Greetings Fellow Travelers,

Iowa Blackie was many things, but he was most certainly my friend. Although we had crossed paths many a time around my usual stomping grounds, we never had the opportunity to speak about our journeys. In 1999, the time finally came where I had the time to speak to this man who looked, for lack of a better phrase, as a street urchin who had grown into a true vagabond.

My likeness of the Hobo Iowa Blackie

I spoke of my interest in the great road, the Lincoln Highway, and he spoke of his love of the original roads, the rails that cross this great nation of ours. As the conversation went on, it was no surprise to learn that we shared a love of history and of how folks traverse the vast open spaces of the country.

Now Iowa Blackie was born Richard Gage in Northern Iowa. When he was off the tracks, he called home a small house along his beloved railroad in New Hampton, Iowa. His first experience as a hobo happened when he left home at the young age of 13, when he walked out of the house, jumped a railcar, and rode to Oelwein, Iowa. As I am sure you would understand, Blackie’s parents were not too fond of this new hobby of his.

To add to the character he was, Blackie told me he was a Poet Laureate, writing poems about his life. He came often to my stomping grounds to print his books at the Sunstrom-Miller Press in Boone, IA, every year at Springtime. He also created a railroad trivia calendar and sold those to the masses for one dollar a piece. However, as the savvy businessman he was, any inquiry as to the price of the calendar always returned the answer of “Something more than a dollar, please.”

During that first meeting in 1999, I asked Iowa Blackie where he called home while he was travelling along the open road. He spoke to being grateful of finding anywhere along the way to rest his head, but it often boiled down to finding a place where he could take shelter from the unpredictable weather of the Midwest. Almost as soon as he related this to me, he asked if I had anywhere he could use to serve this purpose. Now as you know, there are very few times I am without words, but in response to this question, I found myself not knowing what to say as I looked on this vagabond of a man. As I recovered, I spoke to the fact that my home was out in the country and transportation might be an issue for him and his travels. Not to be deterred, Blackie spoke up to say that there would be no issue, for he had his trusty bicycle that could get him back and forth. Not seeing a bicycle in our near vicinity, I asked him where the bike could be found. His reply was that it was not here, but in the Bike Barn in Ogden, IA, a town 12 miles away from where we were currently standing, as that was where he left the bike during the cold Iowa winters.

Being somewhat of a big hearted sap at the time, I chose to take on this hobo. This decision led to what I call the Iowa Blackie years, which were five Springs and often Falls where this hobo became my tenant. As the decision was made, I began to realize I did not know where Blackie would reside. He could not stay in my home itself, as I was certain that the missus would show me the doghouse as my sleeping quarters. I offered the 16 passenger van I used in my long travels that featured a bed in the rear and he jumped at the idea before I could think twice. And with that, my adventures began with the legendary hobo, Iowa Blackie.

While I did regard Iowa Blackie as my friend, as I spoke to earlier, I quickly came to understand there was a reason you do not bring home wild animals or, in this circumstance, wild Hobos. This is only the introduction to my adventures, as I will relate further tales of Iowa Blackie and our journeys along the road and on my own piece of land.

From the Open Road,

Lincoln Highway Johnny