There was a woman on the side of the road last week asking for a lift. I pulled over, cleared the passenger seat, and she hopped in for a 20-minute ride that became the highlight of my day.
I hadn’t picked up a hitchhiker since I was in Oregon seven years ago when a trio of thru-hikers on the Pacific Crest Trail wanted to skip a section near Crater Lake. Back then, I was probably reckless, driving a small Toyota Camry with nothing to protect myself from the three strangers who stunk up my car.
They turned out harmless. One offered me a marijuana joint tucked behind his ear when I dropped them off. I declined and drove on.
Hitchhiking is common in the mountain community I moved to last month. Located about a half-hour west of Boulder, Colo., there’s usually someone holding their thumb out in the center of town that’s home to just 130 people. I always went right past them, unsure if they were an axe murderer who was prepared to turn me into a victim on “Dateline,” but last week’s stand out on the side of the road was a little old lady with pink hair. If I got robbed by her, that would just be embarrassing. I told her I was headed to Nederland, a neighboring mountain town with a population of about 1,500, another 25 minutes south.
“Perfect, I am too,” she said while climbing into the car. She gave me her name, but
