. I watched as the buildings grew bigger and closer, and then the driver pulled off and said: “Well, pal, ’s far as I go - gonna have to drop you here. San Antonio’s down there on 10, if you are still aiming on keeping going. If you get a ride, should take you about five hours. Good luck buddy.” And he pulled away down a long straight city street, the taillights getting smaller and smaller until they vanished into the Houston night.
Close to midnight, the city blazed with light, the constant swish and swoar of tyres on the freeway sounding like a river of rubber, just rolling and rolling along in that humid night. I was too tired to move any more, and unrolled my down sleeping bag under an overpass, and with traffic roaring both above and beside me, closed my eyes.
