I was waiting on the ocean highway in Oregon with my partner and our two backpacks, thumbing for a ride after camping in the trees outside town. Along comes walking our way a sandy-haired, sports-jacket-toting guy who introduces himself as Mr. Sidewalk. He'd gotten the name by having a hobo wedding with Sidewalk in Portland, where he'd just left. Conversation quickly turned to our bags and his lack of one, and he showed us all what he had: a toothbrush, a pair of socks, and a pipe. He said he'd spent the last night burrito'd up in a blue tarp on some cardboard, both of which he'd found earlier that evening, tucked behind a building, and in the morning he had left them there for the next hobo to find. Why carry it when there will be a tarp for him in the next town? That's just the way he rolls, scoring food and shelter wherever he walks.
He kept walking, seeing as he wasn't weighed down, and we kept waiting, seeing as our bags made it impractical to do anything but wait for a ride. Thirty minutes later I asked our ride to pull over as we overtook him and let him join us. It was a shiny rental car from someone who flew into state sharing grapes and pistachios for breakfast. We hit the California Redwoods, got let out, put our weed and his pipe together, whipped up some PBJ, and he walked off as we bedded down in our tents.
The one thing he said he misses most is a water bottle, but every time he gets his hands on one he inevitably loses it, since he doesn't have the knack for keeping his things.