Lorna Thorber.
A wild west holiday is much more fun with a bunch of like-minded wanderlusters, writes
To be clear, I wouldn’t choose to share a bed with 39 strangers under ordinary circumstances. But as a cash-strapped tourist stranded in San Francisco without a set of wheels, a trip on the self-proclaimed ‘‘hippie bus’’ seemed like my only real option for exploring the Wild West.
Arriving at the meeting spot a few minutes late, I was relieved to find that the bus hadn’t left and that my fellow road-trippers weren’t all university students on spring break (although there was a number of those).
US and German teachers, a Dutch policewoman, a mum-anddaughter duo from North Carolina with a penchant for matching outfits, and corporate types from the US and Australia also made up our motley crew. I was the token Kiwi.
The Green Tortoise Adventure Bus has been truckin’ for more than 40 years, offering openminded tourists the chance to see American landscapes on the cheap. Provided they’re happy to forgo such ‘‘luxuries’’ as privacy, regular showers and a decent night’s sleep.
But it wasn’t one big swingers’ party. By day, we watched the golden beaches of California and then the desert landscapes of Nevada and Utah pass by from the comfort of cushioned seats, dinerstyle booths, and a big mattress where you could get up-close-andpersonal with your fellow travellers or just sleep.
In the evenings, we’d pull up at a remote camping spot, pitch in to prepare dinner (we were assured there were special spots in hell reserved for those who skived off), and transform the bus into a communal sleeping area.
Being a light sleeper, I went with the BYO tent option, pitching it close enough to the bus to hear the morning wake-up call and far enough from the camp fire to avoid being tripped over by my travel/drinking buddies.
There was one ‘‘drive night’’ when I slept in a bunk so close to the ceiling I couldn’t turn over, but fortunately it was at the end of the seven-night trip.
We rolled out of San Francisco as the thick fog that enshrouds the Northern Californian coast in summer obscured our views of what I’m told is one of the most scenic drives in the world.
We entertained ourselves with card games, singalongs, and stories of how we’d wound up on the trip and where we were headed. Despite our differences, we shared a passion for intrepid travel and, as our presence on the hippie bus (aka the ‘‘highway hostel’’ and Woodstock on wheels’’) attested, were willing to sacrifice pretty much anything for it.
By the time we’d reached surf mecca Santa Cruz, the fog had lifted and we bonded over deepfried Oreos and rollercoaster rides at the United States’ oldest surviving amusement park.
The long, leisurely ride to ruggedly good-looking Big Sur was punctuated by stops in Monterey to see John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row and a beach that’s home to so-ugly-they’re-cute elephant seals whose lives seemed devoted to sunbathing.
Raging bush fires prevented us from exploring the gardens at Hearst Castle, but we still enjoyed a nosy through European-style art and antique-filled rooms that had once hosted Hollywood heavyweights such as Charlie Chaplin and Clark Gable.