!975. A rite of passage is the only way to describe the tendency of many young people coming of age in the 60’s and 70’s to take a journey across America, going nowhere in particular. We were influenced by a counter culture without truly realizing its affect upon us. By the mid 70’s the thinking of the Hippie movement and the beats before them had percolated into the mainstream of America’s youth. Young adults have always felt the urge to “see the world” just as my father had when he joined the navy to escape rural West Virginia. But our feeling was different, consisting more of an inner quest of self through epic travel, at least to our mind. Like so many others, I was confused. My uneducated parents had no plan for me and could not understand why I made everything so complicated. They had survived war and economic depression and were thrilled at having a good job and a home. They never doubted their convictions but were troubled by the social turmoil rocking the nation: long hair on kids, drugs, rock and roll, Not so long ago Negros were burning down cities, the Cuyahoga River had caught on fire, assassinations, a war we didn’t win, women burning their bras, what madness they thought.
One of my earliest memories was coming home from grade school and rushing into the house yelling at the top of my lungs that President Kennedy had been shot. At school all the teachers had been acting strange, leaving the classrooms and gathering in the hallways whispering to one another. Before long we found out that the president had been shot.
Years later, towards the end of high school, I remember that televisions were set up in the auditorium so students could watch the Watergate proceedings. We watched as the president of the United States was thrown out of office. Later that summer, broadcast on all channels, I looked on as Nixon got into a helicopter, threw up his strange victory sign that comedians would make fun of from that day forth, and flew away. So many parents at that time were as confused as we were, and never had a clue as to what we were doing, or what we were thinking, the generation gap was greater then ever, before or since.
I was going on a trip and my friend, Dave was going with me. Graduated from high school a year before, “foot loose and fancy free,” adventure was what we craved. The summer before I had experienced a wilderness wonderland with an expedition into the Salt River Range in the Mountains of Wyoming through NOLS (National Outdoor Leadership School). After paying my dues and flying out west I spent six radical weeks camping, hiking and climbing with the NOLS class in the mountains. And now I was ready to see more of the West with all its diverse lands and peoples. We were going to do this thing right and in the purist form, which meant that we were going to hitchhike across the continent. The plan was to hitchhike to San Jose, California where we would stay with our friend from high school, Lynn Thompson and his girlfriend. They had moved out right after graduation; he was black, and she, white. We would meet up with our friend, Andy Kiel who had driven his old clunker out with a friend a month before and was staying at Lynn’s place. His friend had gone somewhere else so we would team up with Andy then head for Mexico.
It came as no surprise when my mother pleaded with me not to go. My father, on the other hand, wished me luck, telling me to keep my powder dry and my head down. Being a roustabout in his younger years he saw the writing on the wall. Dave and I purchased back packs, sleeping bags and studied our maps in preparation for the trip. We called a mutual friend, Jeff Vizzo and arranged for him to give us a ride to interstate 80 just south of Cleveland, where we would begin the journey. On the day of our departure we loaded up into Jeff’s car and headed north for the interstate where we climbed out near the access ramp with our packs and said our goodbyes. Moving up towards the highway we stuck out our thumbs and soon had a ride heading west. After all these years I cannot remember all those people who were kind enough to give us rides, but many cannot be forgotten, and those are the ones who will reappear in this memoir of our journey.
We made good time in the beginning of the day but ran into a serious dilemma that afternoon. After being let off somewhere in Indiana because our ride was going to head south, we found ourselves in what can only be described as a hitchhiker logjam. Surrounded by fellow hitchhikers desperately trying to catch a ride out of this place, it seemed as if young people everywhere were hitchhiking across the country. Why they all seemed to be stuck in this particular place I cannot say, but after speaking with a few of them it looked as though it would be a challenge to get out of there. I’m sure this large herd of young people must have been quite a sight to oncoming traffic: boys and girls with long hair and ragged bell bottoms, no bras, the pungent smell of marijuana in the air, standing in scruffy sneakers and leather sandals or barefoot, many glassy eyed with some mindbender coursing through their brain, aimlessly wandering this area of road, their thumbs in the air. We tried walking back the way we had come so as to be the first to be seen from the oncoming cars; the idea didn’t work. We then hiked the other way so we could be the last to be seen as the traffic moved beyond this logjam, and once again we failed.
This was becoming very frustrating. It appeared no one wanted to stop in the midst of a hitchhiker nightmare. Dave and I decided to exit the highway and walk towards the nearest town where hopefully we could get a ride. We set out walking, stopping only to throw up a thumb whenever a car whizzed by. After walking for an hour or so a car pulled up and a middle aged woman waved us into her car. What can I say? It was a different world back then. She asked us where we were from and where we were going. We explained our problem with the hitchhiker logjam and our plan to hit the interstate further up the line. We were in luck for she volunteered to take us back to the interstate further west, but first it was off to her home in some small town nearby where she fed us a home cooked meal. We ate heartily as we listened to the details of her daily life. I forget those details but I am pretty sure she was a lonely soul who just wanted company. I don’t remember what she looked like but her home was a small modest place on a shady street with pictures of children on the walls. After supper, she was as good as her word and gave us a ride back to the interstate in a different spot. We soon found a ride and continued on our way.
It was just about dusk as we existed from a ride about to head in another direction. Tired and bone weary from our first day on the road, we needed a place to sleep. Walking off the interstate towards a country road, our thoughts were of a quiet secluded spot somewhere. It was rapidly getting dark as we walked along scanning the woods beside the road when we spotted a silhouette up ahead. Slowing down as we approached, the shadowy shape transformed into an older man standing there before us (he looked old to us). “Hi,” one of us mumbled. He didn’t speak as we rambled on about who, what and why we were there. As he listened he must have made some internal decision about us and reaching into his breast pocket pulled out what at first appeared to be a cigarette. Lighting up, he took a deep drag and blew out a blast of smoke with the distinctive sweet smell of marijuana, then held out the joint for us to partake in. After the joint was gone and we felt the buzz engulf us he began to talk. He lived somewhere around here and had been in the army for over a decade intending to retire from there, but the time spent in Nam (Vietnam) in the early years of the war had pissed him off but good, so he told them all to go screw themselves. “You’re lucky you were not sent to that Goddamn, monkey fucking, cluster fuck of water buffalo shit,” he said, or something to that affect.
The man told us there was a farmer’s field down the road a piece where we could sleep, and then he simply walked off into the dark. Ambling down the narrow road for a while brought us out of the trees and along side a field of some sort. Climbing through a wire fence we found a dry soft area near a large tree to spread our sleeping bags out and spend the night. Whenever I slept in a place I was unsure of I began the habit of taking off my shoes but not my clothes as I crawled into my bag. You never know what will happen as things go “bump in the night,” or in the morning for that matter. We slept soundly through the night in that dark quiet place far from the road and houses until our rude awakening the next morning. We awoke to a strong smell and a loud noise that scared the hell out of me as I looked wildly around for the source of it. There, standing not more than a few feet from us stood a small herd of dairy cows bellowing in the early morning light, their huge legs looking like tree trunks, especially from our prone position. A cow lifted its tail and unleashed a torrent of piss drowning the vegetation beneath it. Scurrying out of our bags to avoid being accidentally trampled or drowned, we put our shoes on and moved away and through the fence to the road. Good morning!
Moving back onto the highway we soon caught a ride and were on our way west again. Coming into Gary, Indiana we had the misfortune of being let off on a busy stretch of road right in the city. Deciding to leave the highway a bit to look for somewhere to eat we moved along the city streets only to find ourselves in an unsavory area. Ramshackle apartment buildings with sulking, angry looking youths lounging on steps or huddled in groups along the street cast unfriendly eyes our way. I felt like a lamb among wolves. Deciding not to press our luck we reversed course and returned to the highway where good fortune provided us with a ride so we could leave that depressing and dangerous place behind.
Rolling across Illinois the landscape was reminiscent of Ohio, after all, we were still in the Midwest and moving through Iowa was much the same except for the corn. Even in Ohio I had not seen corn like this; the fields went on and on like a rolling green ocean as the miles faded behind us. It was as if the entire state was one large corn field with no beginning and no end.
At times it is hard to make headway while hitchhiking when rides become difficult to come by; we never made it out of Iowa that day and as we crawled out of a car night was creeping in. We began to look for a place to sleep.
Walking towards a nearby town we entered what looked like a college. Thinking we might find a lonely spot to throw our bags down and sleep we explored the grounds. Approaching a building that turned out to be a student center we entered and found a group of people watching television. Sitting down, Dave looked around and asked loudly where we might camp that night. No one spoke but several glanced our way with shy mischievous eyes. The night suddenly took on a macabre atmosphere. Nothing was quite what it seemed and I began to feel like Alice in wonderland. Dave spoke again, and this time the students were all looking our way. Once again no one said anything but after a few seconds the entire group erupted into spontaneous laughter. This was getting weird and we decided to leave this loony nest.
Moving out into the warm humid night, meandering across the campus grounds looking for a quiet out of the way place to sleep, we ran into a group of girls. Waving them over I explained our situation and asked if there was a place to sleep. They cast looks at us but remained silent for a moment, and then began to giggle, glancing at one another, then back at us. Enough of this, I thought, as we began walking again.
“Can you believe it? They’re all following us,” said Dave in a loud Whisper. Looking over my shoulder I saw the girls hanging back but clearly trailing us. Periodically giggles erupted in the gaggle of girls that had attached themselves to us.
“Hi girls!” I shouted. “Since you can’t help us, how can we help you?” They said nothing.
We headed out of the area muttering about these freaking idiots! We were apprehensive about spending the night anywhere near this “twilight zone,” but being dead tired, finding a place to lie down was overpowering. Passing an entrance of some kind we found a patch of woods and spread our bags. Nervous but tired we crawled in our bed and listened to the wind that had whipped up blowing through the trees, heightening our anxiety. It was a fitful night.
The next morning we woke early, packed up and headed for the road. Passing the entrance to the college we came upon a sign overlooked the night before. It read, “School of the Deaf.” Dave and I looked at each other in wonderment! After a moment we began to laugh until the tears rolled down our cheeks. When control of our emotions was reestablished we began to walk again. Dave looked my way and said, “I don’t care, they were freaking nut jobs, huh."
Catching a ride and whipping down the freeway in a semi truck passing the large American cars of that time, we soon left Iowa behind entering the state of Nebraska. I remember the semi truck because I left my wallet inside. The driver was deceit enough to mail it back home where my mother mailed it to Lynn Thompson’s apartment in San Jose, California to await my arrival.
Nebraska is a transitional state where the physical nature of the land changes from the Midwest to the great plains of the West. I remember stopping at a rest stop and studying a map there with information and pictures at the bottom indicated the changing nature of plants and animals. We were at a point in the state where the range of the eastern cottontail ended and the western range of the jackrabbit began. The land opened up and became emptier of trees, towns and people, spreading out before us, registering a higher wide open realm of possibilities in my mind. Feeling more like the high springing jackrabbit then the little eastern cottontail, I felt released and ready for whatever was next.
What was next was totally unexpected! Standing by the side of an empty stretch of road we heard the roar of a car barreling towards us at a high speed. We stuck up our thumbs as the car streaked by, a flash of blue, the sun reflecting off the chrome in the hot burning sun. A few seconds later the driver slammed on the breaks laying rubber as it skidded sideways to a halt. Revving the engine, the driver laid on the horn in an invitation for a ride. Hoofing it down the road with our packs we approached a blue Mustang. The window rolled down and a pretty girl with a wild mane of curly blond hair poked her head out. “Throw your packs in the back and hop in.”
Laying more rubber on the road the girl shifted through the gears accelerating rapidly down the empty, open road. She glanced over and introduced herself and we did likewise. She lived up the way a piece in a town with her girlfriend. Periodically, as she talked, her hand would slip down between her legs to grab an open bottle of Jack Daniel whisky, hoist it up to her lips and take a big swallow. The music on the radio was turned up loud and the window down, letting in the sound and sensation of the heated wind and the laboring engine. The high speed at which the Mustang was moving made us nervous, and it was difficult to hear one another. She handed over the bottle to me and I took a drink of firewater thinking the more we drank the less there would be for her to guzzle, which had to be a good thing, considering our lives were in her hands.
A small dot appeared on the horizon up ahead and quickly grew in proportion transforming into a pickup truck as the mustang hurled forward. The girl had no intention of slowing down! The highway was two way, but then that should be okay, for she could simply pass around the truck if she realized its presence, providing there was nothing coming the other way. She continued talking and swilling whiskey as if the road was clear ahead. Suddenly, a bad situation became an instant nightmare. “There’s a car coming the other way!” yelled Dave in warning. We were trapped. If she slammed on the brakes at this speed the mustang would skid out of control. Seconds later, the blackened of the truck loomed up before us in the front window. In the unflinching reaction of the inebriated the girl cranked the wheel and passed the truck on the right off the road, the rear end of the mustang fishtailing, spraying gravel and dirt into the air. Yelling until our lungs became raw, clenching our seats with white knuckles, we hung on as the girl fought to steer the mustang back onto the road. I waited tragically for the car to roll over and crush us. With what appeared to be divine intervention, she managed to get back on the road and slow way down. The whiskey had spilled and the music was still blaring.
We were all quiet for awhile, and then she spoke,” I’m almost home. You all want to come to my house? My girlfriend will be back soon.” We nodded our heads in agreement. After all, we were young, and maybe her girlfriend was as pretty as she was. She managed to keep the speed down as the mustang rolled into her town, onto her street and into her driveway. We climbed the steps to her upstairs apartment and entered.
Thinking back, the apartment was typical of the time. One large area was reserved for a kick ass stereo system with big ear shattering speakers and several racks of albums ranging from the Eagles and Black Oak Arkansas to the Doors and Jimmy Hendrix. The walls were plastered with psychedelic posters oozing all the colors of the rainbow exploding into flowers and unicorns. Jack Daniel bottles now empty of whiskey and refilled with change or flowers lined a window ledge. Blondie (I don’t remember her name) told us to help ourselves to drinks in the fridge. We grabbed some beer and set down on a sofa while Blondie put some tunes on, then disappeared only to reappear moments later with a fresh bottle of Jack Daniel. We talked, drank beer, sipped whiskey and listened to the music while waiting for her girlfriend to arrive. My imagination was firing on all cylinders in anticipation of “jungle love” and Dave certainly had a gleam in his eyes.
Time passed. We kept drinking and were becoming a little smashed; however, our condition was mild compared to Blondie who had become absolutely trashed! And, still no girlfriend. The three of us continued to sit there pounding down the booze with the base from the speakers vibrating the floor beneath us. Sporadically, Blondie would leap off the sofa and do a little air guitar to a particular tune that struck a chord in her whiskey laden head before collapsing back in a heap on the sofa. It was then I realized that what had been so promising had turned into a real bummer! Looking over at Blondie I knew she was a goner as far as this night was concerned; and here we were, two hitchhikers, strangers in a room with a girl ready to pass out. If her girlfriend were to return now, what would that be like? Would she be welcoming or alarmed! It was time to split, vamoose! I explained the situation as I saw it to Dave, who was reluctant at first, then agreed as he looked over at the slumping Blondie. I grabbed the whiskey and stuffed it in my pack. She certainly didn’t need it. Walking over to the stereo I turned it off. We approached the girl and thanked her for the ride but we had to be moving along. “Wherrr u goo’in?” She slurred, her eyes nearly shut.” We left.
Somewhere in the dusty western end of Nebraska we climbed out of a car, thanked the driver and walked into a campground with a huge lake in the middle to spend the night. Paying our fee and setting up camp in an isolated area we ate our supper, put on some shorts and headed towards the lake. Trucking down through the campground it became apparent that a majority of the campers were military personal. Guys were sitting around their camp in military pants and t-shirts drinking beer and smoking weed, the sound of rock and roll, carried on the warm breeze wafted through the area as we perched on a picnic table to gaze at the placid lake.
With the Vietnam War recently ended in 1973, these guys would not be going overseas to fight. No doubt a great many were draftees snatched from their home towns and cities, waiting with anticipation to finish their time and go home. Never, in modern history had military morale been so low. This unpopular and bloody war, dependent upon the draft, had left a nation divided and angry. Unfortunately, in many cases there was an ignominious homecoming for the returning soldiers by the general population, representing baby killers to some, and losers to others. Even though the War had ended I had to register for the draft upon graduation in 1974, just in case, I guess.
Our attention to the water was distracted by a commotion nearby between two military personal as a small fellow berated his larger buddy, threatening to kick his ass over some perceived offence. “We’re going to get it on right now! I’m a going to kick your ass, and there’s no backing outta this you fucker,” ranted the little buddy, and he took a wild swing with his fist missing as the big fellow stepped back out of his reach.
“Now cut it out, damn it,” yelled the big buddy. “You’re drunk. Don’t you swing at me again or I’m going to have to wallop you one.”
“We’ll see ’bout that you big chicken shit,” and he took another swing hitting the big guy in the chest unable to reach high enough to clip him on the jaw.
“Damn you! I warned you,” shouted the big fellow, and he landed a thundering blow to the face of his smaller friend, lifting his body off the ground and careening it backwards. The smaller man landed flat on his back, legs spread and out cold. Rushing over and cooing over his unconscious friend he mumbled, “Oh, shit. I didn't want ta do that, you drunken fool.” Picking his buddy up and slinging him over his shoulder he carried him off into the camp ground. Dave and I just looked at one another shaking our heads. It was time for an evening swim.
Large and motionless, the lake lay there glistening in the hot Nebraska afternoon beckoning us to submerge into its warm embrace. Wading out and pushing off the deepening bottom we swam lazily out into the still lake as warm as bathwater following the ripples from our moving limbs. We could see the distant shore. The water felt so good we kept swimming out further in a slow easy breaststroke as the sun sank lower softening the light reflecting off the surface. Between the pleasant sensation of the water and fantastic mixture of textured color in the sky and lake, the feeling that we could swim forever engulfed us. Deciding to swim to the far shore and hike around the lake back to camp we continued swimming further from shore. We had been at it for some time when a head appeared above the water moving towards us. “Hello there,” I shouted out as the swimmer came near. Forming a triangle treating water, the three of us talked a bit. “The water’s great. We’re thinking about swimming all the way across and hiking back to the campground,” I said.
“I wouldn't do that,” the swimmer said. “This lake is deep and a fellow was drowned in here a few weeks ago. It’s further across then it looks. Man, I tired right now. I’m going back.” Looking at him treading water and breathing heavy, it dawned on me that I was getting tired too. Glancing at the far shore it appeared no closer despite the considerable amount of time we had been swimming. I looked over at Dave, who said, “Let’s go back.” The three of us started back towards the campground. It was now apparent that it was a long way back too. The thoughts of all three of us were crystallized when our new found friend muttered, “This was really stupid, man.” We were all tired but kept going as the recently arrived evening light cast a yellow glow over the world. The only sounds were that of our breathing and a quiet splashing as our arms and legs moved across the water. Earlier, when Dave and I had first entered the lake, I allowed myself to sink down a ways and became aware of the quick transition from sun-warmed surface water to the very dark and cold water beneath. Remembering this, I morosely wondered what it would be like to drown and thought about the fellow who had so recently suffered that very fate in this lake. “Did they find his body?” I said, directing my question at our friend.
“What?” He gasped, choking on a little water.
“The guy that drowned here,” I exhaled.
“No,” he grunted.
Finally, wading ashore with leaden limbs, we collapsed on the beach to catch our breath. “It’s a good thing we ran into you out there. It’s no telling how long we would have kept swimming before we smartened up,” Dave noted dryly.
Our friend accompanied us back to our camp where a roaring fire was built and the bottle of whisky in my pack passed around. Heading home back East (I do not remember where) our friend had been camping on the lake for about a week. His motorcycle broke down, and in a local shop awaiting a part, he was hanging out. Since he was heading east and we, west, the talk was of his travels and lasted late into the night. The next morning we packed up and left.
The prairies of Colorado, treeless and endless, stretched to the far horizon as our ride rolled down the asphalt highway looking like a black ribbon in the glaring sun. We were headed for Fort Collins and the University there, where we hoped to find a student by the name of Terry Settos. She had graduated from Wooster High in our class and was entering her sophomore year at Colorado University. Terry was staying in Fort Collins for the summer and we hoped to spend the night there.
Let off near a little prairie town named Sterling and standing by the highway attempting to find another ride, we were approached by a police car. Getting out of his car, the officer strolled over in our direction and put his hands on his hips and stared at us for a few moments slowly chewing on gum. I thought to myself, what on earth is this about?
He finally spoke, “Where’re you boys from, huh?”
“Ohio, sir,” I said.
“Ooo-hi-o, huh. Well, boys from Ooo-hi-o, here in Sterling, Colorado we don’t allow no hitchhiking on our highways. Sooo-- I’m going to open the trunk of my automobile and you’re going to throw your packs in there. And then, we’re going to take a little trip down to the police station and have us a talk.”
Okay, I thought, this is freaky! What is it with this guy? This chumplorado! Is he some kind of sadistic bully that hates long haired white kids from Ohio along with Negroes and Jews? My nervous imagination was shifting into overdrive as we crawled in the police cruiser and headed into Sterling. Not much was happening in the small town: a few dusty pickups moving along the streets and a couple of cars parked in front of a local store. We pulled into the station and entered.
“Take a seat boys,” boomed the officer with a shit eating grin. We sat down, as he did, throwing his feet on the desk. “Just where are you all going anyway?”
We told him of our plan to see the country and meet up with our friend in California. He was unimpressed, and launched into a homespun tirade about the perils of a shiftless life with no direction or meaning. What we should do, according to him, was join the army. After all, we didn’t exactly look like college material to him, and a stint in the service would straighten us up and stiffen our backbone a little. In fact, he would be more than happy to take us to a nearby recruiting center. Getting killed wouldn’t be a problem ‘cause the war had ended and it would probably be awhile before another war came along, he explained earnestly. “Well, what do ya think?” He said.
“Hmm--I don’t think we want to do that sir,” I said, mumbling, my pulse beginning to race.
“Fine!” he said, his face reddening. “In that case you all got two choices. You can pay a fine for hitchhiking on our highway if you got enough money, or you can spend the night in jail? Which will it be?”
We paid him the money. Before being released we were given a stern warning about hitchhiking on the highway. If he caught us again, we would be going to jail.
Stumbling out into the bright Colorado sunshine, Dave and I walked through town towards the highway. Our plan was to catch a ride legal by throwing up our thumbs on the road leading to the highway, but not up on the highway. Stopping in a small cafe we had lunch with the local mix of ranchers, farmers and a few merchants thrown in here and there. They seemed hardworking, regular country folk and paid us no mind. Leaving the cafe after lunch I noticed something strange in the back of a pickup truck and stepped closer to take a better look. “Whoa!” I shouted and jumped back instinctively. There, in the bed of the pickup, lying in a metal tub filled with ice were the dead bodies of several large snakes. Creeping nearer we noticed they had no heads or tails. Further examination revealed a bucket with the tails of the rattlesnakes in it. It appeared that the snake hunter driving this truck was going to have a little rattlesnake meat for supper. I had a sudden urge to snatch one of the rattle tails from the bucket for a souvenir, but restrained myself. Let the snake hunter keep his rattles, after all, he was the one that blew their heads off, not I.
Reaching the outskirts of Sterling we walked past a corral with a couple of horses prancing and galloping in a circle, their heads shaking, noses flared and feeling their oats. Posting ourselves on the ramp leading up to the highway we waited for traffic coming out of Sterling. Time passed and nothing on four wheels appeared as the afternoon sun glared from the sky. Damn! I thought, this sucks! We waited--and waited until finally, a truck appeared heading our way towards the highway. Raising our arms, we gave the sign as the beat-up old junk rambled and clunked by, the driver never raising his eyes from beneath the brim of his hat.
“Shit!” yelled Dave. “We need to get out of this damn town….
“We got to go back up on the highway and take our chances with the police,” I interjected. “There’s not enough traffic on the ramp and our best chance is to try and catch a ride up on the highway where more cars go by.” Looking around cautiously for the police cruiser we made our way up on to the highway and watched for cars.
There was more activity but the spurts of traffic had not yet produced a ride when I happened to look back in the direction of Sterling where I thought I saw a police cruiser headed our way. “Hide!” I yelled at Dave, and we both jumped off the road tumbling down an embankment and into sage brush. Lying still under the cover of the sage we waited, listening intently for the sound of any vehicle that might stop nearby. I didn't want to have anything to do with Sterling’s jail and by the look on Dave’s face, I was sure he felt the same way. The thought of rattlesnakes down here in the sage briefly crossed my mind, but then my NOLS’ thinking returned long enough to realize that no self respecting snake would be out in this hot sun, but rather hiding beneath some more substantial cover like a rock, ledge, or perhaps down a hole.
I’m not sure how long we lay there but eventually we climbed back up the embankment, taking a wary look around, then began walking west away from Sterling. It couldn’t hurt to be moving away from the jurisdiction of the Sterling police. Although nerve-racking, never knowing if an oncoming car would be our ride or our Sterling police officer, we had little choice but to keep walking west and hailing rides. This finally paid off as we climbed into a car and left the dusty Prairie town of Sterling behind.
It was on to Fort Collins and Colorado University, one of the more populated areas of the State situated at the western end of the Great Plains near the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Still, in 1975, Fort Collins was not what you would call a big city and much of the vitality sprang from the University with its large student body. After arriving and exiting our ride near the university, we called our friend Terry Settos from a phone booth (no cell phones in those days) to inform her of our arrival. Given directions to Terry’s dorm room over the phone we made our way there to be met with a welcoming hug. After depositing our bags in the dorm room, it was off to dinner and night on the town with Terry.
After dinner Terry and a girlfriend accompanied Dave and I through the sweltering afternoon sun to a street packed with bars frequented by students and the local population. Long haired students, young cowboys and cowgirls are the only way to describe the patrons in the bar. The music blared and the drinks flowed mixed with the occasional scent of marijuana. The evening passed in a noisy haze until closing time. Groping our way out into the Colorado night we headed up the street towards the dorm. Passing another bar I noticed two guys sitting on the front steps leading up to the bar; one of them had his arm around the other and was speaking to him.
“You acted like a damn fool in there! I don’t want to, but I’m going to have to kick your ass.”
The other poor fellow seemed to nod his head in agreement as if resigned and accepting of what was in store for him. We kept moving, too high and fuzzy to contemplate that mess.
That night we crashed in Terry’s dorm. I remember awakening from a deep sleep only to see Dave quietly slip over to where Terry was sleeping. After a few sharp, muffled words from Terry, which I couldn’t understand, I watched as the darkened silhouette of Dave crawled back into his sleeping bag. I lay there quietly laughing. The next day, unable to resist, I brought the subject up and Dave sheepishly admitted to coming on to Terry. Oh well, you can’t blame a guy for trying.
In the morning- -no hard feelings, plenty of hugs all around- -and we were back on the highway and looking for a ride, ready to head west once again. A car stopped on the side of the road in front of us and a man motioned to us. Jumping in, we found a friendly middle aged fellow with a strange accent. Short, with dark hair and a receding hairline, he hailed from the country of Israel. Touring the United States for the first time in a rental car, he had started out in New York City, traveling the highways and back roads alone on his journey of discovery. We got along fine with this gentleman, and as we traveled west he plied us with questions: where did we grow up? What was it like? Where were we going? His curiosity was insatiable.
We found out quite a bit about him too. At thirty he was considerably older than us and was currently on leave from the Israeli army. Two years before he had fought in the Yon Kipper War after Egypt and Syria had invaded Israel. It had been a scary time for his country and he talked about it with visible emotion. He greatly admired the United States and implied that our country was one of Israel’s few friends in the world.
Leaving Colorado behind us, we entered the wonderful wasteland of Nevada with its rugged beauty and sweet smelling purple sage. After reaching Reno we stopped and our new friend offered to put us up in a hotel for the night. Furthermore, since he was continuing west, we were welcome to ride with him the following day. What luck!
That night we all went out for dinner and then walked the strip drinking in the weird nightlife of Reno in the Seventies. We made our way through a menagerie of high rollers, hustlers, prostitutes, and lost looking young people like ourselves. Our friend was as wide eyed we were, as we spent several hours trucking up and down the street until exhaustion from a long day set in. We made our way back to the hotel. It was comforting to know that at least for that night and the next day there was a plan to follow.
After a hardy breakfast we loaded up the car and left the gambling Mecca of Reno behind and headed up into the mountains of the Sierra Nevada. Although summer, patches of snow still covered the ground in places, so we stopped to play in it. Making snow balls we flung them high into the air and down into the valley below. “Geronimo,” I yelled, as a snowball left my hand to go sailing into the air.
“What does that mean? “ Our friend asked. Not really sure, I explained that Geronimo was a Apache Indian of the last century who eluded the US cavalry for many years and that it was probably an expression of daring do.
“Geronimo! “ Shouted our friend as he let a snow ball fly, throwing it as you would a grenade. It looked pretty good and we said so. “I have much experience in these things,” he replied grimly. His explanation conjured up desperate warfare in a far away desert in my mind. I wondered what demons still lurked inside this pleasant man.
Descending down from the mountains and looking into the distant low lands we were greeted with a carpet of green spreading out before us. California! After the mountains and the high barren plateau of Nevada, the sight before us looked somewhat like a Garden of Eden. Our anticipation grew.
Reaching Sacramento, we said our goodbyes to our Israeli friend, who was going to head south from there. I would miss him for he had been a friendly and generous companion. Catching a ride quickly, we continued west towards the coast and our friend, Lynn Thompson. Early evening found us knocking at the apartment door of Lynn and his girl, Glenda in San Jose. Our friend, Andy was there waiting for us along with his large old car; we now had the wheels of freedom once we left Lynn’s place.
That evening was spent reminiscing and discussing life in San Jose. I have long since forgotten where they were working, but the reason for their new life away from Wooster certainly had to do with the fact that he was black, and she, white. The move was a way to avoid the friction from parents back home. They never did marry and Lynn eventually ended up in Washington DC married to a black woman from Africa. I don’t know what became of Glenda.
It was decided that in the morning we would take a day trip to San Francisco. Awakening early we piled into Lynn’s psychedelic painted VW van and headed for the bay. Smoking large joints of pot along the way with the tunes turned up loud, we finally reached the outskirts of San Francisco and parked in a large lot by the entrance to the BART transit system. Entering a train we were whisked underground, then under the bay to pop up in down town San Francisco. Not familiar with large cities, let alone a storied place like San Francisco, I spent the day riding the trolley cars with my friends exploring city. San Francisco, a Mecca of the counter culture during the sixties, was still quite colorful in 1975. The streets, filled with long haired youths, street people, drug addicts and prostitutes, kept our attention as we rode the rails up and down the hills of the city. We visited China town, then boarded a boat at the bay circling the island where the notorious Alcatraz prison stood brooding and empty except for the ghosts of inmates past. I thought of the old Hollywood movie, “The Bird Man of Alcatraz” staring Burt Lancaster as I watched the rocky heap. On the way back to the dock a large sea cow raised its peculiar head and curling snout out of the choppy water before disappearing beneath the dark wave.
Dave, Andy and I left the next day in his old junker, as big as a boat, leaving the two love birds, Lynn and Glenda to their life in San Jose. Driving down Highway One, which hugs the sea, we were treated to the beautiful and rugged coast of California passing through Monterrey and on past Big Sur heading south towards Los Angeles. To our right the majestic Pacific Ocean crashed against the rocky headlands, while on the left lay the Los Padres National Forest. The scenery, impressive and inspiring, yet familiar as the backdrop in countless Hollywood movies. Our destination in Los Angeles was the home of Andy’s uncle. We would stay there briefly and go to the beach.
I forget what Andy’s uncle did for a living but we were grateful for his hospitality and spent the night in his back yard in our sleeping bags. I remember waking up, our bags wet from the dew with lawn leeches clinging to my skin. After saying goodbye we continued south along the coastal highway towards San Diego and then crossing into Mexico and Tijuana.
Never having been out of the country, Mexico was quite a culture shock with its third world flavor, the streets packed with vendors walking between the cars of tourists trying to sell their wares and being quite persistent. I finally gave in and bought a long necked water jug which broke within the hour.
We had had quite enough of Tijuana and wanted to find the way to the highway heading south down the Baja peninsula to get a look at the hinterland of Mexico. Realizing we were headed the opposite direction of the coastal road we looked for a way to reverse course. It was no easy task, the street gorged with cars, trucks and pedestrians. Turning into ally we hoped to cross to another street and head the other way. The ally was narrow and the ramshackle dwellings closed in on either side. The residents watched as slowly we moved forward until the ally petered out in a dead end. A crowd began to gather around the car making us very nervous and apprehensive. We realized we would have to back out of there. A man suddenly sat on the hood of our car. Another man began tapping on the window of the driver’s side. Andy was at the wheel and stared forward ignoring the smiling face looking in at us. The man reminded me of the Hollywood caricatures in the old western movies with the greasy Mexican bandits. Unsure of what to do, we did nothing for a few seconds. The tapping continued.
“Andy, roll down the window and see what he wants, “I whispered loudly.
“No”.
“Damn, roll down the window and see what he wants”.
Andy slowly rolled down the window and turned towards the man.
Smiling a shit eating grin, the man wheezed in broken English, “Marijuana, you want! Twenty dollar, si”?
We had no problem with marijuana but we had one with him and the whole situation. Like trapped mice we squirmed looking for a way out.
“No, no! We have no money,” Andy said quite emphatically, and rolled up the window.
“Let’s get the Hell out of here. Just start backing up slowly, okay, “Dave said.
Putting the tank in reverse and inching backward, careful not to run over anyone, we avoided eye contact while snaking our way out. Coming to a stop at the busy street we waited for an opening in the traffic. A man was still sitting on the hood while the others still engulfed the front of our car looking in and tapping on the window. The opening came and Andy gunned out into the street as the man on the hood jumped off awkwardly. Throwing the transmission into drive we moved in the direction desired to the sound of loud, angry voices. Screw them. I thought. We kept looking back to see if they were following.
Finally leaving the teeming swill of Tijuana behind and driving down the coast, an occasional glimpse of the blue Pacific would present itself. Round and brown hills surrounded us and I noticed lonely driveways sinking down into the brush towards the ocean. The mailboxes would have Anglo names on them like Smith and Thomas. I mentioned that they probably led the villas of retired wealthy Americans living in splendid isolation. I imagined a silver haired couple sipping orange juice on a veranda overlooking the ocean and reading a newspaper mailed from the States.
Driving into the town of Ensenada exposed the seedy dwellings seeming so common to the country, yet we noticed grand houses on the hills and a beautiful bay christened by a cruise ship in the middle. There was money here, obviously from the tourist trade. A feeling of dislocation came over me and I felt as though the Mexicans were watching us out of the corner of their eyes. We were not the usual well heeled tourist, but just scruffy youngsters in a beat up car. I wondered what they were thinking. Maybe they thought we drug dealers, or just crazy gringos.
We had a few beers and something to eat at a place where tourists frequented then headed east with a destination of Mexicali. My memory of driving east through Mexico just south of the US border is one of rounded hills, goats, cars as beat down and dusty as ours, clamoring old vintage trucks, roadside stalls selling vegetables and a simple rural people. Stopping for gas was like pulling teeth. Managing to buy the gas with dollars, we never knew what the true cost per gallon was.
Crossing back into the US at Mexicali we continued east across California and into Arizona. We all wanted to see the Grand Canyon and were game to hike all the way to the bottom. We spent the night at a campground in Arizona and continued on across the Yuma desert. Deserts fascinate me, imbuing me with a sense of awe. Maybe this feeling is the reason holy men seek the sand and empty places in search of visions.
It was a long haul and hot as Hades. To pass the time we began talking about religion. At the time Andy was born again even if he was a pot smoking, beer drinker like Dave and I. Dave accused Andy of lusting after women just like us. Andy claimed self control and a monumental argument brewed. This spirited debate came quickly to an end as the wind picked up and the dust became thick. We slowed as visibility became difficult until finally we rolled to a stop in amazement. Outside the car the wind raged as the sand made a tingling sound on the exterior and found its way inside. Choking and coughing we pulled our shirts up over our faces in order to breathe. Panic began to creep up on us and I began to worry how this would turn out. Rain, flooding, blizzards we were quite accustomed too hailing from the Midwest, but this was beyond the realm of our experience. We sat there cursing, breathing through our shirts waiting for the storm to pass.
I don’t remember how long the wind and sand buffeted the car but finally the storm subsided and we looked around incredulously. A fine film of sand blanketed the inside of the car. I felt gritty from head to toe. Outside, sand covered the road like drifting snow. The car had stalled and Andy cranked the engine until it sputtered to life. we started forward along the lumpy surface. We had not gone far before I noticed a dead cow off the road suffocated by the sand. I felt dispirited over the cow. Too bad the animal didn’t have a shirt to breathe through. With nowhere to stop we kept driving east.
Driving East, then north through a desert with huge jumbled rocks strewn everywhere, as if by the Gods on Mount Olympus having a little fun. We skirted Phoenix, for we had no desire for the city but only the strange and wonderful empty spaces that lay spread out before us. The Grand Canyon was our destination, yet first was Flagstaff and the high country.
Peculiar , hailing from Eastern lands as we did, how the desert melted away turning into tall pine forest and cool fresh air as we rose in elevation traveling into Flagstaff. We arrived and found a cheap hotel, deposited our bags and hit the bars, filled with a mix of locals, tourists and cowboys. Downing shots of whisky and chasing it with Coors beer, we became quite drunk while ogling every pretty girl in the bar and talking about the Grand Canyon which we intended to hike to the bottom of the next day. Later, we stumbled through the town and back to our room where we crashed and slept like the dead.
The following day found us driving through the forest and arriving at the south rim of the Grand Canyon which is the most visited site of the park. Exiting the car and grabbing our back packs we made for the entrance to Angel Bright Trail where we would hike down into the canyon. Tramping to the edge and looking out into the void was for the first time filled all of us with a sense of the infinite, rather like laying on your back and gazing into the cosmos creating a feeling of vertigo as if one is spinning away from solid ground. Being young and foolish, Dave and I gingerly made our way out onto an outcrop of rock, the butterflies tickling our innards. Andy quickly took a picture with his camera of the two of us standing on the rock, infinity as the backdrop.
Our water bottles filled, packs on our back, we started down into the canyon along the trail. Our goal was to go all the way to the bottom that day. We would start back up the same day and spend the night half way up at a campground called Indian garden and finish the hike the following day.
Trekking down into the abyss on the most popular trail into the canyon does have its drawbacks, foremost being the tourists riding to the bottom on surefooted mules, at least for those riding I would hope the beasts were surefooted. As for us, we would have to move to the side of the trail from time to time as the mules passed by with their human burden. Most of the time it was not a problem, but occasionally we were pressed to the edge with a drop off behind us. As the morning wore on those moving down into the canyon spread out and encountering other people decreased. The air was very noticeably getting warmer as the elevation dropped into the bowls of the earth. Vegetation, strange to begin with would change with the climate with the continued sinking elevation. We looked for snakes, which were always on our mind. It looked like the perfect place to see a sidewinder. In my reasoning mind I knew that this trail with the hikers and the mules would keep any snake with half a serpent brain away, but I still looked. The sky was entertaining from these low places constantly transforming like one of those kaleidoscopes, perhaps due a change in the weather pattern up top. We made good time, after all, we were going down, not up and we reached Indian Garden several hours later. As I remember, there was a camp ground there with fresh water and out houses, There were quite a few tourists they and foreign languages could be heard intermingled with English. A sign pointed to a trail that led to an overlook where the Colorado River could be seen far below and we decided to take the time to hike there. It was well worth the hike for the view once we reached the overlook was spectacular. The river was a silver snake in the bright sunlight glistening below the multicolored walls of the canyon on the far side shifting in shape, texture and shades as the clouds rolled across the sky aloft. We made our way back to Indian garden where we ate snacks and rested then started on the trail leading down to the bottom of the canyon.
There were few hikers on the second leg of the trail and the vegetation changed yet again while the air stilled and grew stagnant and hot. The classic eighteenth century novel “Journey to the Center of the Earth” came to mind in the eerie surroundings. Somewhat later the sky grew dark in one corner, while sunlight brightened the other corner. A wind picked up stirring dust and moving the plants. Lightening flashed in the sky. This abrupt change in the environment brought about an excited agitation within us and we began to wonder if we were to experience a rare canyon thunderstorm. Storms are dangerous things in the canyon. One could be caught in flash flood and drown or smashed to pieces against the rocks. However, the weather passed and everything became hot and still once more as we continued on our way down.
The bottom at last. We wandered about, leaving the trail and moved out along the river. Further into this strange country we went until we felt as if the three of us were the only human beings on earth . We stopped, burned a big joint of Mary Jane, felt the very rotation of the planet beneath our feet- drank some water. Our clothes felt heavy and we whipped off our shirts and threw down our packs. We explored the surrounding terrain as the sun moved across the sky. Later, we found the trail and began the ascent. It was nearly dark in the canyon as we shuffled into Indian Wells half way up. Securing our campsite, a fire was started and what food we had devoured. Putting up the tent and crawling in, sleep came quickly. Morning and the trek to the top was gung ho as only the young and restless do it. Sweating and at the top, we poured into the jalopy and headed out.
Our next stop was Colorado. On our trip out West Dave and I had hitched across the Northern tier of the state and now on the way home with Andy we were exploring the southern tier. Our objective was Mesa Verde National Park. Known for its ancient dwellings situated on the side of cliffs beneath overhanging rock. The people whom built and lived here are known as the Pueblo Indians. They came to the region as early as 600 AD. The area was unknown to the outside world until the late 1800’s. They were long gone by the time the dwellings were discovered.
Pulling into the campground we set up quickly and hiked to an overlook where we marveled at the site of the Cliff side structures. How old and timeless they seemed, sitting there like a vision or dream. The view had shifted my mind into a trance which I found hard to break. Always fascinated with the origin of mankind I felt a strange connection with these vanished people; they seemed to be calling out a primal yet silent scream from the past. Genetic memory with prehistory people in all of us? My young mind was carried away. It was a theme that stayed with me. Years later, I wrote a poem coalescing this emotional instinct which I called “The Fire” and it goes as follows:
The Darkened sweet scented forest silhouette
Stands silent on the hillside beside the lonely campfire.
Actually, the fire is not so lonely
In this campground of many fires
Smelling of wood smoke in the twilight.
And yet, a campfire summons a strangeness
No matter the century or spot
on which the fire throws its flame
upward into black night sky.
Several faces circle the fire
feeling warmth and companionship
On this brisk Autumn night,
Sitting in their chairs, drinking their wine.
The night deepens and grows long of tooth
Ceasing idle chatter,
And quiet stillness permeates
As the campground goes silent.
Someone rises and throws more wood,
then pokes the fire administering to its needs
As if born to it like a mother to her child.
The circle brightens.
Satisfied, they sit back and drink their wine.
And begin staring into the fire
At the leaping, dancing flames,
Transfixed, lost in something.
Staring, staring...thinking, thinking what?
They know not, but feeling something.
One, startled at some emotion, quickly looks up
Out into the star-pierced void, and shudders.
Eternity.
They sit in their small circle around the fire
Within the greater circle of their civilization
surrounded by other civilizations,
Teetering on the back of past civilizations
Looking forward into the terrifying abyss.
Heads begin to throb, then faintly, from a distant place
Comes a muffled pounding, drumming,
Unknown, but somehow familiar rhythmic beating,
Just beyond perception and within them.
Now expanding, growing louder, wanton in essence,
Pulse quickening, anxiously calling, exuberant, yet fearful.
Grasping...pushing them inward, and backward,
Far back, penetrating the thin skin of modernity.
There was always the collective comfort of the fire.
Dancing flaming fingers moving up to meet eternity,
And the drums, beating , warding off
The horrid unknowable, unseen
In the dark, just beyond the fire.
The ancient fire was there in the frigid, snow laced winds
of the Northern forests;
Or along the twisting rivers under the canopy
Of vast jungles;
And out in the sun drenched Savannah.
The flames start to die down
And they pull their chairs closer
to the fire...
For there is something still...beyond the fire.
By James Guy
The next morning, Andy and I awakened early as David continued to doze wrapped warmly in his sleeping bed. There was a light covering of snow on the ground creating a beautiful, surreal landscape. We decided to take a hike to the rim of the mesa as the sun came out and began to melt the snow. Arriving at the rim we stood spellbound looking out over a glorious land dropping away from the edge into lower altitudes. It was a long way down and we “could see for miles and miles,” as in the song goes by the rock group, “The Who.”
We noticed a ledge about twenty feet below the rim and a way down. With the strange mental rationale of the young and immortal, we decided climb down to that spot to get a better feel and view of this fantastical place. After all, we had both climbed around mountains in our separate National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS) programs in the mountains of Wyoming attended just out of high school. We felt like we could free climb well. Upon reaching the spot we stood with our backs to the rock wall exhilarated as we stared out into the vast void. It was then that the way down to our position simply crumbled away leaving us trapped twenty feet below the rim with the eternity that accompanies death suddenly looming beneath us.
Adrenalin pumping through our veins we became terrified that the ledge we were standing on would crumble away too. Too far from camp for anyone to hear our cries for help and maybe not a whole lot of time left anyway, we needed to act. I frantically looked around and realized there was a crevasse a few feet away to my side leading straight up to the rim. The crevasse was not quite as wide the span of my arms. I swung into it, spreading my legs and arms like a jumping jack, then moving one side up and then the other, I began my ascent. My muscles were stretched like a bow string as I inched upward. The wall was uneven and varied in width and half way up my foot slipped tumbling me into midair. If I failed to catch myself my momentum would simply bounce me past the narrow ledge and send me out into space where I would fall thousands of feet to my death. That would take time. What does one think about during something like that? Time slowed as it always seems to do in such a dangerous and bizarre situation. I somehow spun around in midair like a terrified bewildered cat falling from a tree branch and slammed my feet and hands into the wall, stopping my fall. When I had started my ascent I was facing the wall, now; I was facing out towards the abyss and my heart was pounding violently in my chest. Andy said nothing, yet everything, with the whites of his eyes. Once again I began my slow agonizing ascent. What else was there to do? Eventually, I reached the top, clutching the sod as I pulled myself over the ragged edge. Lying there for a moment gasping for breath I was jolted with the thought that Andy was still down there. I crawled to the edge and peeked down.
Andy had started back the way we had come. I said nothing, afraid of breaking his concentration. There was nothing I could do. The ledge was unstable and could crumble at any moment. Andy was on his way regardless whether I ran all the way back to camp or not. All I could do was watch in silent agony. Andy faced the wall pressing his body tightly to its face. Sliding one foot a few inches and then the other as he slowly made his way back the way we had come. I was terrified that the ledge would crumble away at any second. My anxiety increased dramatically as Andy reached the stretch where ledge had fell away. For a space of about fifteen to twenty feet there barely existed a toehold. As he began his traverse across this area I was startled by the sound of rocks tumbling somewhere. Andy’s face was very white and to the side facing the way he was going enabling him to see the next place to put his foot and hand while groping blindly for a handhold with the other.
Miraculously , Andy made it across the worst spot and up the remainder of the ledge to the top where I gleefully embraced him. Later, as we told of our adventure to a dumbfounded Dave, Andy explained that after seeing my near fall in the crevasse he couldn’t bring himself to try and save himself that way, instead choosing the equally perilous alternative. It would seem that the Great Spirit in all its’ benevolence still wandered the mesa.
The last significant stop on our journey across America was at the Great Sand Dunes National Monument which also lay within the boundary of the great state of Colorado. This strange and mysterious place consists of over 30 square miles of spectacular shifting sand dunes, some rising to a height of over 700 feet. The largest area of sand dunes in North America, these dunes were situated in the San Luis Valley at the base of the Sangre De Cristo Mountain range. Formed by the erosion of the San Juan and Sangre De Cristo Mountains from cross winds that deposited the sand instead of blowing it away, and further secured by mountain run off seeping underneath into the base of these deep sands, the dunes have remained here for thousands of years. The strong winds however, create an ever changing formation of shifting dunes conjuring up a magical place.
We pulled into the campground of small fir trees, sage and rock and set up camp. In the distance loomed the dunes with the mountains behind them--beautiful! It was late in the afternoon and a hike to the dunes would have to wait until the next day. We prepared a supper of steaks on the grill with Coors beer poured over the meat for flavoring. A fire for warmth, brilliant, star studded sky above, conversation and off we went to bed.
The next day after breakfast we eagerly headed to the dunes rising up before us like a giant sandbox of the Gods. Sprinting straight up a great sandy slope, our feet giving way in the shifting sand, we struggled up until finally we reached the top with shouts of glee. Before us stretched endless, stupendous waves of dunes rolling outward and away. In the far distance mountains rose even higher than the dunes against the azure sky. Directly in front of us the dune we were standing on dropped precipitously down into a bowl. And, of course, we sprinted headlong down the slope tumbling on the rough sand, then springing up to continue running towards the bottom. Upon reaching the bottom we collapsed in a heap staring at the huge walls of sand surrounding us shutting out the rest of the world except for the sky above.
On the top of the dunes the wind was strong, whipping the sand around like snow in winter; but at the bottom there was relative calm. A joint was lit up and we huddled together to smoke it. After finishing we lay back onto the sand and absorbed the spirit of the place. We watched the top of the dunes as sudden bursts of wind would pick up sand and move it along the rim like lunging, twisting phantoms, then disappear before our eyes. Strange how some thoughts stay with you for years, even decades. As I lay there I began to think of all things having to do with sand, one thought leading to another as the mind has a tendency to do. I thought of camels; those strange creatures of the deserts of Arabia and Asia: two humps, one hump, ships of the endless sands. I remembered that the US Calvary experimented with them in the old West, importing them from far off Arabia. With horrible tempers, the camels were disliked by White man and Red man alike. Many were turned loose to roam the American desert like the Mustang horses released by the Spanish two centuries before.
Laurence of Arabia, the strange Englishman who led the Arabs in revolt against the Turks, becoming like a Arab himself wearing their garb and identifying with their plight and culture. The great movie, “Laurence of Arabia” starring the English actor, Peter O’ Toole and the Egyptian actor, Omar Shariff introduced me to this historic figure.
The Science Fiction classic, “Dune” by Frank Herbert which captured my imagination as no other Science Fiction book. That strange desert planet named Arrakis so important to a feudal interstellar empire of planetary fiefdoms controlled by noble houses because it was the only source of a strange spice called melange. Growing deep under the sand in the endless deserts, the spice smelled of cinnamon and prolonged life, heightened awareness, endowing one with prescience abilities, enabling interstellar navigation though the stars. The power struggle between the noble houses and control of the spices led the Arrakis noble families’ heir to hide in the desert where the great worms live beneath the deep s ands like a whale beneath the waves, rising up to devour anything on the surface.
And the creatures of the American deserts. Would I soon see a sidewinder rattle snake come twisting and slithering down the side of the dune. Where were the scorpions hiding and what sand spiders were about? What happens at night in the dunes? What creatures come out in the chilly dark if I were to lay here all through the night, at the bottom of a dune? No, not a good idea to sleep in the windy shifting dunes I thought.
We lay there at the bottom of the great dune listening to the winds, our minds carried away with the sand, giving birth to a poem I later wrote. I called it “SAND.”
Ironic how we fritter away our lives
In airy dreams of our desires
Scampering about in our imagination
Though endless possibilities.
Simultaneously our emotions dredge
The labyrinth of our dark sorrows
Exposing the fat innocent tears of child
Though the seed still lay buried.
How quickly the days of our being
Blow away like the grains of sand
To scatter across the dune;
Lost, one from the other.
Only a string of DNA to link
The vast host that came before
And the legion yet to come,
To scatter across the dune.
We headed home across the plains with the hot sun glaring on the windshield, dark nights of rain pounding on the roof of the car, the scenery passing from brown and gold to the green shades of the Midwest; houses and farms growing closer together in neat squares and the trees growing more dense. The thought of hobbit and his Shire came to mind as we rolled into Ohio farmlands. And then we were home, in Wooster, in Ohio, in the 70’s. What next? Wish I would have had a plan.
