Imprints from an Odyssey

By Roger Neumaier

Imprints from an Odyssey is a description of the early 1970s, a portrait of wonderful pockets of people in diverse places, and the story of a young man using trial and error to discover himself.

After graduating from college in 1971, the author owned a degree in literature, a backpack and a strong desire to find his p

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bratman Publishing
• Release date: Mar 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956920079

Roger Neumaier

Roger Neumaier studied Literature at Carleton College in Northfield Minnesota. As the son of a holocaust survivor, Neumaier's writings have highlighted social intolerance and the search for understanding of life's challenges. Neumaier has lived in the Puget Sound Area of Washington State since 1974.

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Preface to Imprints from an Odyssey

Homer's Odyssey is the account of Odysseus' ten-year return to Ithaca from the Trojan War. During his voyage, Odysseus was subject to the whims of the Greek gods and continually encountered obstacles that delayed his homecoming. Those obstacles, in fact, were lessons. Each contributed in a unique manner to his journey’s completion. Each turned Odysseus into a larger person.

Imprints from an Odyssey shares vignettes from my four-year journey which began in 1971. I was seeking a home—no doubt blown by much softer breezes than the hero Odysseus—but none the less driven by, and at the whim of, the metaphorical Greek gods. As I moved from job to job and city to city, I had no camera. Having no photographs from that period, I now must describe the people and places I experienced as they are imprinted into my mind's eye. This book presents a series of those imprints. Please treat my recollections of places and people as if they were snapshots in a photo album.

While I am the central character in Imprints from an Odyssey, the book is not about me. It is a sequential series of 1970s portraits of special people and wondrous places, each of which has made an imprint on me and has had a deep influence on my life.

I hope you enjoy Imprints from an Odyssey.

Roger Neumaier

1—Commencement

Graduation approached. It was spring of 1971. I was making important decisions about my future. Most of my college classmates were carefully considering which graduate school offered the best opportunity for future professional success. My sights, however, were set on escaping the collegiate environment. I wanted to go out into what many of us students referred to as the real world.

I announced to my friends that I did not want to become a white-collar worker. I needed to travel; to explore; to deepen my life experience. Once I had stepped out into and experienced the world, I hoped to figure out who I was and what I wanted to accomplish.

*****

The most meaningful advice I received while attending Carleton College had come from a close friend named Raka Anak Agung. Raka, who was from Indonesia, had experienced more of life than any student I knew. His father had been the last king of Bali. Raka’s brother had led Indonesian students in 1965 when they overthrew their country's strong-arm leader, Nkrumah Sukarno. During that revolution, Raka fought alongside his brother—throughout the violence.

One day in my junior year, I was feeling confused about how to proceed in my life. I asked Raka for advice. He responded, Roger, you are going to have to find it within yourself.

I asked, How will I know when I have found it?

He smiled softly and said, You'll know.

*****

After receiving my diploma, I decided I would travel to a city where I knew no one. I would find a low-paying blue-collar job and build a life. I imagined all the wonderful things that would happen. I would meet interesting people and see fascinating things. I was without fear. I hadn’t considered that I might not be able to find a job—or maybe I wouldn’t earn enough to pay my way—or that I might succumb to sickness or violence. I was ready for adventure.

I had grown up in the insulation of the nineteen-fifties and the superficial affluence of the nineteen-sixties. Now, it was the nineteen-seventies. Like so many of my generation, I was questioning the values that had surrounded me throughout my life. I hadn’t figured out how to replace them. But I would figure that out later. I just knew that now I was ready to cast my fate to the wind.

I remembered Raka’s sage advice. I was beginning my search for it—whatever it was. My approach was inspired by stories of adventurous young American men who rode the rails during the 1930s, going from town to town, searching for work; by tales of young Japanese Buddhists, studying to become monks, who hiked from monastery to monastery in search of wisdom; and by literary models that included Tom Joad of The Grapes of Wrath, Don Quixote and, of course, by Odysseus.

*****

During that final term of my senior year, I spent much of my time preparing for my great adventure. I sold my books, my camera and most of my possessions paying down college loans and having five-hundred dollars in my pocket with which to begin my journey.

My last important decision was the selection of a city in which I would live. In order to be thorough, I went to Carleton’s library to research possible destinations. After what seemed like a great deal of thought (probably almost a day), I settled on a city I had visited in the spring of 1971 when I had hitchhiked there with my college friend, Russ. Seattle was beautifully situated near mountains and the ocean and its weather was mild.

I decided to find a job in Seattle working in a warehouse. (Doing what specifically? I hadn’t finalized that yet. I needed to be flexible).

When I told my Uncle Harold about my plan to go to Seattle, he pointed out that since The Boeing Company’s airplane sales collapsed, a severe recession had gripped Seattle. Harold told me that might make finding a job difficult. I checked it out. Harold was right. The last thing I needed to do was move to a city where I couldn't find work. Seattle became a no-go.

Once Seattle was out of the running, I returned to the library. After another intense day, I narrowed my choices to Albuquerque, New Mexico and Portland, Maine. While I had never been to either city, both had rich cultural histories, were medium sized and surrounded by natural beauty. I figured I couldn’t go wrong. But which city would it be?

I asked Russ, What do you think? Portland, Maine or Albuquerque?

Russ encouraged me to go to Albuquerque at about the same time I had begun to lean towards Portland. I can't remember my rationale—or his—just that we ardently disagreed.

When I finally told Russ I would go to Portland, he said, Well damn it, then, I'm going to Albuquerque.

I wasn't sure where that had come from. Russ hadn't shared what his plans were after college. I thought he was going to become a doctor. But no. Russ stuck with Albuquerque. A couple days after I headed out to Portland Maine, Russ hopped onto his bicycle; put his possessions in saddlebags resting over his rear bicycle wheel; and pedaled over twelve hundred miles from Minneapolis, through Denver, to Albuquerque.

*****

My mother and brother flew to Minneapolis from Denver for my graduation. They rode to the Carleton campus with my aunt, uncle and grandparents to attend the commencement ceremony. They were all proud I had gotten a college degree from a prestigious college like Carleton.

After the ceremony, I spent a week in Minneapolis with my family. During that week, I attended the marriage ceremony of two close friends, Jim and Liz. Their wedding was more than just an opportunity for me to celebrate their wedding. It was a chance to say goodbye to many of my closest college friends—and, I guess, to the manner in which I had lived my life to that point.

A week later, my mom drove me onto Interstate 35 just north of Minneapolis where I stuck out my thumb. I was hitting the road with all of my possessions stuffed into a backpack, with five hundred dollars in my pocket and with a spirit of adventure.

*****

I hadn’t told my mom where I was heading. No one in my family knew.

Years later, my mom told me how painful it was for her as she drove away; watching me in her rearview mirror as I disappeared into the horizon. That was her son—on the side of a highway—with his thumb out—going away—to God knows where.

At the time, I understood it was hard for her. But I also knew that that journey was something I needed to do.

2—On the Road

I was alone, waiting for my first ride of the first leg of a great adventure. I had said goodbye to my college, my friends, my family and the life I had known. My plan was to hitchhike north through Duluth, then continue along the coast of Lake Superior. After that, I would travel across Ontario, into Quebec and down to Boston. From Boston, I would head north to Portland Maine—to begin my new life. Attached to my backpack were a tent and sleeping bag. Along the way, I intended to camp out whenever and wherever I could.

Part of the reason I had not told my family where I was going was because I didn't want to lock myself into Portland Maine. I might find a place to stay before I got to Portland. Maybe Montreal? Who knew what other opportunities might come along?

However, a more honest explanation of why I hadn’t told my family where I was going is that I wanted to distance myself from the turmoil of my parents' divorce. They had separated from one another at the beginning of 1965 and ever since, their conflicts had been a dominant factor in my life. In many regards, my journey was a move away from that pain.

*****

Hitchhiking was a common form of transportation for young people in the late 1960s and early 1970s. But many drivers were afraid to pick up hitchhikers. So, to improve my chances of getting picked up, I always tried to dress and look non-threatening. That meant I wore clean, neat clothes and pushed my long hair up into a stocking cap.

While I waited to catch the first ride of a hitchhiking trip, there was always a fair amount of tension. Would it take long to get a ride? Will whoever picked me up be nice? How far would they take me? Then, after that first car pulled over to the side of the road and I had grabbed my backpack and run up to the car, my tension disappeared. My adventure had begun.

My strategy for successful hitchhiking was to establish eye contact with drivers of passing cars. Once eye contact was made with a driver, I stood a good chance that the car would pull over to the side of the road. After it stopped and I had stowed my backpack in the back seat, I would climb into the front seat and thank the driver for the ride. Then, as the driver pulled into traffic, our conversation would begin.

Conversations were different on each ride. The driver would start by asking me questions about myself. Where are you going? Are you a student?

Then, he generally turned the focus of the conversation to himself. It was my responsibility, as the hitchhiker, to be a good listener. The driver would tell me about the wonderful or terrible things that were happening in his life. I refer to he and his life rather than she and her life because I was rarely picked up by a woman.

Each person who gave me a ride had a different set of interests and expectations. Some told me about the great disappointments in their life. Others shared how painful love had been—how their wives had left them or their girlfriends had been unfaithful. Some men told me how smart they were and how successful they had been in business. A few were just lonely and wanted to chat.

Hitchhiking required dutiful listening. By giving me a ride, the driver had earned my respect and attention. Sometimes after an initial conversation, a ride turned into a quiet and peaceful time during which the driver was lost in his thoughts and I was free to do the same. But that was generally not the case.

On longer hitchhiking trips, I tried to travel about five hundred miles in a day. Most rides lasted more than a hundred miles, but many were not that long. The time between rides was peaceful. However, calling that time peaceful assumes the weather wasn't too cold, too hot, too rainy or too windy.

When a person hitchhikes, they give up control of their schedule and of their ability to control their environment. At the end of each day of hitchhiking, I was exhausted.

*****

It was still early in the day. I had passed through Duluth, Minnesota and was heading north along Lake Superior. I had promised to visit a young classmate named Sandy who lived in Grand Marais, Minnesota, a small town on the shore of Lake Superior. Sandy had invited me to visit her on my way north. I was thrilled. Sandy was petite and cute; a kind and gentle person. She had a turned-up nose and long perfectly parted light brown hair. We had never dated but I couldn't help but have a crush on her.

Sandy's parents ran the general store in Grand Marais. After I arrived at her home (it wasn't far from the State highway), she and I went for a walk. Sandy brought her small dog along with us. She told me she trusted her dog's judgment in people. Her dog seemed to like me. That made me feel good.

After saying goodbye to Sandy, I stood on the side of the highway, listening to the waves of Lake Superior pounding on the rocky shoreline, once again with my thumb out. For the first time on the trip, I had the strong feeling that I didn't really know what the hell I was doing. I felt empty.

*****

I spent that night in a city park in Thunder Bay, Ontario. When I arrived there after midnight, it had been dark, foggy and beginning to rain. I found an isolated corner of the park, set up my tent, rolled out my sleeping bag and immediately fell asleep. When I awoke the following morning, it was a sunny. I quickly learned I was not located in an isolated spot. People were strolling through the park—right next to my tent. I quickly rolled up my sleeping bag, packed my tent and was on my way.

Mornings on the trip were great. I would fix coffee at my campsite or pack up my stuff and look for a little coffee shop. That morning, I enjoyed coffee and a doughnut at a small cafe. After finishing my second cup of coffee and every morsel of my doughnut, I threw my backpack onto my back and was off into the day.

*****

I walked to the outskirts of town. After a half an hour wait, an eighteen-wheeler picked me up. The trucker took me three hundred miles. Several hours later, moments after he left me off, I was feeling very satisfied with the day—until I realized I had left my light poplin jacket on the truck. I battled briefly with regret. Then I took a deep breath and decided I’d gotten a long ride in exchange for an old jacket—a fair trade.

Most rides were not that long. The following day I was hoping to get to Ottawa, a 500-mile distance from the youth hostel where I’d spent the night. It was ten o'clock, raining and I was at an unlit highway intersection still fifty miles away from Ottawa. I stood in the dark on the side of the road, pointing a flashlight at my hand—hoping any drivers that came along would see me—understand that I was hitch-hiking and be sympathetic enough to give me a ride. I began to consider setting up my tent in the nearby woods when a big black Lincoln Mercury pulled over. Its driver turned out to be a senior minister in the Canadian Government. He was headed into Ottawa.

In Ottawa, the driver went out of his way to take me to a youth hostel located in a student dormitory at Carleton University (no relation to the college I had just graduated from). There, I was given my own room with an adjoining bathroom. What a luxury! The next morning, after a long hot shower and a wonderful—and free—breakfast, I was on my way to Montreal.

*****

As I traveled across Canada, I spent three nights in youth hostels. The Canadian Government’s sponsorship of hostels offered a safe place to stay, a warm meal and an opportunity to connect with other hitchhikers. Their support of youth contrasted with many jurisdictions in the United States that treated hitchhikers like criminals.

*****

It only took a couple of hours to get to Montreal from Ottawa. My ride left me off in the central business district of the city. It was noon. As I crossed a busy downtown intersection, a guy with long blonde hair and a headband turned to me and said, Hey man, need a place to crash?

He was about my age and wore bell-bottom blue-jeans, a white cotton Indian tunic and a string of beads. The invitation must have been prompted by my long hair, blue jeans and overstuffed backpack—signs that I was hip and might need a place to stay. I gratefully said yes.

He gave me directions to a house about a half mile away, adding, Tell the guys at the house, Dave invited you.

*****

In the late sixties and early seventies, the term hippy was often used. But the word meant different things to different people. A hippy could be a person who lived off the land or it could be someone who had dropped out of the mainstream culture and economy. Some people were called hippies because they used a lot of drugs; others because they were into health foods and refused to use any drugs. College students from affluent families with long hair and torn blue jeans were called hippies even though they often were not very hip. For those young people, the outfit really was just a costume.

That definition having been established, I can tell you that all of Dave's housemates and friends were hippies—even though each was an unusual and unique person.

Mike was Dave's friend from high school; now a college student enjoying his summer break. He had a full dark beard and a great sense of humor. Another friend from high school, Bobby, was a dragged out, drugged out speed freak. Bobby had lost control of his life. His teeth were full of cavities—a condition I have since learned is caused by taking methamphetamines. Bobby’s girlfriend also lived there. Her name was Jill. Jill, a tall, buxom, and attractive redhead, used to be a stripper.

Another housemate, Tim, was an American who had deserted the Army to avoid a second tour of duty in Vietnam. Tim looked like he was sixteen years old, but was probably in his early twenties. He lived off of panhandling on Montreal's Saint Laurent Boulevard. Tim looked so young and played the role of a homeless teenager so well that he earned a pretty fair income from asking for handouts.

All of Dave’s housemates welcomed me warmly.

*****

A couple of hours after I arrived, Tim asked if I wanted to explore Mount Royal Park. The park is five hundred acres of forests and gardens that surround Mount Royal, the small mountain in the center of the city. The French speaking City of Montreal was named after that mountain.

I told Tim I was game to explore the park.

Before we left, Tim pulled out a small piece of wax paper with about a dozen small oddly shaped pink tablets stuck onto it. He told me the tabs were acid; then peeled one of them off of the wax paper and swallowed it. He offered me a tab. I had never taken a chemical hallucinogen though I had smoked marijuana and hashish. I took the tablet and swallowed it.

By the time we arrived at the park, I was quite high. We walked up a steep path to the top of Mont Royal. The view from the pathway was stunning—a panorama of majestic trees, colorful flowers and, after a brilliant sunset, sparkling lights from the city.

We returned to the house at about ten that evening. I had become distrustful of Tim and was uncomfortable staying in a house where I didn't know anyone.

A little while later, Tim left the house. The other housemates were sitting in the living room, listening to music and smoking grass. When Mike heard I was worried and had taken one of Tim’s pills, he told me, You’re feeling anxious because you’re high from that tab. Just try to relax. It will wear off soon.

That was good to hear. But I still felt uneasy.

*****

About a half an hour later, a guy I hadn't met joined us. When he entered the living room, he shined a flashlight onto my face and said, You're under arrest.

I was stunned. Mike quickly explained to this guy that I was high. The guy said, "Sorry fellow. I was just kidding—I had no idea you were high. I’m Paul; another of Dave's high school buddies.

Paul’s shoulder length hair was parted in the middle. He had a carefully groomed dark goatee with a twisted handlebar mustache and, in his dark raincoat and black wire rim glasses, looked a little like a nineteenth century psychiatrist.

It was a little after midnight. The group, including me, decided to go to a restaurant for a late dinner. Tim must have left his piece of wax paper with pink tablets on it at the house because Dave, Bobby, Mike and Paul each swallowed one of the tabs. As we left the house, Bobby told us he was going to use a tab of acid as his identification. As he said that, he put one of the pink tablets, still on a torn piece of wax paper, in his wallet in front of his driver's license.

Paul's father worked for the railroad. With the intent of getting Paul away from the Montreal drug culture for the summer, his father had given him a round trip train ticket to Vancouver, British Columbia. That evening, Paul needed to go to his parents' home to pick up the train tickets. After stopping at a small diner for spaghetti, we climbed back into Mike's car and drove to Paul's