Modern Living: Hitchhiking by Air

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Early this year, word seeped through the underground that the hippest new way to travel was overground—hitchhiking on the steadily growing fleet of 80,000 or so private American aircraft that are in service at any given time. Pilots of noncommercial planes found themselves confronted increasingly often by earnest youngsters holding signs that read "Boston," "Twin Cities," or simply "West" or "Europe"—and often the hitchhikers made it to their destinations. As a way of travel, hitchhiking by air is both adventurous and free, and has become popular enough to be declared illegal in Denver. To investigate the underground's airline, TIME Reporter-Researcher Marion Knox packed a small red suitcase, two books and a purse holding $120 and set off to thumb her way to Los Angeles. Her report:

The best jumping-off points from New York are Westchester County Airport, the Butler Aviation Terminal for private planes at La Guardia, and Teterboro, N.J., and I quickly learn that corporate jets are the most likely bets. They take the longest jumps and often "deadhead"—that is, fly empty to pick up passengers. Jeffre, a girl I meet, has been waiting six days so far for a hop to Europe. "I would never have believed I'd stay so long," she says, "but everyone here has been so nice." I'm luckier: on the fourth day, I get a lift west out of Butler (though other rides were offered to Boston, Ottawa, Wilmington and Pittsburgh).

Off to a Rodeo. The ride turns up only after my cheek muscles start to ache from holding a perpetual cheery smile. I ask a pilot "Going west?" and he answers "Yup." He consults his employers, and suddenly I am climbing into a Mitsubishi twinjet, courtesy of a gruff Chicago executive named Joseph Salvato, a first-generation Sicilian whose cousin John jokingly calls him "God." We land at Hinsdale, Ill., 17 miles from Chicago.

Off to Chicago's Midway Airport by taxi. Late in the afternoon, two pilots for the Husky Oil Co., of Cody, Wyo., suggest that I ask their boss, Chairman of the Board Glenn Nielson, for a lift to Cody. Nielson is slightly taken aback but finally agrees, and we have tea and cookies aboard his jet Sabreliner on the way to Cody. Nielson immediately sends me off to a rodeo. A nice man.

But the Cody airport isn't nearly so nice, and after a day of waiting in vain for another lift, I hop a commercial flight ($37 youth fare) to Denver. That night, with a bit of help from friendly mechanics, I snooze in the pilot's lounge.

"Don't get discouraged," says one mechanic. "We'll look out for you." They do. Early the next morning, a pilot sticks his head in to ask if I would like a lift in his Gulfstream jet across the Rockies to Grand Junction, Colo. I would, and 300 miles later we're there. He arranges for a hop with an oilman to Los Angeles on Monday.