It seems like I have been asked that question more often than any other since the day I created this web page. The automatic response I usually give is, �Me!� but that doesn�t quite do the title justice. In all seriousness, dirty hippie is an ideal or a goal that I�ve been after for a couple of years now. It�s a long story (but a good one) about some people who taught me about the kind of person I�d like to be. There have been several people who have helped to inspire my dream of becoming a dirty hippie, but one stands out in my mind more than any other.
It all started one summer afternoon when my friend Troy and I were walking along an Idaho highway near the Sawtooth Mountains. We had just finished a long hike from Petit Lake to Red Fish Lake and were attempting to hitch a ride back to our car. It was getting late in the afternoon and we had been walking for just a little too long. Due to the incredible ease with which we were able to find a ride the previous year we had not worried much about finding a lift this year.
Unlike the year before, this year we seemed to emit some sort of frightening vibe that kept anyone from stopping to help us out. We walked with our thumbs in the air and turned to watch car after car drive by leaving us with a small gust of wind as they passed. Some drivers just looked past us, others suddenly found something overwhelmingly interesting on the other side of the road, a select few returned our gesture of �thumbs up� and laughed as they drove past (special thanks to the kid in the red Jeep Wrangler). Time passed and as the heat from the roadway rose to annoyance I began to consider our situation. We had been hiking for days; we had no money, little water, and approximately 30 miles to cover if we didn�t find a ride. I was worried.
I�m not what most people would call an overly pious Mormon. I�m not known for my outward displays of faith and devotion. However, in this circumstance I recall thinking to myself that it was just about getting to what my father would call, �prayin� time.� I don�t believe that either Troy or I ever actually stopped to offer an audible prayer but I do recall saying something in my head that went a little like this; �God, I know that I�ve probably done more than my share of things to deserve to be in this situation. I don�t really think I�ve got much of a leg to stand on in asking for some help here. However, Troy is a hell of a guy and really doesn�t deserve this. So if you could just put the idea in to somebody�s head to stop, I�d really appreciate it.�
More cars came and went and still no one stopped. I began to notice the kinds of cars and drivers who were passing. Empty pick up trucks, suburbans, and vans. Some with Idaho plates, others with Utah plates. I couldn�t help but think that I might know some of the people who passed in a round about sort of way. After all, it�s a small world and even smaller if you�re from Utah. Maybe I was in school with their cousin, maybe I used to go to church with their grandkid. I guess it kind of hurt to watch as cars full of what I think of as �my people� passed without so much as a pause to consider the backpackers at the side of the road. I was a little depressed.
And then it happened�
Troy and I both looked at each other knowing instinctively that we had found a ride. In the distance we could hear the unmistakable sound of a Volkswagen van struggling up a mountain road. We turned to see the van slow and pull up beside us. A smile and a pair of sunglasses appeared from beneath a long mop of blonde hair and a Kavu visor. The details of the conversation have slipped with time but this much I recall. He asked us where we were going. �Petit Lake.� We replied. He told us to hop in and the van door slid open. A voice from the back of the van complained that Petit Lake was 30 miles south and that they were headed north. Undeterred, the hippie at the wheel said that it was �all good.� Patting the dashboard of his van he observed, �You never know when this baby will leave me stranded.�
We rode for the better part of an hour in the back of the van with two other hippies talking about kayaks, hiking, Idaho, and Willie Nelson songs on the stereo. As we approached the turn off to Petit Lake the van slowed to a stop and we got out. We struggled to find the appropriate words to thank our chauffer and apologized for the inconvenience. A true Samaritan he asked nothing and seemed happy to be of service. The door to the van slid shut and they sputtered back the way we had come.
As I stopped to consider the generosity of the people we had just met, I was struck with the realization that I wanted to grow up to be a dirty hippie. I wanted to be the kind of guy who would stop on a mountain road to take two total strangers an hour out of my way just because they looked like they needed a lift. I wanted to be the kind of guy who was generous, friendly and kind to others without regard for their appearance, situation, or apparent social status. I wanted to be the kind of person who would do things that change other people�s lives without even thinking about it.
That�s what a dirty hippie is. I can not for the life of me remember the name of the kid behind the wheel of that van, but for the hippie who gave me a lift in the Sawtooth mountains from Redfish Lake to Petit Lake in the Summer of 2000 I will always be grateful.