American Journeys: A Quirky Seattle That Won't Blend In (Vladimir Lenin, Hattie's Hat, and the Fremont Rocket Ship.)

Read about my latest adventure in the New York Times Escapes section.

I had a big time up in Seattle earlier this fall. I especially loved the neighborhoods of Ballard and Fremont. Ballard has a maritime theme, and Fremont looks like a psychedelic fever dream. (although I am not saying that from direct experience.)Click here for a Ballard/Fremont mini slide show.

By the way, I mentioned a seven-ton statue of Mr. Vladimir Lenin that was erected some years back right in the middle of Fremont. While in Seattle, I heard that the statue is on sale for approximately $250 K. Try to imagine how this might look in your front lawn. It's a lot more original than pink flamingos.
This is not the first time I've seen a controversial piece of public art or signage go up for sale. A few years back, while at the Santa Cruz Sentinel, I wrote about an attempt to auction off the city's kooky, oversized "WELCOME TO RIVER STREET'' sign, known to Santa Cruzans as "Signzilla.'' However, no one bit, and the sign is still there.

Stay tuned for more 'urban hiking' adventures. I've got another one coming up this winter.

New list of Cactus events -- with Career Day info...

Here is a partial list of the latest events.
I will fill in the blanks when more dates are confirmed.

I will be reading and signing along with Kate Evans, author of the brand-new fiction book, For The May Queen, on Wednesday, November 12 at San Jose State University. Kate and I will read from 12 to 12:40 p.m.. We will be there in support of SJSU's Poets and Writers' Coalition.

The event will be part of SJSU's Career Day. There will also be a great selection of work by other SJSU-affiliated writers and faculty members.

other upcoming events:

San Francisco Public Library
Mission Branch
San Francisco, Ca
Reading and signing
December 10 (NEW DATE!)
630 to 730 p.m

Sonoma County, CA
Dec. 5
private event (Rotarians)

Also, I will lead a nature walk/writing class in the Santa Cruz area in early spring. So far, two of the slots have already been taken. Give me a heads-up if you want to be part of the list.

These outdoor photos are not workplace friendly (they might make you quit your job and hike the Pacific Crest Trail.)

It could happen. The following nature photos are eerily similar to the ones I saw in a slideshow that influenced me to leave my stable employment in New England and hike the trail from Mexico to Canada. In fact, those very similar photographs led me to quit my job during a previous national recession/depression-by-any-other-name.

Yes -- it could happen to you too.


And don't worry. After walking the trail, I did find other meaningful work.


Eventually.



Joshua trees in the Antelope Valley.




Desert scene in the early morning.




Frolicking in suncups under Forester Pass.




Peaceful, alluring meadow under Mount Whatever.






Cascades in northern Oregon.












Cascades, adrift in clouds and fog.







Pasayten Wilderness assorted fungus

The California Academy of Sciences museum: Worth the Hype?

Monarch the Grizzly Bear: dead and in person at the Academy of Sciences


The crowd was already a quarter mile long at 8:45 a.m. It was a total mob scene; after all, this was the first "free Wednesday'' at a museum that normally costs almost two and a half sawbucks to get in. The people in the line were getting restive at about 9:15. Someone in front of me was trying to stay calm by practicing Tai Chi. People in back of me were glowering because they resented me for having a better place in line, while people in front of me were looking at me as if they feared I would try to steal their spot. A nervous-looking woman kept making calls from her cell phone: "Get here fast! Meet me at the Goethe-Schilling statue!"

But the actual museum -- when we finally got in -- was astonishing. We walked through a steaming tropical rainforest with blue morpho butterflies flapping all over the place and dark creatures slithering in the shallows below us. There were water chestnuts, bamboo palms, and live, dog-faced fruit bats hiding out in a slimy cave. So many butterflies were landing on visitors that a female staff member stood by the elevator and asked people to check their clothes. "Make sure that our butterflies haven't planted themselves on you anywhere,'' she said.

There is a place where gullible people can put their fingers on two pressure points and experience a mildly unpleasant electric shock (in honor of the electric eel, which floats in a tank nearby.) There is also a spot where museum-goers can gleefully spam their elected representatives with emails about Co2 emissions reductions (I sent a few emails myself...), and a creepy albino alligator with pink eyes. The place also has many features that will please younger visitors, including exhibits with creatures whose names sound vaguely like dirty words (Kirk's Dik Dik, and "Prince Berhhard's titi monkey,'' just for starters.)

The exhibits do not gloss over the many ways in which we have trashed and thrashed our delicate ecosystems here in the Golden State. It was hard not to feel outraged when I saw the mounted, stuffed form of "Monarch the Grizzly,'' one of the very last California grizzlies (the last of them was gunned down in 1922.) Monarch was one of the lucky ones, in the sense that the bear at least died of old age -- but the beast lived most of its life in capitivity, right here in Golden Gate Park...)

So the answer to the above question is a resounding yes. It is absolutely worth the hype, and I will be back next month to check out the planetarium.

World's youngest pot dealer?

As you already know, I always see a lot of strange goings-on in Golden Gate Park when I'm in training. I mentioned the young couple I saw last month, trying to light up an enormous spliff with a magnifying glass. Well, it happened again during a recent training loop through the park. It seemed like every person in all of the park's eastern side was trying to sell me something exotic -- "sticky green bud", ''skunk," "pre-rolled fatties,'' etc. These offers surprised me, because these are the kinds of products that you normally don't try to sell to someone who is running right past you at six miles per hour in marathon-training gear, and is obviously in the middle of a big, sweaty workout. Anyhow, I made my way up to the famous Hippie Hill, and there, at the very top, sat a little boy, about 25 feet from two people whom I assumed were his parents. He was probably five years old or so -- no older than six -- and had a peaceful demeanor. I said, "Hey, kid, how ya doing?'' and waved hello.

"Fat nuggs?'' he replied.


(I swear I'm not making this up, although, in retrospect, I have a very strong suspicion that he was just imitating what the people around him were saying, and was not actually a pot dealer!...)

Stink-off: Quantifying and comparing foul odors

This article attempts to quantify the human smell, and compare it to the smells of other smelly creatures -- namely stink bugs and skunks. A selection from this piece appears on page 238 of The Cactus Eaters, but some of you asked to see the article in full.

WHO SMELLS THE WORST? A skunk, a stinkbug, or a Pacific Crest Trail Through Hiker

SKUNK (yes, I drew this field sketch. What can I say? Skunks are hard to draw.)





MEPHITIS MEPHITIS

POTENCY Noxious spray can render dogs temporarily blind

There's a compelling reason why Pepé Le Pew is condemned to a life of celibacy. The chemicals in a skunk's spray are so potent that one of them-3-methyl-1-butane-thiol-is on the EPA's hazardous substances list. A natural-born sharpshooter, the skunk can nail predators-or you-from an anal gland with surprising accuracy from 10 feet away. Similar to tear gas, skunk spray is one of the most effective defense systems in the animal kingdom; only the great horned owl is savage enough to prey on the stinky polecat once it unleashes its pungent potion. Bobcats, coyotes, and pumas hunt this nocturnal animal only if other prey is scarce. Even in death, the skunk's vile, sewerlike odor doesn't let up. Its gas sac often leaks fumes postmortem, creating-for the unwitting taxidermist-the mother of all occupational hazards.

STINK BUG

PENTATOMIDAE FAMILY

POTENCY Bitter ooze can leave humans nauseous




This diminutive insect recently made the Discovery Channel's short list of the foulest-smelling animals on the planet, beating out such also-rans as the beaver. Like the skunk, this shield-shaped insect defends itself by excreting a noxious liquid from slits under its body that repels snakes, birds, and other insects. If a predator somehow gets past the sharp, acidic smell and eats a stink bug, it immediately spits it out because the nasty liquid tastes as foul as it smells. If a spider finds a stink bug in its web, it will cut it free instead of eating it. No wonder. Chemically speaking, the stink bug's spew contains tridecane, a compound found in gases and some cigarettes. What's worse, the stink bug is everywhere-more than 300 species are found in the front and backcountry across the United States .

TYPICAL SMELLY THRU-HIKER

PACIFIC CREST TRAIL











POTENCY Ripe odor can clear a coffee shop

He climbs in the front seat beside you. Politeness stops you from turning away and pinching your nose. Yet you momentarily consider using that tree-shaped air freshener as a gas mask. What possessed you to give this thru-hiker a ride? After 3 weeks in the chaparral foothills of California , he now smells like the rhino enclosure at the San Diego Zoo. His suffocating reek comes not from sweat itself but from the bacteria that feed on the amino acids, fats, and oils found in human perspiration. The bacteria emit a putrid blend of chemical compounds including ammonia and methylbutanoic acid that cling to the clothes and body-and multiply with each passing day. Opening the car windows will only help so much, but at least it spreads the misery. Depending on wind conditions, someone could pick up this hiker's aroma from 100 feet away.

THE VERDICT

A shower and a load of laundry will quickly freshen up the thru-hiker. And a stink bug's nasty odor lasts a mere 60 seconds-nothing compared to the multiple days a skunk's stench could cling to your clothes if you don't wash them with bleach (the surest cure we've found). Smelliest goes to the skunk.

Outdoor tortures, part II: deafening, snoring tentmates

Have you ever tried to sleep in a tent with someone who snores just like a foghorn? Have you ever wondered how one unconscious human could make such a racket? A while back, I wrote a magazine piece in which I tried to quantify -- and compare -- the loudness of snoring backpackers to the hideous noises made by cicadas and loud, shrieking barred owls, using scientific methods. The results appear below ...

Showdown: Who’s the Loudest? Backpacker versus cicada versus barred owl.

CICADA
Latin name: Magicicada Septendecim
Sound and fury: Can drown out the roar of a revving power mower
There's a very special place in hell for the male periodical cicada. Its screeching "song" may be irresistible to potential mates, but it's pure torture for humans. This nectar-sucking bug owes its distinction as one of the noisiest insects to its tymbals, ribbed vibrating membranes that stretch along its abdominal cavities. These hollow chambers act like built-in megaphones, amplifying a metallic screech that can be heard 440 yards away. Populations lie dormant for more than a dozen years before bursting into the wild with a collective scream that registers in excess of 100 decibels, roughly the volume of a Green Day concert. Now imagine if you stumbled into camp only to find what scientists discovered in 1969: 1.5 million singing cicadas in a single acre. No wonder entomologists wear earplugs while studying the bug.

BARRED OWL
Latin name: Strix Varia
Sound and fury: can do a dead-on impression of a shrieking monkey
It sounds like the beginning of a bad horror movie in the tree above your campsite. A crazy woman cackles; a dog barks frantically; and an owl belts out a surprisingly loud and penetrating "who cooks for you." But the head-rattling cries are not sound effects; they're part of the barred owl's headache-inducing vocal repertoire used to mark territory, signal aggression, and attract mates. Amazingly, the owl makes all this racket without any vocal cords. Its voice box produces low-frequency sound waves that carry over great distances in forested terrain, fooling you into thinking the bird can cackle in your ear. The volume intensifies when the barred owl rallies other birds to song. Frightened by its laugh, wild turkeys will break into a chorus of demented gobbling. Reach for the Excedrin. It's going to be a long night.

SNORING TENTMATE
Latin name: Unconscious Obnoxicus
Sound and fury: Can damage his own hearing.
You wiggle down into your bag and are about to say "good night" when a series of loud snorts halts your reverie. You brace yourself for the inevitable: a long, rising, relationship-threatening snore. For the rest of the night, his labored breaths cause his palate, throat, and uvula to vibrate, producing a wet rattling noise that makes you bury your head under your makeshift pillow. Unfortunately, the wine you two enjoyed at dinner relaxed the soft tissue in the back of his throat. The result: a deeper, more amplified snore. Add his allergies, which demand that he breathe more forcefully, and suddenly the tent is equipped with surround sound. You try nudging him, then kicking him. It's no use; he snores in every position. Spongy earplugs only help so much. After all, the world's loudest snores measure 93 decibels, rivaling the rumble of a bulldozer.

THE VERDICT
Sure, the cicada is deafening, but it only raises the roof every 15 years or so. The snoring tentmate? You can always push for a trip to the doctor. But a nocturnal noisemaker that sounds like a mockingbird on acid? We bow before the resounding victor.

(this was originally published in Backpacker.)

Hike Pine Mountain, Channel Daniel Boone (my adventures in wild Eastern Kentucky.)

Read all about my latest backpacking adventure in the New York Times.

I loved touring the Pine Mountain Trail and Whitesburg, one of the friendlist small cities I've ever seen. I call it the Santa Cruz of the Southeast. I had a great time talking to documentary film makers and broadcasters at the legendary Appalshop, and listening to its excellent old-time/bluegrass/Americana station -- WMMT --- as I explored the backroads from Glomar to Hazard. I also hiked to a waterfall, hung out at the general store where parts of "Coal Miner's Daughter'' were filmed, and talked to ecologists who are trying to fight off the deadly woolly adelgid, an aphid-like creature that is slaughtering the state's historic hemlocks.

To mark my emergence from the Pine Mountain backwoods, I bought two bottles of top-shelf bourbon in Lexington, Kentucky, and wrapped them very carefully in brown bags and newspapers to survive the long trip home. They made it to San Francisco all right --- but as it turns out, they sell both brands right here at the Bevmo on Geary!!

In other news, I want to thank the staff of the beautiful Livermore Public Library and the great crowd that turned out for my latest Cactus reading -- in spite of the fact that the Obama/McCain debates were going on at the exact same time. (Don't worry. The people in the audience said they were going to watch the whole thing later on Tivo.) Also, thanks to Tori at Firehouse Bistro and Books for her help setting this up. I also enjoyed talking to everyone at my reading in The Castro, including my youngest reader -- or at least the youngest one that I know about.

I will be doing more readings and events in the winter and spring, with two firmed-up dates in San Francisco and Sebastopol, and one in Santa Cruz.

Robert Plant, Alison Krauss, Emmylou Harris and Elvis Costello in the park (for free.)

We backpackers love cheap thrills. Free ones are even better. That's why I saw so many backpacker types at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, Golden Gate Park's legendary free music festival. It's hard to pinpoint the greatest moment: Ralph Stanley serenading the crowd with "O Death,''; Robert Plant and Alison Krauss trading vocals on "The Battle of Evermore,'' with that eerie mandolin riff echoing just behind them; Elvis Costello doing his barnstorming version of "Friend of the Devil'' -- my third-favorite Dead tune -- and a rave-up of Merle Haggard's "Tonight The Bottle Let Me Down,'' with Jim Lauderdale harmonizing. The legendary Emmylou Harris motored right past me and waved to the crowd as event staff rushed her from one stage to the next. It was an unforgettable day in the park.

Also this weekend, I took part in the Bridge to Bridge 12 K run, on what must be the loveliest urban footrace course on the planet: the Embarcardero, Fort Mason, the Golden Gate Bridge and up into the Presidio. It was not free, but it raised money for a great cause -- the Special Olympics. I ran at a desert tortoise's pace, but who cares? These days, it's all about the experience, not the stopwatch.

also, in other (unrelated) news: I will be speaking at the Livermore Public Library this coming Tuesday (October 7) at 7 p.m.
The event is part of their Authors, Arts and More series

Fixin' To Do Something Dumber'n Hell

This week's San Francisco Bay Guardian compared me -- or at least my younger self -- to Llewelyn Moss, the none-too-bright protagonist of Cormac McCarthy's No Country For Old Men. In the movie version, directed by the Coen Brothers, Llewelyn Moss is played by Josh Brolin, who also plays a major role in the upcoming biopic of real life SF hero Harvey Milk, who lived in the Castro, where I am speaking Thursday evening at Books Inc on Market Street. And the real-life evil psycho played by Josh Brolin in that very movie just so happens to have the name "Dan White.'' (who, I should add, was in no way related to me!!!!) A creepy coincidence, to say the least ...



The SF Bay Guardian review isn't online but here is the cut-and-paste version.

"I'm fixin' to go do somethin' dumber 'n hell, but I'm goin' anyways." These were not the words of Dan White. Still, the words of No Country for Old Men's Llewelyn Moss could easily apply to the decision White made when he thought it would be a good idea to make 2,650-mile trek along the Pacific Coast Trail with his girlfriend. The couple were completely unprepared for the monster awaiting them, and encountered myriad hilarious, taxing, and occasionally life-threatening predicaments that White candidly chronicles in his buoyant The Cactus Eaters (Harper Perennial). While the decision may have been "dumber 'n hell," he got a brilliant book out of it, which is more than Moss got for his quest.

The New York Times, The Castro, and other Cactus news

I have a few updates for this week:

Look for my article about wild Kentucky in the Escapes section of the New York Times this Friday. (I also have some cautionary words about trying to make your way through the steeply slanted Kentucky backwoods with no GPS!)

In other news, the second printing of the book is in stores this week. It is slightly different from the first version. For one thing, my Mother In Law is in this one. She did not appear anywhere in the previous version. Mea culpa.

And finally, I am very excited about doing a Cactus reading in San Francisco for the first time ever.

the event will take place at: Books Inc In The Castro
San Francisco, CA
(2275 Market Street)
7:30 pm, October 2 (Thursday)


Also, I wanted to thank everyone who showed up last night to the Steinbeck Center for my reading last night -- many SJSU undergrads, family, the new Steinbeck fellows Cora Stryker, Jasmin Darznik and Cristine Gonzalez, and a few of my students, too. It was a great time.

San Jose State reading this Tuesday, September 30

I will bring Xeroxed waterlogged diaries from the trail, etchings, an early, abandoned cover of the book, a scary self-portrait photo and other artifacts to my reading at San Jose State University, where I am teaching creative nonfiction and essay writing this year. I will speak this Tuesday at 7:30 p.m. on the fifth floor of the beautiful, high-tech Martin Luther King Jr. library.

There will be cheese and wine. Here is a map of the campus, with parking and the library. I will sign books if you like, and this time I will bring along the full assortment of creature and flora stamps (ticks, cow skull, prickly pear, yucca, horny salamander, etc.)The event is sponsored by the Center for Literary Arts here at SJSU.

Later in the week, I will read in my newly adopted hometown of San Francisco:

Books Inc In The Castro
San Francisco, CA
(2275 Market Street)
7:30 pm, October 2 (Thursday)
Books Inc. in the Castro
Reading and signing

King of the trail angels

Here are two of my photos of the late, great "Mayor'' Milt Kenney, who helped up to 60 Pacific Crest Trail hikers per season when they passed through Castella, California. Milt, who appears in The Cactus Eaters, would buy hungry hikers huge breakfasts and enormous Barn Buster hamburgers in Dunsmuir, near Castella. Sometimes, he would even drive them up to Mount Shasta to take a look around. Trail angels are one of the great joys of any long-distance trail. They open up their cars -- and in some cases, their homes -- to long-distance backpackers.You can still hike the .9-mile -- and rather steep! -- spur trail that is named after him. Milt is gone now, although there are plenty of new 'angels' who are trying to keep his legacy alive. I've reprinted these photos at the request of Winohiker. (notice that cool, vintage PCT T-shirt that Milt is wearing. By the way, the mysterious finger that you see is pointing directly at the spot where Castella, CA. appears on the map.)

Beef Monster Taco

Back when I was a hardcore backpacker, I spent up to 10 days in the woods. Most of the time, when I arrived at a supply town, I would take a pay shower at a campground, load up my food, and slip back into the forest. In those days, motel rooms were a rare treat. I wasn't discerning at all. A motel had to fulfill four basic qualifications: 1. It needed to cost twenty-eight bucks a night or less, 2. It needed not to be a working brothel, 3. It had to be across the street from a place where you could get a two-dollar breakfast, and 4. it had to have running -- and, if possible, warm --- water. My younger self did not care if the curtains smelled like Salem Lights, or if there were mystery splotches on the comforters and on the ceiling, or if there were shirtless burly dudes hanging out in the parking lot all night, slurping Boones Farm Strawberry straight from the bottle. I didn't even mind if the doors to my room would not close unless you propped a bunch of couches against them. As far as I was concerned, a motel was a motel. Right?

But not anymore. These days I've grown a little soft. For example, I just got back from a whirlwind visit to Seattle. The trip itself was fantastic, but I had some concerns with my accomodations on Aurora Avenue. A certain online cheap reservations service (I can't tell you the name, but I can tell you that it rhymes with Shmavelocity) stuck me in a chain motel room that was exactly seven feet from a Jack In the Box drive through window. I was so close, I could have leaned out and ordered myself a shake at three a.m. All night long, I had to put my hands over my ears because of all the people driving up and bellowing orders: "I WANT A BEEF MONSTER TACO, A STEAKMELT, CHOCOLATE OVERLOAD, TWO PITA SNACKS, TEN ORDERS OF CHEESY MACARONI BITES and A SOURDOUGH ULTIMATE CHEESEBURGER.'' And then the perky woman in the drive-through counter couldn't quite hear them, so she would shout back at them, and then they would shout their order even more loudly until my motel room began to quake. I put several pillows over my head, and even put on the kind of industrial strength earplugs that jackhammer operators use on the streets of Manhattan. In spite of my best effforts, the hungry, shouting customers and the perky-voiced attendant just got louder and louder. Next time, I'm going to stay in a nicer, more quiet place. (Or maybe I'll just pitch my tent in the middle of a Jack In the Box and see if anyone notices.)

Ursus Americanus

Here is my field sketch of a juvenile American black bear in repose. I have had mostly positive experiences (so far) with California's robust black bear population. Although they seem very peaceable, like overstuffed labrador retrievers, they are truly wild and should not be trifled with. (they can hook-climb a tall tree in a matter of seconds, and can run much faster than any human in the short distance.) Don't ever try to sneak up on one of them, as I once did in a moment of sheer youthful idiocy. And whatever you do, don't feed them or bring camp food, or smelly deoderants or toothpaste, into your tent with you. I've heard of many cases in which bears have ripped down tents -- and in one case, sat right on top of a sleeping backpacker -- to get to the vittles.

Pikas: squeaking beasts of the wilderness

This is my field sketch of a pika, a creature familiar to alpine backpackers. If you've walked above tree line, you've probably heard their strange "ook-ook'' vocalizations. Pikas have different squeaks for different occasions (distress squeaks, angry squeaks, etc.) They even have their own Facebook-like system for letting other pikas know if they are dating, interested or available. According to Allan Schoenherr's book, "A Natural History of California,'' pikas will make certain vocalizations to lure other pikas into mating with them -- but they will also make "wailing calls'' to signal the end of a courtship.

Hiking and writing in Santa Cruz

This just in. I will be teaching a writing class and leading a nature walk in an event sponsored by Bookshop Santa Cruz this spring. Bookshop has decided to set this nature walk and discussion in a cool and misty redwood forest instead of a forbidding desert. There are 30 spaces for this, so shoot me an email if you are interested, and I will forward it to the event organizer. It is tentatively scheduled for May. Don't worry; I will take a head count before and after the nature walk. (It won't be like Open Water, where the scuba-diving couple gets left in the ocean.)I will have more specific informmation in the coming months.

Meals Ready to Explode

I'm on the fence about these newfangled eat-them-straight-out-of-the-pouch backpacking foods. I'm talking about those pre-cooked slabs of salty lemon-and-pepper tuna, mushy lentils, squishy soups and gloopy curries that smell like fungus. Sure, they're convenient, and they are -stable. Eat them now, or eat them in 350 years, and you will notice no difference in mouthfeel, taste or quality. They also preclude the need to carry a stove into the woods. But the new MRE's have a couple of slight drawbacks. For one, the "food" looks and smells vomitous. For another, the contents of these pouches are so pressurized that they sometimes explode in my backpack. During my trip to the Southeastern backwoods, a pouch of pumpkin curry self-detonated all over my mess kit, tool pouch, Maglight and sleeping bag. I was able to remove the larger pumpkin chunks, but even now, my backpack has an unbearable stench that attracts varmints, from possums to mice and all the way down the food chain. From now on, I'm going back to Power Bars, protein powders and meat stick.

Getting Stoned with Mr. Science

I love to take day-hikes and backpacking trips when I can, but lately most of my hiking takes place through the streets of my new hometown. I almost always see crazy things during my strolls through Golden Gate Park, where I often head to the bison enclosure and back again. This weekend, I was on the eastern edge of the park when I saw a young man and young woman, both with robes and dreadlocks and standing very close to each other. They were leaning forward but not quite touching. When I got closer, I saw that the woman had an enormous spliff in her hand, and the man was trying to light it. Neither one of them had matches. Instead, he was trying to fire up the joint by holding a thick magnifying glass to the sun and focusing the beam of yellow light onto the rolling paper.
"It's starting to burn,'' she said, her hands shaking in anticipation.
"Stand still!'' he commanded.

Hitchhiking: the thrill of the open road

I am not one to advocate hitchhiking -- it's one of those 'try at your own risk' kinds of things, and in some cases it can be very dangerous --- but I will admit that I've hitchhiked many dozens of times, with no bad experiences at all. Sometimes, unless you've planned a pick-up, or are hiking a loop, it is almost impossible to avoid hitching.
I've hitched in California, Oregon, Washington, Kentucky (to no avail) and in Mexico. In fact, the biggest challenge I've faced is the fact that people were usually too scared to give me a ride because I used to have a very large, curly, red scungy beard and smelled really bad.
In my experience, it's easier to get a ride ...
1. if you are hitch-hiking with your girlfriend and not all by yourself. (People might think you are psycho if you are hitch-hiking by yourself. And if you're trying to hitch-hike in a large group of guys, forget it.)
2. ... if you shave off your frightening beard
3. ...If you cover your body odor with powerful masking lotions that smell like Ivory soap.
4. .. if you target large, wheezing Vans or buses with "steal your face'' stickers all over the windshield and license plates with winking references to either Grateful Dead or Phish lyrics. The drivers are usually hitchhike-friendly. On the downside, the drivers get pulled over by the cops with alarming frequency.
5... if you choose a hitchhiking area where many religious fundamentalists happen to live. Say what you will about religious fundamentalists, but they are the most likely to take pity on you when you are standing by the side of the road. As I mentioned somewhere in Cactus, without religious fundamentalists, many of us backpackers would rot on the roadside in patchouli-scented piles.