Six Years, 1,500 Rides, and a Treehouse Press: My Life Hitchhiking the West Coast (1993–1999)

Between 1993 and 1999, I hitched over 1,500 rides up and down the West Coast—Santa Cruz, the SF Bay Area, Humboldt County, Eugene, and Seattle. Six years of living by the generosity of strangers, navigating backroads and freeways with nothing but a backpack, a marker, and a cardboard sign. I wasn’t running from anything. I was running toward experience, creativity, and human connection. And, strangely enough, I found all three.

I was 19 when I stuck my thumb out on Highway 1 for the first time. What began as a short lift into town became a lifestyle. Over time, I got good at reading cars, people, and timing. I could tell which drivers were going to offer a ride, a sandwich, or a long monologue about aliens or the CIA.

There was the woman in Santa Cruz who picked me up on her way to a permaculture workshop and offered me a week of work-trade in her garden. A retired logger in Oregon told me how the old-growth redwoods “whispered at night,” and I believed him. A man in Humboldt once asked if I wanted to live in a tree—and I said yes.

That tree became my home for a while. Somewhere deep in the forest, nestled between moss and sky, I started my first art zine. I called it Treehouse Press. I’d scavenge paper from town, sketch with charcoal, and write manifestos by headlamp. I’d get advertisements at cafes in Arcata and Portland; while I hit up every festival and dead show I could find. It wasn’t polished—but it was raw, wild, and honest.

I met punks, preppers, professors, ex-cons, Buddhists, and truckers. I was dropped off at punk houses, farms, bookstores, communes, and one time—unintentionally—at a nudist colony. Each ride was a story. Each stop, a universe.

Some people thought I was crazy. Others called me brave. Honestly, I just felt alive. Hitchhiking was unpredictable, dangerous at times, yes—but the moments of unexpected grace were worth everything.

Looking back, those six years taught me more than any classroom could. I learned how to listen deeply, adapt quickly, and trust that the road would always provide. And it did. In the form of zines, stories, treehouses, and the sheer poetry of movement.

Would I do it again? Maybe not the same way. But I’ll always carry that time with me—like a secret compass stitched into my bones, pointing toward freedom, one ride at a time.

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Want to see pages from Treehouse Press? I’ve started digitizing some of the old issues. Drop a comment or reach out if you want to see where the ink first met the leaves.

✌️🚗🌲

—Cosmo