Years ago I was hitchhiking through the northern Cascade Mountain Range with a 300 pound nearly naked logger covered in tattoos. He was wearing a tiny pair of shorts, invisible under his gargantuan belly. He was heartbroken; his wife had left him a few months earlier, after he’d been laid off. His two wiener dogs were asleep, snoring in my lap.
“Well, this is my junction,” he said, pulling off onto the shoulder beneath a forest of evergreens.
I thanked and wished him the best.