This is a hitchhiking story. Given the motivation behind the adventure (my father’s battle with pancreatic cancer) and the personal history and philosophical nature of the person doing the hitchhiking (me), there’s bound to be some soul searching and sentimentality in the telling of it. But it’s not intended to be a tear jerking account of an honorable or altruistic journey. I didn’t row across the Atlantic, or run a marathon or even walk very far… I simply hitchhiked across America with my golf clubs.
I know hitchhiking has its own set of risks and obstacles and I’m not saying that thumbing it six thousand miles is a piece of cake or recommending anyone follow in my footsteps… it was an adventure by any definition. But I made it home in one piece and all of the weirdos and proselytizers I was warned about never stopped to kidnap or convert me. In fact, when I asked the one, self-described evangelical who picked me up why he hadn’t broached the subject of my faith, he just laughed and said, “Sometimes God doesn’t speak to me.” Geez. Never in a million years did I think my feelings would be hurt because an evangelical didn’t try to convert me.
Instead, I met hundreds of kind, generous people who opened their hearts and homes and cars (and planes and boats) to me, often without even knowing I was on any kind of mission. And along the way I heard stories about heroes like a Canadian named Terry Fox who ran halfway across Canada on a prosthetic leg before succumbing to his own cancer, and countless others who’ve run and swum and written books to raise money for causes close to their heart. Now, in the wake of my father’s passing, having witnessed the ravages of pancreatic cancer first hand, I understand more than ever the passion behind these efforts and what a difference they really make in the lives of the individuals and families who face life-threatening illness.
Ultimately, this is a story about all of my “caddies” - the folks who picked me up and carried my bag - and the “course” - the country, both physical and cultural, that I played through. And I did play: 37 courses, some well known and highly regarded, others not even really courses, just landscapes (canyons, mountains, beaches) where I used trees, rocks and chairlift towers as holes. Regardless of their official designation or “ranking” they each formed a part of the backdrop for my journey… from Pelican Hill Golf Club on the sunny, pacific headlands of Orange County, CA through the desert canyons and Rocky Mountains; across the Great Plains and Great Lakes to Quebec and the Canadian Maritimes where I walked off of the 18th green of Highlands Links on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia and hit a symbolic final shot into the Atlantic. As a whole these places and the people who live in them provided me with an uplifting and beautiful perspective of our country at a time when I most needed to believe in the value of life.
If in writing of this book I am able to share some of that inspiration or make someone smile and laugh (as my mother did so many times when I phoned in the latest zany adventure from the road), if I’m able to raise even a little money and awareness for pancreatic cancer research, I will feel that my mission has been accomplished. In truth I set out on this journey for personal reasons and having grown closer to my father, and myself, in the process, it’s already surpassed all of my expectations. This is simply my effort to share and preserve the story of how one son dealt with his father’s impending death and the lessons he learned along the way.
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