THE "SWAMP HOG" and HITCHING RIDES

       Do you like vintage cars? Well, my buddy Paul Evans sure did. About a year out of High School Paul, Dave Beck and I were hoofing it past a used car lot on 3^rd South in Provo when Paul stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw dropped open and he almost screamed, “Fifty-six Golden Hawk!” Paul was a connoisseur of vintage cars so when he got excited we all got excited. In 1956 Studebaker made a sports car that was years ahead of its time. Huge engine and all the bells and whistles! The speedometer topped out at 160 miles per hour.

1956 Studebaker Golden Hawk. Classic two-two pink. The front fenders and doors of the original Lowey coupe design were still present on the 56 Golden Hawk.

        The car was painted a fashionable two-tone pink with slightly raised fins, and a grill like an old Mercedes. A classic look for its time! A quick visit to the BYU Credit Union and six hundred twenty-five dollars later, it was mine. We nicknamed it the “Swamp Hog.” Dave Beck’s dad squawked, “There goes the neighborhood!” In reality it was the beginning of many classic misadventures. We cruised Center Street looking for other dumb kids willing to risk their lives racing the back roads of Utah County. 

Center Street in Provo, Utah. 1960s.

        Before racing, we would pop the hood, and remove the air filter. Why, you ask? Well, not for any particularly good reason. We just liked the W-A-A-A-A-A-H the engine made while sucking air into its firing pistons. The sound was very intimidating.

1956 Studebaker Golden Hawk engine.

        One evening before cruising town and “looking for trouble,” we pulled off the road, lifted the hood, and unscrewed the air filter. But in doing so, the small wing-nut holding it on was fumbled and dropped into the open mouth of the carburetor. Trying to retrieve it didn’t help matters as we heard the nut clink deeper into the engine. There we stood, scratching our heads. What do we do now? If we started the engine it might do some serious damage. 

     Just as our frustration began to peak, a large pickup pulled along side, its bright lights surrounding us. The window rolled down, and a deep voice inquired, “Do you boys need some help?” “Boy, do we!” we replied in unison. After explaining our problem, he abruptly went to his tool box in the bed of his truck and pulled out a flexible wire with a magnet attached to the end. He carefully ran it past the carburetor and began fishing around. It wasn't long before he hit pay dirt and withdrew the magnet with our problem wingnut in tow. What a good man! Right place, right time, right equipment! A timely miracle for some goof-off kids who didn’t really deserve it. Enthusiastic “thank yous” were dished out, and we were back on the road again.

       Speaking of miracles, on another occasion we did come close to "burying the needle" in the Swamp Hog on the downhill stretch from Springville to Provo. The next day in shock I noticed the metal core on my back radial tires protruding right through the rubber! Wow. Our guardian angels were definitely working overtime.A blowout at that incredible speed would have spelled disaster for all of us.

       At that time young men and women would head out of state in the summer to find work. California paid the best and I had landed a great job in LA working for a sign company. As luck would have it, the transmission on the Swamp Hog went out just weeks before I was to drive it to California. The Hog still ran fine if you could get it rolling over five miles an hour.  While we were checking every junk yard in the Mountain West for a used transmission, Paul, Dave and other friends would push the Hog, then run like jack rabbits to catch up and hop in. We developed a talent for never going under five miles an hour at stop lights and stop signs, thus avoiding unnecessary pushing, running and jumping. Paul and Dave had never been in better shape! 

Corvette 409 engine.

        Used transmissions for the Hog turned out to be non-existent. I did find a junk yard in Salt Lake that could install an almost new Corvette 409 engine and its four-speed transmission in my car for $600. We made the deal which meant I needed to find another way to California until the Hog was back in action. Hitchhiking – that was the ticket! Knowing I had never hitchhiked before put the fear of God in my mother and she begged Dad to buy me a bus ticket.  But I convinced Dad it would be an adventure and I was looking forward to it.

Provo City Cemetery Main Gate.

        Mom and Dad dropped me off on State Street next to the Provo City Cemetery. Hopefully this wasn't a bad omen! Wearing my white student council sweater with a large block Y, I looked like a BYU student heading for home. My first ride took me to Las Vegas, the second to Barstow. And the third took me to my work just across the street from the railyard on San Fernando Road in Los Angeles. Not necessarily the best part of town.

Map of the Greater Los Angeles area where I worked and lived. 1964.

        My new boss made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. His aging mother lived in an apartment above his office which had an extra bedroom. I could stay rent free if I’d take her grocery shopping on Saturdays. What a deal! I readily agreed. Now I had a free place to stay, and a good paying job. At first the noisy train yard across the street bothered me, but as time went by I got used to it and hardly noticed. Standing in one spot, drilling holes in highway signs hour after hour wasn’t challenging. But it did provide fun money and a stack of cash for my mission.

The junk yard. Where old cars go to die - and classics get rejuvenated.

        It took two hitch hiking trips back to Utah before the new additions to the Swamp Hog were finished. On the first trip I called ahead to make sure the car would be done and waiting when I arrived. The junk yard owner assured me it would be ready to go. After a long, grueling trip hitching rides to Salt Lake I found the Hog was still not completely put together. It was sunset and I was due back in California the next morning. What a mess! In total frustration I stood on State in Salt Lake and stuck out my thumb. A blue Volkswagen pulled over and the driver asked me where I was going. When I said Los Angeles, he smiled and said, “That’s where I’m headed. If you’ll help me drive, I’ll drop you off wherever you’re going.” What are the chances? One ride to my doorstep in California, and on time for work!

1963 VW bug.

        Two weeks later I called the junk yard again. This time they guaranteed that the car was done and waiting for me to pick it up. After hitchhiking for sixteen hours I was glad to see they were right! When I fired up the engine it roared like a drag racer at the starting line. The heat blowing through the firewall nearly set my pants ablaze. I couldn’t wait to show Dad! The next morning I took him for a demo ride. He tried to tell me what he thought about my car but the engine was so loud I couldn’t hear him. I shut off the motor and tuned in. He was almost laughing. “Do you really expect to drive this blast furnace to California?” We looked at each other and had a good laugh, then mutually agreed it was time to unload the Swamp Hog. I sold it to the slick talker at the junk yard for $600, the same price I had paid him to install the engine and transmission. Wow, what a deal! I think he had secretly planned to use the Hog as his personal drag racer all along. This time, with a smile on my face, I drove to California in my Dad’s bright red VW Bug.

Red VW Bug. 1963.

        Thinking back over my hitchhiking days, I must say I met some interesting people. I learned to call myself “Frank” instead of Francis when a sweet guy from Pasadena invited me to his house for the night. “We can build a fire and make sandwiches.” Yeah, sure! There was the ex-con who just got out of prison, the one with the interesting gold ring. On closer inspection it turned out to be two naked lovers wrapped in an intimate embrace. "It's a great conversation piece," he grinned. But he did teach me how to find a bed and a cheap meal at the Los Vegas Homeless Shelter.

      On another occasion, I landed a ride from Barstow to Las Vegas with a Chicklets salesman and his woman. The backseat was piled high with hundreds of boxes of gum. He said, “Fill your pockets. Eat all you want. And see if you can make room to sit!” It was a sweet ride. I felt like Scrooge McDuck swimming through a sea of Chicklets rather than money. One night I caught a ride out of Vegas with a rough-looking character who had a pistol stuck in the driver’s side arm rest. I asked him if he ever used that thing. He said he had used it on the last two hitchhikers. Well one thing I can say for sure, hitchhiking had been an adventure alright!

       Back in LA things were looking up. Now that I had a car my boss pulled me off the production line, and sent me to pick up and deliver important materials and products around the area. The mileage stipend added to my growing pile of cash.

Los Angeles at night from the Griffith Observatory hill.

      Just outside my bedroom window was a ladder leading to the roof of my apartment. The song "Up on the Roof" by the Drifters inspired me to push an extra mattress up the ladder and onto the flat  roof. On some evenings I would just lay there listening to the train cars banging away in the rail yard and looking up in the hazy sky trying to find a few stars. On game nights I could see the bright lights of Dodger Stadium across the valley. Just up the road was Griffith Park. At night time I often enjoyed racing the deserted curved road through the hills leading to the observatory. From there I could take in the sparkling lights stretching across the hills of Los Angeles. One of my favorite places to hang out was Forest Lawn in Glendale, only a few blocks from where I worked. The quiet meditation chapels provided a pleasant retreat after a busy day at work.  There I could read and study in preparation for my upcoming mission.

      Summer work in California had been a great adventure, but now it was time to move on. I'd just turned nineteen and the LDS Stake President in Burbank had submitted my mission papers to Salt Lake City. I would make my way back home the long way, up the Pacific Coast across to Alberta, Canada, and back down to Provo through Glacier National Park and the beautiful Rockies. It turned out to be a trip I will always remember.