RoadReads: “Death of the American Hobo”

“Stay down and don’t let anybody see you.” image via

We managed to jump over a couple strings of cars and get out of the yard and were wandering past suburban houses when two cop cars rolled out of nowhere. A bald, angry-looking officer swaggered over to us. “Cat-and-mouse game, huh? Looks like we win,” he scoffed. The other, a soft-spoken “good cop,” asked us a lot of questions about ourselves, and we managed to build up a friendly rapport. The bald one narrowed his eyes and glared at Jackson: “You’ve got a wedding ring on and a nice-ass camera around your neck. So what are you doing out here?”

What, indeed. Aaron Lake Smith rides the rails for Vice, from Walden Pond to Reno, NV to the Hobo Convention. (Read it in full here.)

fellow travelers: A Cup of Jo.

fellow travelers is our chance to shine a spotlight on greatness from the internet’s travel community. It is not our list of poputchiks. Just some wanderers who we consider outstanding.

From Austin to Amsterdam, ACoJ has got you covered. all images via

If you’re a longtime reader of the sweet lifestyle-y musings of A Cup of Jo, you might’ve noticed a trend toward travel tips as of late. She’s covering anything and everything — from travelling with your young one to simply packing your bag, to a helpful secret when you might be feeling a little jetlagged. She’s even got a guide to her home base, NYC. You’ll find her advice is always simple and straightforward and maybe secretly inspirational. Don’t you want to hit the road already? Just look at that bike…

RoadReads: “Everest, the Grandaddy of Walking Adventures”

His granddad wore tweed, Sam wears spandex. image via

It’s not just anyone who can come, but everyone too – and they do. In the previous month, 10,000 tourists had entered Sagarmatha National Park. The trail north from the scary little airstrip at Lukla is chocker with trekkers – at times it’s more like a queue than a walk. Antipodeans trade matey banter; purposeful Germans with trekking poles overtake on the straights; the French, beautifully turned out, shrug indifferently; fat tattooed Brits huff and puff on the inclines. Above us, the air is alive with helicopters ferrying Japanese tourists who have neither the time nor the inclination to walk up the valley. They will spend a night in the Hotel Everest View, gasping into oxygen cylinders. In the morning they will take photos on the terrace, then fly away. Tomorrow they’ll probably be in Bangkok, or the Philippines.”

Even on Everest, time marches on, and Sam Wollaston’s trudging in its Gore-Tex’d footsteps for the Guardian. (Read it in full here.)