Nov. 29, 2012 – Hammond, La. to New Orleans

Gold-toothed, tattooed, and with a voice so low it was barely audible, Pole looked like one tough dude.

That’s why I sat gobsmacked in the passenger seat as he cried into his cellphone all the way to New Orleans.

I was pumped when, against all odds, Pole had veered over and picked me up from a terrible spot on I-55 just after 8 a.m. It was the first bright spot in a morning where I had awoken three hours earlier to take down my tent and get out of the park under the cover of darkness.

After a breakfast of granola bars and coffee from a nearby gas station, I got on the I-55 and watched the sun rise as I walked two miles to find a better spot for a lift.

When I asked Pole where he was coming from so early, he quietly told me some ‘bad shit’ was happening with his girlfriend – he had been up all night, and had just hit the road to clear his head.

He had her on the phone minutes later, professing heartbreak and devastation.

Praying he wouldn’t make a rash decision and send us flying into the lake below. I debated what to tell him once he hung up.

When his cellphone battery died, I blurted whatever wisdom I could muster. I don’t know what he thought of it, but he eventually cheered up a bit.

As we approached New Orleans’ rush hour traffic on I-10 30 minutes later, Pole miraculously bypassed about six miles of gridlock by speeding down the highway shoulder and sharply weaving in and out of any opening he could find. It left me breathless, but he assured me he was an expert.

Soon enough, he pulled into town, dumped me at a gas station, and declined my photo request. Bidding him goodbye, I told him to go get some sleep. Time for Nola.