ON THE ROAD TO LA

My rational for leaving Ohio was that I wanted to pursue an acting/singing career. My dad asked why not New York, it was closer. For me, Los Angeles was about as far away as I could get. That’s where I wanted to be.

The summer of 1977, before I left home, I took a job as a substitute driver for the area’s 7-Up distributor. The warehouse was in Waldo, not far from Marion. I was a vacation driver for the regulars. It paid well. It was a good job for building up savings for the move. My manager, Dave, helped me learn the ropes and assisted me in making the most money I could.

My days started at the warehouse around 5:00 a.m. Regular drivers usually used the forklift to load up their own trucks. Being a newbie, I had a warehouse person who loaded mine up based on the deliveries for that day. I was on the road by 6:00. I was usually done by 2 or 3:00. Great schedule.

The routes I drove went as far away as Mt. Vernon. I enjoyed the time on the road to the clients further away. I liked taking backroads when I could, taking in the rural scenery and enjoying the drive. They ranged from small mom and pop stores to big name-brand markets.

I was on the road to Mt. Gilead on August 16, 1977. I was taking a backroad rather than the highway to service a couple of smaller accounts. I had the radio on. I don’t recall which station. The DJ suddenly broke into the song currently playing to announce that Elvis was dead. I wasn’t a big enough fan of his to cry, but it certainly made me sad. One of those “do you remember where you were…?” kind of things. I’ve never forgotten.

I’d become friends with one of my professors at the Marion branch of The Ohio State University. He and his wife had a small farm just outside of Waldo. They asked me to housesit while they were on vacation. Housesit and look after the animals: a pony, a calf, two goats, two pigs, and Hulda the Great Dane.

I arrived at the farm after work the day they’d left. They’d assured me Hulda was very friendly, but I might want to have some treats with me when I first show up. Indeed. she “greeted” me by running up to my side of the car and barking. Great Danes can be very intimidating. Hulda sure was. The barking let up after a while. She just stood there staring at me. I started to roll the window down to toss her a treat and the barking started again. I rolled the window down just enough to get a treat out to her. After wolfing that down, she stared at me expectantly. I rolled the window down a little further and tossed another treat. By the time she’d retrieved it, I had the window down and was holding another treat in my hand. She took that and licked my hand. I had two treats left. I slowly opened the car door and slowly stepped out of the car. Hulda wagged her tail. I gave her both the remaining treats. We were now besties.

The house was a typical Ohio farmhouse. Painted white. Front porch with a railing. It had a small kitchen, decent living room, and two bedrooms. It was obviously Hulda’s domain. She was one of those big dogs that think they’re a lap dog. I was ok with that. Until she wanted to share the bed with me. It was only a double bed—is that an Ohio term for it? I’ve also heard full or standard sized. She was obviously not happy about it, but slept on the floor beside the bed.

Feeding the livestock each morning and evening took me back to summers and vacations I’d spent on relatives’ farms. I still loved the aroma of the barn, the individual smell of each animal. The pony wasn’t big enough for me to ride, but I enjoyed taking her out for walks around the farm. With Hulda, of course.

Not far from Waldo, on route 23, was Mom Wilson’s Country Sausage Mart. Begun in 1959 from their back porch, the business is still in the family. No longer run from the back porch. During the summer, they sold fresh produce from their gardens and fields. I stopped there nearly every afternoon after work to pick up a couple of fresh picked roastin’ ears for supper.

That was a good summer.

As the summer was drawing to a close, the impending cross-country relocation was getting closer and closer. I had a couple of contacts lined up. Phil, whom I knew from The Singing Collegians, and the son of friends of my mom and dad. Phil lived in Orange County, the son of friends in Los Angeles. I bought a puptent to camp out along the road trip I had planned. I equipped my blue Ford Maverick Grabber—the sporty model with faux hood scoops, gold racing stripes, and a rear-end tail fin—with a CB radio.

I loaded nearly everything I owned into my Grabber in Marion. Mom and dad followed me to Twyla and Tom’s in Westerville, where we spent the night before my morning departure. I was excited, of course, to be starting out on a new, grand adventure, but the mood that morning was subdued. It was a big step. A big break from my life as I’d known it. Mom and dad, especially dad, were full of mixed emotions to be sending their baby off to the big, bad west coast.

They followed me on the highway as long as they could before taking the route 23 exit to head back to Marion while I continued on west. Dad had a CB radio in his car, too. We were chitchatting as we drove along. At the point of their exit, he made a moving commentary about having watched me grow up to the young man I’d become. How sad they were to see me going so far away. How much they supported my dreams to break into show business. How much they loved me. There were no dry eyes in either car.

My radio handle was California Dreamin’. I drove west for nine or 10 hours that first day, stopping at a motel somewhere near Kansas City, MO. I was on my quest to be someone else, maybe even find myself—not sure that was something anyone did back then. When I checked into the motel, I gave my name as Sky Hoffman. I’m not sure where that came from. I’d like to think I came up with it thinking, the sky’s my limit. I don’t think I was that clever. I remained Sky Hoffman for the next eight years.

It was another nine or 10 hour drive the second day. Destination, Estes Park, Colorado. My brother Floyd had attended some sort of Nazarene youth camp, I think it was, there. I thought the drive through Kansas would never end. After seeing the Leaving Kansas sign, I thought, I’m just now leaving?! I knew I was going to like Colorado. The scenery getting to Estes Park was amazing to this young “farmboy” from Ohio.

It was my first chance to make use of the tent I’d brought with me. I booked a tent spot at Hermit Park. It didn’t take me long to find my spot and get set up. Tents those days weren’t so easily assembled, so that took me most of the time. I’d stopped and stocked up on some groceries to make dinner after a little exploring—dinner being a ham and cheese sandwich and chips. I didn’t think to get any condiments.

After a short hike, I settled into my sleeping bag. I was tired after another long day of driving. I woke up during the night to wind and rain…and half my tent collapsing. After repeated failures to get the pole up again, I gave up. At least my upper body was in the upright part. Not long after that, a baby in a nearby tent started crying. And kept on crying. I was finally able to get back to sleep, at which point I heard a car horn honking. And honking. And honking. I heard the next morning that a car had apparently gone off the road.

In the morning, I packed everything up, headed into town, got a motel room, and took a hot shower. Then I went for breakfast. I took the day to tool around town and relax. I got a good night’s sleep.

The next day I made the 2.5 hour drive to Colorado Springs to camp out at the Garden of the Gods. Or nearby, anyway. I think it might have been a KOA campground. I remember there being a large shower and toilet complex. The first night was uneventful, thank god. The next day, I rented a horse to go on a 2-hour trail ride.

Most all the trail riding today is with a guide, in a group, wearing helmets. Back in the day, I was able to ride through the park on my own. No helmet. I’ve ridden horses on the beach before and loved it. This was a whole new experience. The mountains, rocks, scrub, blue skies, it was amazing and awe inspiring…just me and my horse taking it all in together.

I made the short hour and 15-minute drive to Denver the next day. After another two nights in my tent, I was ready for some real food and my own bathroom. I got a motel for the night. The only thing I remember about being in Denver is going to see You Light Up My Life at the cinema.

Remember Didi Conn? The movie was the story of a struggling actor/musician working for her big break in Hollywood. How could I not go see that movie? I could have done without Debby Boone singing the feature song at the end.

My next goal was to reach the Grand Canyon. From Denver to there is an 11 hour+ drive. I don’t remember driving that far in one day, nor do I remember where I might have stopped in between. I got to the Mather Campground on the Canyon’s south rim, checked-in, found my camp site and set up the trusty tent. Each site has parking for a car or two, a firepit with a grill, a picnic table, and room for two or three tents.

Before it got dark, I took a walk to catch the sunset. I found an outcropping of rocks near the rim of some part of the canyon. I felt like I was sitting right on the edge with the canyon spread out below me—I can’t even imagine doing that now.

I’ve sometimes had unusual, odd desires of what would it feel like to…be shot was one of them. What would it actually feel like to feel a bullet enter my body? Sitting there, I wondered, what would it feel like to jump? What would falling through the air into that beautiful abyss feel like? Like I said, weird.

One of the most spectacular sunsets I’ve ever experienced, perched on my own little rock.

Either that night—maybe watching the sunset—or the next morning I met Richard Foxcroft, a Brit traveling across the States. He was working his way to California, too, mostly hitchhiking. We hit it off and planned to hike down the canyon to Bright Angel Campground, a probable 10 hour day. On the way down we encountered an older woman who seemed to be having difficulty with the hike up. Some other people stopped too. We decided to stay with Ruth while they continued back to the rim to get help.

Park rangers on muleback arrived to assist and take Ruth back to the top. At that point it was too late to continue our hike down in the canyon, so Richard and I decided to hike back up to the top. Along the way we met a couple from Prescott, Arizona. We walked and chatted with Carol and Bob all the way back up. They invited us to come through Prescott and spend the night—they had a California Redwood hot tub they thought we would enjoy.

With all the goings on that day we got a later start than we’d planned. By the time we got to Prescott, it was around 10 p.m. We called Bob and apologized for our late arrival. He brushed that aside and said he’d come meet us and we’d go have a beer or two. Turns out, it takes a couple of days for a California Redwood hot tub to heat up to the proper temperature. We agreed to stay for a couple of days.

The next day we made the hour drive to Montezuma Castle National Park, the third national park dedicated to preserving Native American culture. It’s noted as being a “20-room high-rise apartment building nestled into the towering limestone cliff.” You see it as you’re entering the park. It’s amazing. Though you can’t actually enter the dwelling, pathways take you pretty close.

The next day, Richard and I explored a nearby ghost town. I think Richard knew of it and wanted to see it. I was game. I looked up ghost towns in Arizona but didn’t find one that sounded familiar to what I remember. It wasn’t a historical site, or wasn’t then anyway. It was an abandoned town with a number of structures still standing. I remember looking down the main street, but don’t remember going through the town.

That night we finally got to experience the California Redwood hot tub. Beers and soaking under the stars. Another new experience for the boy from Marion, Ohio.

After saying goodbye to our newfound friends, we headed out next morning.

Destination: San Diego, CA.

From Prescott, it’s only about a 6.5 hour drive. We must have done something along the way but don’t know what. One of the first things we did once we hit California was park at a beach and walk down to the water and wet our feet in the Pacific Ocean. We didn’t have much daylight left when we got to our campground and settled in for the night. Unbeknownst to us, the campground was apparently near a farm or ranch. We awoke in the middle of the night hearing someone or something walking around outside. I stuck my head out of the tent only to see a few head of cattle milling about, grazing nearby.

I assume Richard continued on his own way the next day. I don’t recall us doing anything else together after that. No cell phones. No internet. We lost touch. I still have an old address book with his name and number in it, but I don’t remember ever seeing or hearing from him again.

THE END OF ACT I