THEY found the Hardrock Kid under a tree in Ogden, Iowa back in 1977. He was on his way to the National Hobo Convention in Britt when he stopped for lunch and quietly passed away. In hobo vernacular: he caught the Westbound. His body is buried in the hobo cemetery in Britt; his humble possessions are displayed in its museum, which celebrates wanderers. On a glass shelf are toothpaste, a toothpick, some cutlery, a razor, a reel of cotton, a needle, cigarettes and a pair of pliers.

Hobos have long been misunderstood. People call them bums, often prefaced with the word “lazy”. Yet life on the road is arduous. Hobos travel to find work for food and lodging, an old tradition. In the late 1800s, 63 of them started a union with a small subscription fee and a set of laws. These, among other things, told members not to abuse handouts, to respect nature, and wherever possible to find work and stay clean. Linda Hughes, who works at the National Hobo Museum in Britt, says that hobos were the first migrant workers and that they helped to build America.

During the Depression there were probably hundreds of thousands of them, including many teenagers. Few were paid-up union members. But some of the better-known were poets, artists and dreamers. “Tramp art” has become collectable: hobos engraved cameos on nickels, made models with matchsticks and carved intricate designs on cigar boxes.

Minnesota Jim, who attended the 113th convention this year, has a weather-beaten face like a map of the world. He says he rode the rails in the 1940s out of a sense of “curiosity and adventure” before settling down. He washed dishes, picked cotton and potatoes, and worked in a lumber mill.

Another hobo, a young woman with blond dreadlocks and bare feet, says she is on her way to Oregon to work on the marijuana harvest. She says she loves small towns; she ran away from a pimp in St Louis, a city she describes as both “dangerous and boring”.

In some ways, things are tougher on hobos these days, says Minnesota Jim. It used to be easy to hitch a lift (traffic was slower) or hop on a goods train. “We didn’t have any trouble with the police,” he sighs. Riding the rails has always been illegal, but hobos complain that enforcement is tougher, especially in the South where the railway police (or “bulls”) are feared for their aggression. Those who travel by road today tell of being hit with objects thrown from cars, including bottles filled with urine.

The hobo convention was a riot of straggly hair, hobo poetry and free Mulligan stew. Convention-goers such as Connecticut Shortie, Dapper Darrell and Lump came together to pay homage to those who have caught the Westbound. Iowa Blackie, Steam Train Maury, the Pennsylvania Kid and many others are buried nearby.

Hobo groupies came too: people who wish to keep the culture of this vanishing breed alive. Hobo slang is earthy and evocative: a hobo camp is a jungle; a sit-down meal a knee-shaker; washing dishes is pearl-diving; living in a car is rubber tramping. Disappointingly, few hobos at the meeting arrived the traditional way, by hopping off a freight train. The railway drivers know about the festival and refuse, rather unsportingly, to slow down on their way through town.

A hobo name can only be given by one hobo to another. Grump, a black hobo born in South Dakota, agreed that a foreign journalist travelling through the Midwest qualified for the honour. After a little thought your correspondent was dubbed: Mad Scrip. Although offered a spare sleeping bag and a night in front of the jungle campfire, sadly Mad Scrip was obliged to make her excuses and leave.