When I saw my dad’s old passport for the first time, I was in seventh grade. The picture baffled me. Though the name on the passport read “Robert J. Vandergriff,” it was obvious that some sort of slow yet substantial metamorphosis had occurred since the taking of the picture. The tight ringlets of slate-grey follicles had straightened substantially into wispy tufts the color of polished silverware. The eyes-dynamic, cobalt eyes-had not dulled, but their corners tapered into crow’s feet where none had been before. The haggard beard, if it could even be called that, had either disappeared or simply migrated to the upper lip. The thin, tight T-shirt stretched over slenderer deltoids and pectorals had been traded for a suit jacket, collared shirt and tie resting over a full frame. The picture lured me in and caged me. It made me wonder who this boy was that had been transfigured by time and experience into my father.

So, I asked him.

After a long stint in the seminary and a college career that netted a double B.A. in English and psychology, Robert J. Vandergriff (Bob to his friends, Dad to me) was ready for an adventure. It was 1974, and though the war in Vietnam was starting to show signs of an end, the only reason he wasn’t over there right then was his 4D (divinity deferment) classification, a leftover from the recent seminary years. His friend Dave, a friend from high school and seminary, had been asked to be the best man in a classmate’s wedding in Hastings, Neb.

The duo decided to take time off from their jobs (“Dave repaired professional sound equipment, I loaded trucks via forklift at Pepsi.”), and planned a five-week trip “with only what we could carry on our backs” and $200 cash apiece.

“We entrusted our lives to whomever would allow us in or on their vehicle,” Dad said.

They arrived in Hastings with two hours to spare, which “caused some trepidation,” but everything was fine once they dressed, Dave in a tuxedo and Bob in a borrowed suit. Post-wedding, after slumbering for a night in all the luxury the provided Best Western room afforded, the friends “were off to see what I-80 and 90 offered.”

Their first night “in the bag” found them asleep in a ditch beside the road. The next day, they accepted an offered ride from a group of campers, who washed the travelers’ clothes (“Our aroma must have dictated that kindness”) and gave them a cabin in which to spend the night. They awoke with a destination in mind: International Falls, Minn., and beyond, the wild fruits of the Canadian countryside.

It turns out that entry into the territory of our northern neighbor can hinge on something as insignificant as a single marijuana seed, which fell out of Dave’s bag and “bounced across the counter” of the Canadian director of entry’s office.

“We were removed from consideration for entry into Canada, strip searched, tried, convicted, fingerprinted, photographed, fined and deported in an hour and 45 minutes,” Dad said. “We now had $200 and four joints less to our names; however, transportation was at hand.” They hopped in the back of an El Camino headed along the north shore of Lake Superior, “on either side of a canoe that acted as a wind sink.”

Bob and Dave found themselves on the south side of Chicago on a Saturday night, in a seemingly hostile environment. “Cadillacs and deuce-and-a-quarters would pull up to us and honk, the occupants shouting words we didn’t know, and then speed off,” Dad said. “An Amoco station on the corner provided only consternation, grimaces and more verbiage that was not familiar.” Serendipity found them through a voice, one that asked a question (“Are you guys hippies?”) and subsequently offered them the tail end of a joint in addition to the way back to the highway.

After a few days of travel, the pair found themselves in Ohio, which was dry of rides. “It took two days for us to be dropped off 40 miles from the Pennsylvania border,” Dad said. Once there, the duo found a smooth, grassy area to unroll their sleeping bags. “It was a comfortable night of sleep; there were no city lights or moonlight, and the grass was soft,” Dad said. “Our wake-up call was a fervent ‘What the hell are you guys doing on the green?'” After profuse apologies, the two continued on the road.

A few rides later they were in the mountains of Pennsylvania when the driver of a Mercedes pulled off the road and popped the trunk for the two to stash their gear. “Entering the comfort of the rear leather seat with Aerosmith cranked, distortion-free, on the premium sound system, we were surprised to see a kaywoodie pipe about to be ignited by the passenger in the front seat,” Dad said. “When we later saw pictures of Aerosmith, we realized that we had possibly been given a ride by two members of the band.”

Eventually, the travelers found their way to Niagara Falls, and spent the night on Goat Island. “After crossing the bridge to the island, we found out the island closed at 10, so we were surrounded by the roar of the falls throughout the night,” Dad said. “When we awoke, we realized the roar of water had also come from the sky that night; our ponchos proved to be permeable.” After stopping at a local Laundromat, the two found their way to the Canadian side of the falls, with the help of a Niagara Falls resident. “She was a local, and very proud to be from Niagara Falls, but had said the Canadian side was much more pristine,” Dad said. “Being a local, she knew the border security, so we were able to enjoy the Canadian view of the area.”

Laundromats proved to be a prime location for meeting interesting people; a few days later, near Woodstock, N.Y., another helpful local approached my dad: “Have you ever been sketched?” he asked.

“The conversation that followed provided a fabulous opportunity,” Dad said. The man, a local artist, showed them the field where the legendary Woodstock music festival had been held. “We found out that the farm was just that-an expanse of land that was actively being farmed,” Dad said. “No vestiges of the three days of music and love.” Their friend the artist suggested that they stay in his carriage house on the rear of his property, and the two spent three days sheltered from the rain, watching it splash off the windows instead of each other’s backs.

After departing, Dave and my dad decided to abandon their plans to head into Maine and began to plan their westerly trek home. After some confusion involving a case of mistaken identity and a seemingly trigger-happy cop (“We fit the description of B and E suspects,” Dad said), the duo “caught some fairly long and uneventful rides” until they landed in Cincinnati. “We walked for miles; we elected to ride south of I-70 to gain more westerly miles, but the gamble cost us a day,” Dad said. “Finally in Vandalia, Ill., we were aghast when a semi truck hauling Snickers candy bars pulled to the side of the road.”

The driver, a professor augmenting his income during the summer months, dropped them in Concordia, Mo., at a truck stop. “Being only 55 miles from home at 2 a.m., we decided to attempt acquiring a ride,” Dad said. “Traffic was sparse, and we were apparently invisible.” The two friends found a secluded patch of forest and, resolved to try their luck in the morning, bedded down for the night.

The next day’s first ride proved to be the perfect one. “The first person that stopped to pick us up delivered us two miles out of his way, to Dave’s front door,” Dad said. “Over 2,000 miles, 142 people allowed us to share their travel, meals, acts of kindness and a part of their lives; 33 days on the road, 18 nights under the roofs of perfect strangers, one because of a wedding, two by a former teacher and 12 under the stars or clouds restored our faith in the human species.

“Misanthropy was held at bay.”

Jared Vandergriff is a senior studying English.