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Echoes from the Bottom of the Well
In late April of 2008, I embarked on a hitchhiking journey across Canada. There was still ice and snow on the roads, with the occasional rolled-over vehicle in a ditch. The nights were cold, and the days were sunny. I suppose no one was as crazy as I was to try to run away from themselves — except for the rebellious urbanite in me, burning with the desire to feel carefree.
I quit my computer job, donated all my possessions, and hit the road — against my parents’ advice. My boss was so stunned by my decision that he gifted me a brand-new laptop, which later helped me document my adventures.
I wanted to experience journeying alone for the first time. Catching rides was effortless — I would stick out my thumb, smile, and soon someone would pick me up and take me farther westward. Except for a couple of memorable places in the prairies, where I had to endure long, grueling hours as cars and trucks misinterpreted my cardboard sign that read “BC” (British Columbia). That was my early-20s impulse to undo the technicalities of city life through a long, unplanned trip with no intention of returning!
Somewhere in Saskatchewan, I remember being stranded on a desolate gravel road, surrounded by nothing but fields. Traffic was non-existent, and I was tired of waiting. Off the road, down a ravine, I noticed a large round cistern for drainage…
