Two German women had parked next to the fee station. They stood in the shade and laughed at the winking digital eye of the National Park Service. One pointed to my backpack and the cardboard sign at my feet. She waved.

"Do you want a ride?"

Having spent the previous 90 minutes in failed attempts to convince the traveling public that I was anything other than a Hungry Cannibal with a Big Knife, I nodded, and flashed what I hoped was my least-threatening smile: "That would be great. Thanks."

"It's OK," said one of the women. "Oh . . . do you have a gun?"

I made a weak joke about the arsenals carried by the typical American tourist, and my own lack of firepower. We drove off. Fifteen minutes later Helene and Mika dropped me at the put-in. I met my friend and we had a great hike.

Five days later I was hitching back to Flag. Again, I did my best to look benign. (The backpack, straw hat, and trekking poles would, I hoped, advertise me as an outdoor type not much interested in mass murder.)

All the same, I stood for hours at the junction of U.S. 64 and 89 watching my countrymen from Idaho, Iowa, and Utah whiz by. Most pretended not to see me-even the fun hogs with bicycles and kayaks on the overhead racks.

The day was hot, and there was no shade. I had foolishly neglected to fill my water jugs. For a few minutes I regretted my decision to hitch. But one reason I've decided to experiment with hitching again (after a 30-year layoff) is because hitchhiking is unpredictable. (Like any writer, I especially like the random, intimate, short-lived encounters with strangers that hitching affords.)

I am also returning to the Way of the Thumb because I'm weary of the status quo: driving thousands and thousands of highway miles with nobody else in the rig is wasteful, and lonely. Hitching is cheap, and fun, and good for the earth.

Yes, I know, hitchhiking is also dangerous. We've all been told a million times: Don't take rides. Don't pick anybody up. Consequently, this sensible, populist transportation option is just about dead in the United States. People are just too scared.

But with the icecaps melting, the dollar falling, and five-buck gas lurking right around the corner, hitchhiking's star may be on the rise. It worked once; it can work again.
It still works in Europe, New Zealand and Australia, and throughout Latin America. (In rural Nicaragua you often don't even have to put out your thumb. Passing vehicles simply pull over. Riders offer the driver a few cordobas for gas, if they can, and everybody goes away smiling.)

Up until the late seventies (around the time of airline deregulation) hitchhiking was common in the U.S., at least among the young. Chances are, if you're over 50, you've hitchhiked; if you're under 30, you probably have not.

True, bad things sometimes happened (and do happen) to good people. But how dangerous is hitchhiking, really? My Google search of "hitchhiking and violent crime statistics" turned up no useful numbers.

Many other human endeavors - skiing, climbing, kayaking, and highway driving, to name just a few - are quite dangerous. Still we accept these risks. We enjoy them, in fact. So why not with hitchhiking?

It's hard anymore to justify burning a barrel of oil so that we can take a walk, or ride our bikes, or paddle a boat. Fortunately, tree-huggers who want to mitigate the effects of their road trips don't need to lay out 25 grand for a Prius.

It's as easy as sticking out your thumb - or pulling over for the next backpacker you see on the shoulder. You probably won't be killed, and you might even make some friends. If I see you out there on the road, I'll be sure to stop. Here's hoping you'll do the same.