I disembarked from the Greyhound behind
a motel in Camp Verde. The sun was behind the mountains and wouldn't
show itself until it rose on Easter Morning. I had to go all the way
to the other side of town on Hwy 260 and didn't want to be tramping
after dark in an unfamiliar municipality. What's more, with my two
oversized duffels, I had to hike ahead with one and return for the
other; suspicious behavior.
Lacking a government issued ID, I
couldn't get a room for the night. I could talk my way into lodging
at a mom and pop operation with any number of excuses. “My pocket
was picked on the bus” and “I had a fight with my wife and left
without my wallet. It's best I wait for her to cool off” are a
couple I had used successfully over the years. I particularly liked
the one about the pickpocket, because it made me look like a rube. I
played the yokel card often. People aren't so wary of hayseeds,
yokels, or rubes, and those conditions help cover possible
inconsistencies. I often looked to Woody Harrelson for inspiration.
His characters in “Cheers” and “White Men Can't Jump” were
largely above suspicion with their portrayal of corn fed Indiana
innocence; a role I had a face for and can play well. Unfortunately, these motels were
all national chains. I learned that if you are poor or on the road,
Corporate America could give a shit if they have your business or
not. I bet they wouldn't let Woody Harrelson himself stay there
without proper documents.
I found a Denny's, left my bags in the
foyer, and asked for a booth where I could watch them. I was
famished. I hadn't eaten since sun up. I ordered an omelet with
everything, well done hash browns, and a side of slaw. I love slaw.
Soon, I would have to subsist on hard rations. After my meal, I
ordered coffee and asked for the manager.
I told her that I was headed out to
hike the General Crook Trail and delays had brought me to town a
little late to begin. She gave me permission to review my maps and
journals over coffee in her establishment until morning, provided I
tip the servers generously.
It was raining when morning came. The
waitress who served me most of the night hooked me up with a ride to
the other side of town with the night cook. He dropped me off at a
combination Shell Station and Indian Tobacco joint called “Ernies”.
I left my bags on the sidewalk in front
of the store and went inside. I bought a can of tobacco, rolling
papers, lighters, a large cup of coffee, and a six pack of hostess
chocolate doughnuts. There were a couple of booths in the store, but
I went outside for my coffee and doughnuts so I could have a smoke.
I'm sure I looked bad. My head was
sunburnt and peeling and just starting to show stubble. It was my
third day on the road in these clothes. My lips were chapped and
cracked, and I hadn't slept since Chavez Park. The doughnuts were
gone and I was standing under the awning next to my bags with a
cigarette and coffee when Ernie showed up. He didn't like the looks of
me.
He told me to leave because he wasn't
going to have me bothering his customers. I told him that in spite of
appearances, I was no panhandler. I had patronized his establishment
and was just finishing my coffee and cigarette before I hit the
General Crook trail. He became irate. Actually, he was a giant
asshole and threatened me with the police if I didn't leave. Thinking
I would have been better off at a booth inside, I carried first one
bag and then the other to the edge of a bridge over the Verde River
where I would resume my journey. I was tired and angry and
distraught. I'd had enough of society for a while. It had been a
rough couple of days. All I had to do was make it a few more miles,
and I could set up camp and sleep.
That asshole Ernie (he didn't look like
an Indian to me), must have called the cops because it wasn't long
before a white car pulled up with U.S. Marshall emblazoned on it's
side.
I've mentioned before my thoughts on
the various branches of law enforcement. City and county cops didn't
worry me much, but feds are a little smarter, a little more educated,
and have a lot more resources. As Americans, we are subjected to the
scrutiny of local law almost constantly. It is a matter of course,
for both them and us, to interact in an official capacity. Because of
this familiarity, and their limited perspective, I had grown more
comfortable in explaining myself to them. Feds, on the other hand,
scared the crap out of me.
This G-Man exited his vehicle and asked
me where I was heading. I told him and he said as long as my ID
checked out, he would let me be on my way. I carried two photo ID's.
One was from a swap meet, and the other was from a check cashing
joint. Both were stamped in bold letters across the bottom “Data
Provided by Signatory”, which is legalese for “These Documents
are Bullshit”. I'd used both cards on deputies and city cops, but I
reckoned a fed would know better and might be curious. I told him I
had no papers.
He said “In that case, let's have a
look at what's in the bags”. I had those questionable cards in my
day pack, and a little grass in a pipe in one of the duffels. I chose
the third bag, which contained mostly groceries, and started emptying
it.
I'd gotten about halfway down into the
bag when a Mexican guy in a truck came around the corner and took out
a couple of the traffic cones that marked the beginning of the new
bridge. The fed pointed at me sternly and told me not to go anywhere.
Then he jumped into his ride and tore off after the pickup.
I shoved everything back in the bag as
soon as he was out of sight and stuck out my thumb at the next
passing van. It was a brown conversion van from the seventies or
eighties and had a back window shaped like a star. God bless 'em they
stopped for me. Noticing a girl in the passenger seat, I got in the
side door and offered my thanks as I stowed my gear and closed the
door. The trail to the rim and to Fossil Springs was nearly within
reach.
As if reading my mind, the girl I had
noticed asked me if I was going to the springs. When I answered in
the affirmative, she produced a cardboard hitch-hiker's sign that
read “The Springs”. I had lucked into a ride with people heading
right were I was. I thought.
We blew right by my trail head from the
260 and turned onto a dirt road. The driver offered me a Guiness and
the girl rolled a joint. I tried not to be nervous that we had passed
my turn. The rain was annoying, but not hard. The dirt road they had
turned on though, had become mud. We came to one wide bend where the
road was a thick red clay and we slid toward the edge of a ravine and
I might have yelled a little. Don, the driver, and Leslie, the
passenger, thought this was hilarious. I was terrified. I had another
beer.
After nearly thirty miles of this, we
came to a cattle guard with a sign that said “Nudity Prohibited”,
and they announced that we were home.
Just then a bearded homunculus and a
naked hippie kid leaped in front of the van, barring our way. They
told us there were rangers in camp and suggested we surrender any
drugs or alcohol or extra cash. We told them we would take our
chances and they walked along side as we eased our way down the
precipitous hill to the camp.
Don parked, and I removed my gear and
found a spot about thirty feet away to set up. It was pitch dark and
I sat a lit zippo on the low branch of a mesquite tree for the little
light it offered. The two would-be highwaymen came to my camp and
warned me not to have sex with Leslie. I was really in no danger of sleeping with Leslie. The blond, naked guy told me
she had raped his friend Goat (to which the homunculus nodded
emphatically). It was then that I noticed another guy, older than
myself, lurking in the shadows. “She gave me the fire dick” he
said shyly. “Good to know” I responded, not knowing what else to
say.
I had no idea where I was. I crawled in
my tent and slept like a fugitive that had been pinballing on the
road for three days with no sleep.
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