Twenty Miles for Pie

Eighteen years of age was the first time and only time I ever hitchhiked–and for a slice of pie. Now, that might sound foolish to some—maybe even a little dangerous—but back in the summer of ’78, out on the winding turns of U.S. 101–danger came limited to the occasional skunk.

It was for a piece of Glen’s Cafe Bakery and Restaurant apple pie that I was after from the small diner in Crescent City, about 20 miles from our home. Folks came from all over the county for their pies because they tasted like heaven had been baked into a crust and left to cool on a screened porch.

That morning, I’d woken up with a hunger so precise I knew it couldn’t be satisfied by anything short of that pie. I didn’t have a working car then–so I stood at the end of the road with my thumb out and my Sunday shirt half-buttoned, pretending I looked more like a weary traveler than a kid who’d skipped his chores.

Mr. Rook was the one who picked me up. He drove a rusted red pickup that smelled of pipe smoke and smoked salmon.

He didn’t ask where I was going, but we chatted about the weather and fishing, neither of which were on my mind as we traveled north. We bounced along before he let me off at the S curve into town with a wave, and I hiked the rest of the way, arriving sweaty and hopeful.

Inside, the air was thick with coffee and bacon grease, the door thumping behind me like applause. The woman behind the counter saw me and squinted.

Mrs. Young herself was a character. She wore her hair up in a beehive, so tall I’m sure it needed a building permit. Rumor had it she kept a .38 in her apron and a flask under the register, and I believed both.

She called everyone “honey” in a tone that made you feel loved and slightly judged.

“Well I’ll be,” she said. “Honey, you look like a boy who’s either in love or in trouble.”

“Apple pie,” I said, breathless.

She smiled, nodded, and set to slicing. I don’t remember much about getting home or who picked me up. But I remember sitting on that red vinyl stool, fork in hand, as that first bite hit my tongue and the world hushed like church right before the sermon.

Looking back now, maybe that was the first time I understood joy could be simple. You don’t need a big reason to go after something sweet. Sometimes, you follow your gut—even if it means thumbing rides.

Now I don’t hitchhike, and the Glen’s I remember is long gone–at least the restaurant part. But I still remember that pie and how it felt to chase something that left me satisfied, not just in the belly– but in the heart.

And if that’s not worth writing down, maybe nothing is.