By Mark Kneeskern
“There was a train wreck in Tiny Town today.”
This was said in a serious voice. Laughter bubbles up in my throat as I picture a bunch of fat tourists perched on a toy train which slowly tips over. I hear people were actually hurt, but no one died, so couldn’t we have a tiny chuckle at their expense? I received this breaking news from Allen, who pilots his Chevy pickup East on Route 7. Allen is an aircraft mechanic who works on big jets at Denver International Airport.
For those of you who don’t know Tiny Town, the story is this: A man built it in 1915 to amuse his daughter. By 1924 there were 125 tiny buildings in the “town.” Floods ravaged it in 1929 and 1932. They did their best to rebuild, only to have a devastating fire char most of the buildings in 1935. It was foolishly rebuilt, only to have another disastrous flood which left a tiny haunted wasteland in 1969. In the 1980s, four families fixed up the ailing village, and nowadays it’s back in its prime … hopefully this recent tiny train wreck is not a harbinger of future tiny tragedies yet to come for this tiny disturbed community.
Allan leaves me to ponder all of this as I walk to the Highway 85 North junction in Brighton. Said junction turns out to be a concrete octopus nightmare. If the powers that be ever want to deter hitchhiking, all they have to do is continue having intersections built like this one. No place to pull over, traffic going quickly every which way, replete with nutty signs to confuse the drivers. I continue walking east through the city of Brighton.
A car turns right on the street ahead of me and stops along the curb. I think nothing of it, as no one picks up a hitcher inside the city limits. This time was different. A guy who calls himself “Born Flippy” and designs vinyl sculptures and other wacky art took me to the edge of town where there’s an entrance ramp to Interstate 76 North. Normally, I avoid interstates, but, I was caught in a snafu of concrete proportions and had to get north or be lost in the spaghetti of small roads leading nowhere. Born Flippy was a nice guy and had hitched lots before. As I take my bags out of the back seat, Flippy says “I kind of envy you, man.” It’s a familiar sentiment. People who give me rides are often living a bit vicariously.
I’ve now realized that this is not an entrance ramp, but a ramp leading to a three-mile frontage road, paralleling the interstate, at the end of which is a junction with an actual entrance ramp. I don’t care though, as there is a good-looking place to set up my tent under some big trees nearby and it’s pleasant out here, a good distance from hustle-bustle land. I can get some exercise in the morning. Sometimes I start to get a little uptight and in a hurry when I’m hitching … it doesn’t jive. Quickly, I realize my transgression and correct myself, taking time to breathe deeply and stretch out my muscles, maybe go for a quick jog up and down my side of the road to get the blood pumping. This works to clear the mind and lighten the mood. My humor must remain intact in order for this form of travel to work for me.
The sky is turning orange and pink. A man pulls up his truck. He has a ceiling fan next to him in the seat. Fan Man takes me to the real entrance ramp, where I’ll be ready to attack traffic in the morning. First, I clamber down a hill thick with weeds, across the train tracks where, just down the way, a coal train sits, grumbling. I go over a couple of barbed wire fences and into a cow pasture, which seems so full of cow “plops” in the ever-encroaching darkness that I am fairly sure I’ll end up with one under my noggin.
It’s a good thing that the sun is saying “good night” and I’m throwing up my bug hut whilst dancing with mosquitoes, otherwise I’d be prattling on endlessly about the Tiny Town wreck to everyone who gave me a ride. Wouldn’t be good for business … they’d probably think of an excuse to let this nutter off at the next cattleguard. Instead, I can sleep it off, sweating the small stuff in my dreams, tied to the tracks of my tiny nightmares.
E-mail tiny Mark at raindogfalls@yahoo.com to get a tiny book or tell him he’s weird. “The Last AMERICAN Hitch Hiker” is also available at The (tiny) Book Haven, in tiny Salida.
