Flannigan's Barrio Mexican Cantina

In '93-94, Tory and I ran a Cantina in the barrio of South Tucson. I was Robert Weaver then. Roberto. As unlikely as it seems that a couple of blond kids from Indiana would be fronting a joint like that, it gets crazier. The bar was called Flannigan's.

It was owned by a family of that name from Evansville. South Tucson is a LONG way from Evansville. First of all, if you haven't been there, South Tucson isn't just a geographic reference to the southern portion of Tucson. Its a city all of it's self right in the middle of Tucson, surrounded by Tucson.

South Tucson is a 1.2 square mile city with a population of almost 6,000 people. It exceeds the national average of theft and violent crimes by a factor of 4X. Its a Hispanic community, boasting a Latino population of more than 80%. That heritage is reflected in the many murals and authentic Mexican restaurants. I have not found better Mexican food anywhere, including Mexico. In spite of the cultural amenities, its a fucking rough town.

The Long-Arm-of-the-Law claims to have cleaned up the area somewhat, in large part due to “vigorous enforcement of liquor laws”. According to that standard, Flannigan's is no more. Tory and I were the last proprietors. Truth be told, the cops wouldn't set foot in the place for fear of their lives. At best, they would sit across the street and watch, after being called, to see how we handled things; ready to zoom in and lay cover for emergency services should there be any shooting.

One Friday night, a thirteen year old Mexican kid came in and demanded I serve him a shot and a beer. When I refused, he produced a gold plated .32 caliber revolver and placed it on the bar. He repeated his request. I picked up the gun and put it under the counter and told him to get the fuck out. Tory called the cops from the kitchen. They pulled in to the gas station across the street and watched from a safe distance.

An hour later, a woman in her fifties came in and told me her son had been there earlier and she had come to claim his pistol. I laughed at her and sent her away. She seemed to not understand, and threatened to have me arrested for theft. Right, like SHE could get the cops to cross the street or get out of their safe, air conditioned cars.

Tory and I, and the Flannigans, were the only English speakers and the Flannigans were never there after dark.  We did a lot of business by pointing and pantomime. Most of our service, outside of the food, was Budweiser, Bud Light, and Margaritas. We had an old guy named Elio who came in during the day and made our Asada and Rojo Pork and such. We just served it up. It was awesome. The clientele was 75% Mexican, 20% Native American, and 5% old guys from the V.A. down the street (and THEY never stayed past 4pm).

Ever try and take a beer from a drunk Indian? Yeah, I know, its not terribly PC to say such a thing, but FUCK! Shit gets ugly quick. Indians can take a head shot like nothing and then what do you do? We learned quick to have Tory cut them off while I stayed behind the bar. They're less likely to come up swinging on a pretty girl. “Are you going to hide behind your woman?” they would yell. Hell yeah. I'm not stupid. Not anymore. Not after the first time.

There was a guy named Geronimo who shot pool in there on weekends. One night he saw how Tory and I struggled to maintain order with the Apache and Tohono O'odam, and offered his assistance. He told us if we would look the other way while he sold grass in the pool room, then whenever we needed to cut one of his brothers off he would handle it for us and have his people get them safely home. I was good with that. I told him not to let me see anything change hands and we had a deal.It worked beautifully.

The Jukebox was all in Spanish. I could sing along with most of the songs, but knew the meaning of few of the lyrics. There was one song, “Corazon Bandito” that usually brought everybody to their feet or voice. I loved the music.

This wasn't a typical group of Latinos and Native Americans. I love the Mexican people and the semi-indigenous folk of the Southwest. I'm not making a generalization here. I've been to white bread and mayonnaise places just as scary in Dayton, Ohio. But this was South Fucking Tucson and I was out of my element. It was a rough crowd. When it got really rowdy, I would pull the plug on the jukebox, crank up the lights, throw everybody out and lock the doors. We would take a break and I would pull a few bongs. Then we'd clean up a little and reopen an hour later to a new crowd. They called me Loco Puta and Opie. I never had to shut down twice in one night.

I still wonder how we survived that shit. I was young and had balls like steel goose eggs and pushed back just as hard as I was pushed. We tolerated no bullshit, and never backed down no matter how bad it got. The Flannigans backed me up and supported me, no matter how adverse the situation got or how threatening things became. Even with the uncooperative police. I would have stuck around and been playing roadhouse to this day, but the Feds got on my trail and we had to split.

The Day I Met Mike West

I had been checking out the mountains east of Tucson, just before Big Cat Mountain, and noticed a geological peculiarity. It looked like one of the small mountains had been quarried. The next day, I visited that mountain and met Mike West.

I parked at the bottom of a hill, and hiked up the dirt road that led to the declivity. You couldn't see what was ahead until you crested a hill and I didn't want to drive onto somebodies mine claim.

Once I popped past the incline, I saw a flat area a couple of hundred feet to a side, set at the bottom of a quarry of a black marble looking stone. I later learned the stone was quarried for a large downtown office building.

There was smoke, from the lean remnants of a central camp fire. Dotted around the fire were the coolest huts I had ever seen. They were built of fieldstone, maybe a foot thick. They were about three feet high and then a tarp over saplings made up the roof.

I didn't see any movement and so called "Haloo in camp"! I had never seen any shit so organized before and didn't want to appear the scoundrel. I might like this crew. I wanted to see what it was about.

A wizened older fella came out of the first hooch and squinted at me. The desert sun had eaten a hole in his nose. He had long whiskers and long hair. Some of the original color remained, but you'd be hard pressed to name it. He walked over and I stuck out my hand before I saw him good. "Dave! How the fuck have you been"?

I met Dave in Glenwood Springs Colorado. He was a train tramp. In that town, was a community of travelers. Dave helped show me the ropes. He moved on before I did. People got killed riding the trains back then. Probably a lot more than you know. I had worried about him in the years since we drank good stouts and smoked good ganja while hiding in the tall grass at a siding.

What a small, small, world.

He invited me into his hooch, which was remarkably cool, maybe twenty or thirty degrees, and introduced me to his roomate Mike. Mike had brown hair styled like that of a scarecrow, tufting out from under a flopped down boonie hat. We shook hands and he was just a few inches shorter, a few years older, and a few pounds lighter. He had brown eyes. Of course I wasn't thinking like that at the time
.
I bought a sack from Mike that day, and we talked at length about the Arizona Sonora Desert. They said they could get me on as a landscaper with their crew, but I told them I had my own gig. I was glad I parked the Mazda down the hill.

They told me the mountain was owned by an elderly guy in Santa Barbara. He was in a nursing home, and nobody watched his land. They said the cops never came, because it was private property.

I visited every payday, with a sack of hambourguesas, and scored a sack of sexy mexy from Mike. Dave got a hat and his nose got better. They invited me to stay. I blamed my wife for needing an indoor home. A fugitive can't take chances like that. I was jealous. I wanted to live there so bad, but eventually I would not be able to stand to the scrutiny. The mountain was too close to town not to bring prying eyes.

This continued for four or five months. Then one week I finally drove the Protege all the way up and found a scene of devastation. The hooches, down to the stone walls, were rubble. Smoke still rose from the lean remnants of a fire. The pantry was levelled. Canned goods lay stomped and squished. Nothing remained.
I left in tears, that something so beautiful had been destroyed. Were my friends safe? There were children. I had an idea who was behind this. They would pay.

In the Early Days

      Lucky Tailor and I couldn't find any grass, if you can believe that, but the reefer scene wasn't always what it is today. Things are better now, but we still have a ways to go. Thirty years ago we suffered dry spells in the Midwest, usually in late summer and worsening before election cycles. It wasn't classic rock then. It was just rock.

      I can remember back in the Park Layne days, going to the park in August and giving the High Sign and somebody telling me it's dry. That sinking feeling. Days of searching, looking for the friend of a friend. Sitting by the phone, sitting down the road while a friend went to check the prospects at some third-or-fourth-party's house. Pay phones and parking lots and suburban streets. Trying to look like I wasn't waiting on a drug deal.

      I remember one particular summer in Muncie, 1989, and the trials we endured looking for a bit of smoke. We went from Crawfordsville to Dayton and the story was the same. Waiting and driving and waiting some more and it never panned out. A sure thing was never a sure thing and eventually somebody would try and sell us lettuce opium. Sometimes we bought it.

      The fucked up thing is, this was how pot was a gateway drug. You know how they tell you Marijuana is bad because it leads to harder things? Well this is how.

      When it dried up, you'd ask everybody you knew where to get some pot. Eventually somebody would say “Everybody's dry now, but I know where to get some coke”. I lost friends to this every year. They'd think “Well hell, they lied to me about pot. Told me it would addict me and make me an ax wielding maniac or at the very least grow titties like a girl. Maybe they lied to me about the blow too”. Next thing you know they're selling blowjobs on Penn Street in Springfield or popping their collars and listening to Billy Ocean.     Like I said, I lost friends to this every year.

      This is why I started selling pot. It was never about the money. Selling pot for the money is like running a pizzeria for the money. The risk is greater than the reward if you do it right and don't take advantage of people. You do it for the love of it.

      In the dry spell of '89, the Connersville boys called and said they had a sure thing. A friend of a friend who lived on Jackson Street had the hookup. I picked them up and they took me to a guy's house who had us drive him to Whitely. He took our money and walked in the front door of a house and fifteen minutes later I saw him go out the back wearing a different jacket and hat.

      I was all for storming the joint, but the Connersville boys talked me down. We waited fifteen more minutes and then I went and knocked. The residents claimed a total stranger entered their house, exchanged jackets, and escaped out the back way. I knew he couldn't have made it back to Jackson Street yet by foot. I assumed he would stop for crack somewhere 

      I had the Connersville boys drive me back to his house where I kicked in his door and stole his color TV and a box of fried chicken from his freezer. I got my fifty bucks back on the TV. We ate the chicken.

      The next day they called and had another sure thing in Connersville. They had a friend holding a half ounce for me. They dragged me 46.1 miles to their “sure thing” where I waited at a railroad bridge, hunting geodes. They arrived and gave me three thin joints and thirty five bucks back. Lucky and I smoked one with them, on the 46.1 mile ride back, and dropped them back in the village where they came from.

       It was Wednesday night, so we smoked a second and went to the “Skin to Win” wet tee shirt contest at The Golden Fox. It was a good way for Ball State girls to make rent.

       I tucked the last doobie behind my ear and we returned to my place on Wheeling to smoke it. When we got there, my girlfriend who didn't live there, had locked us out. She would do that. She said she was never trying to keep me out of my own house. She just wanted to feel safe and wanted to know when I got home 

      I had ways around that.

      I had a window I liked to keep unlocked for such situations. Failing that, there was a door behind the refrigerator I could jimmy and push through. This particular night the window worked well enough. I climbed in, and opened the door for Mr. Tailor.

      Once we were safely inside and Amy not woken, I reached behind my ear for the last hardworn joint and it wasn't there. We panicked. We searched the car and the gravel and bushes outside the window and nothing. There was a rack of albums below the window I had climbed in. LP's. Vinyl records for you youngsters. Zepplin and Halen and Rush. Kansas Leftoverture and Frampton Comes Alive and Journey Escape. 

      We dumped them all out looking to see if the spliff might have fallen inside when I climbed in.

We searched the gravel and bushes again, flicking our bics until they melted down and we eventually gave up. Lucky made me promise to call him if I found it, and he was headed out the driveway in the Tercel when I ran my hands through my hair...

                                              ...and found the joint behind my OTHER ear.

(We were joyful. We might have hugged).

Let this be a lesson. ALWAYS check behind the OTHER EAR.

Police complicity in the deaths of thousands

The crack epidemic was engineered to take down the poor black man. The Meth epidemic is engineered to weed out the ignorant white people. For every one pot meth lab busted, fifteen bigger dealers go free...and they (as snitches) provide the fodder to make the system look like its doing it's job. Nobody's trying to take any of the dangerous drugs off the street. It is all just a numbers game to generate revenue and control the populace. Heroin, Meth, they do not care who lives and dies! Save your town! Stop the cycle. No more get out of jail free for snitches. Stop police sanctified sales of hard drugs!

They put everything they seize back on the street! That's why I am free. Those awesome blue squares of LSD with gold stars...The cops sold them as part of their "investigations". Proof enough. If they cared and wanted the drugs off the streets, IF THEY GAVE A SHIT! they wouldn't put them back out there after they were confiscated. They do this with DANGEROUS DRUGS TOO! Heroin they confiscate? Back on the street. Meth they confiscate? Back on the street. And you call them heroes.

"We don't want to bust people for crack and hard drugs, because they're junkies. They don't own anything. People with marijuana, people with LSD, they have bank accounts. They own property. That's who we want, people with something to lose". - Muncie Police (1992)
It is these policies that advanced things to where they are today

"Talk to the arresting officers, they have authority to make decisions in this instance" -Rick Reed, former prosecutor

"I am probably the most intelligent man in Delaware County and I am telling you, if you try to run, you will never make it. You need to talk to Rick Reed. I made you an appointment. He's waiting". - Geoffrey Rivers, Public Pretender.

"They are going to hang you, boy. Don't you know Americans hate drugs"? -jailhouse guard

"Where have you been getting your information? America LOVES drugs!"-TSB

  It's not about me now. I had my time. People are dying. Towns are dying. Our children are dying, and this is why. Fuck you war on drugs and fuck you war on drug mongers. I have a lot of fun with my story, but this part of it really pisses me off.

D.C. Dead show part III (The Long Strange Trip)

The parking lot of a Grateful Dead show is like a carnival, and as such, it has the elements of any carnival. It's a place that either overtly or covertly caters to all manners of lusts and vices. Sometimes this dynamic is innocent: the Rube has his fun, the purveyor adds a coin to his pile. The Rube isn't the only face in the crowd however, and the Carnie isn't the only person looking to take advantage. There are carnivores at a carnival, and sometimes there is more at stake than coin. 

“I have come for the Carnival,

The freedom and the peace.

Who could be among us?

Do you know their ways?

I made the acquaintance

of a sister fair and fine.

She said 'My friend, don't eat their bread

or drink from opened wine”.

-TSB (from “An Outing at the Fair”)

I walked the traffic jam coming into the lot, looking for a ticket and digging on the humanity. A school bus with a VW bus welded on the top approached. It was festooned with a dozen young topless women. I heard the phrase “Temple Whores”, murmured from the crowd around me. I'm unfamiliar with that term as it was used. I once had a hooker proposition me while dancing on the lawn at a show in Indy. After a couple of hours with no luck on the search, I headed to the stadium, hoping to find my miracle there.

I saw a crowd gathering at one corner of the lot and went to see what the draw was. There was a guy selling balloons: Hippie Crack, Nitrous Oxide. The line was long and the girl in front put down a hundred dollar bill and ordered twenty which she passed down the line. I had just inhaled mine when a cop pushed his way through the crowd.

He ordered the vender to open the valve and empty his tank. While the tank was wooshing all that nitrous into the air, the cop was writing out a ticket. A hippie stole up and bent to the tank, inhaling the gas as it discharged. The cop turned and, seeing this, clouted the hippie guy on the ear. Just then one of those big Huey choppers rose over the lot at an altitude of about fifty feet. As it flew over, I saw a man with a bog old VHS camera and another with an automatic rifle standing in the big, open, doorway. The choppers ran up and down the lot all night like it was Apocalypse Now. I scattered.

A woman approached me and asked if I had seen anybody vending prepackaged food. She was afraid of the grilled cheese and burritos, and lectured me on the dangers of getting slipped something. When she asked if I had a relationship with Jesus, I slipped away from her and through the tunnel under the highway.

Usually, on the lot, there are people selling doses and buds. Not at this show. Three different people in the tunnel approached me selling crack. What kind of dead show was this? Vietnam war choppers, crack dealers, congressmen, I was out of my element.

I found myself on the lawn outside the stadium and continued my quest. I had no luck and eventually gave up and headed back to the tunnel, hoping maybe somebody back at the van had found an extra ticket. At the entrance to the tunnel, I met the Man in Black. He was a black man with a black ball cap, black jeans, and black tee shirt. There was no logo on any of his clothing, including the cap. He asked if I was looking for a ticket and I lit up. Turns out he didn't have one either, but promised if I met him at that light pole over there at 4pm, he could get me in for twenty dollars. Keeping this in mind, I returned to the van.

Dave said he had scored a ticket for me, but traded it for some mushrooms. Bill had a similar story. The hitch hikers had switched the cast again and were working the crowd about twenty yards from the van. I told Dave how I hadn't seen anybody selling anything but Cocaine, and what a weird scene it was. Nobody was smiling. Nobody was looking anybody in the eye. I wondered aloud if I just wasn't looking in the right place. I set out again, looking for family, who were more and more conspicuous in their absence. It was almost four so I walked under the highway to meet the Man in Black.

I found 4 people, but no Man in Black at the assigned location. There were three clean cut looking guys and a girl. Wary, I stood a little ways off, but the young lady spotted me and asked if I was waiting to meet the guy who was going to let us in. I joined their group and a little while later our dark friend strolled up.

He looked furtively around and then requested our money. We each gave him twenty dollars and he stuffed all of the bills into his pocket but one. He then instructed us on how to fold a second twenty, and how to hold it. He informed us he was going to lead us to a gate where a friend of his was taking tickets. We were to approach him and pass the twenties in the manner we were shown. I didn't like it, but I was already in for twenty bucks. Nobody else liked it either and I was voted to enter first. We got to the correct line and the Man in Black disappeared into the crowd.

I considered some lyrics from “Friend of the Devil”. “Took my twenty dollar bill and vanished in the air”.

I approached the turnstile with the quartet behind me and made the appropriate supplications, half expecting to have been ripped off. The large man received my second twenty without looking at me and allowed me through the turnstile. I was in.

I made a beeline for the restroom with the male part of our contingent. We decided to hang there for a while and let the stadium fill up a little before blending with the crowd. Of course, there was a cop in the john, so I did my best to pee and split. Curiously, the others stayed behind.

I left the hallway for the arena and bounded down the steps two at a time, headed for the stage. My floor length dashiki was billowing behind me; my long hair blowing in the breeze. I hadn't gotten far when a security guard behind me requested my ticket. I pretended I didn't hear him. “Hey Hardhead!” he shouted, “Stop right there”. I began sidling down a row of seats in an attempt to elude him. A second guard came down the next aisle and they nabbed me. Guard #1 asked for my ticket again and I told him I must have dropped it in all my excitement. He didn't buy it. The hauled me back up the steps with their fingertips dug hard into my armpits. My feet barely touched the ground. They took me to a cinder block room and locked me in.

Alone, I pondered whether or not to eat the dope. I had three hits of acid and about as many grams of skunk. I didn't know if there were cameras, so I remained calm and left the drugs in my pockets. I figured they were just going to make me sweat a while, maybe the duration of the show, then turn me loose with a citation. They only left me there for a few minutes before they returned and grilled me as to who let me in without a ticket. After several threats, they gave up, photographed me, wrote down whatever silly alias I had given, and escorted me out of Robert F. Kennedy Stadium. I was banned for one year.

The tunnel to the lot now held a crap game, as well as the surge of the crowd coming for the show, two crack dealers, and a cop at each end (facing out). I felt like a salmon swimming upstream. I was disappointed to miss the show, but even more disappointed in myself for #1: my breach of ethics while sneaking in, and #2: getting caught leaping down the steps like an idiot.

At least I still had the drugs.

There were a few hours to kill, so I decided to find somebody to smoke this grass with. I wasn't sure if I was going to even eat the acid. It was pretty good stuff though, and I really wanted to. I had fasted in preparation and waited thirty days in order to have the best trip I could. I walked all the way back to the bus and couldn't find anybody who would look me in the eye, or even return a smile. Oh, how different than the Midwest shows!

I passed a girl along the way who was promising to “Bare anything for a crystal”, or maybe she was saying “Bear anything for a crystal”. In this group there was no telling. Was she hoping to trade a crystal for a grilled cheese, or maybe continue to swap up and score her drug of choice? Was she an exhibitionist? Was she a masochist? Maybe a little of both? To this day I often ponder her syntax. Back at the van, I sat on the ground and watched the carnival walk past on the way to the show. I had never spent an entire show in the lot. Perhaps the Universe was guiding me toward a valuable experience. As I sat there considering the events of the day and debating whether or not to eat the acid, the “Bare Anything” girl sat against a truck across from me. Her legs were splayed and I could see right up her panty-less skirt.

I wondered if I owed her a crystal.

In the end, I decided I would leave it to fate and walk along the Potomac to the other end of the lot, If I couldn't see a friendly face or find the people with the love in their eyes, I wouldn't eat the LSD. If I did find my people, I would dose up and smoke them out.

The Potomac was fetid, the populace: unfriendly. I reached the far (and I do mean far) end of the lot and stood there forlornly looking at the rusty fence. I was discouraged. I had some of the best paper I had seen, blue with gold stars, plus a chunk of mop up. Fate had spoken. I turned, preparing to trudge back to the bus and hotbox the skunk in my pocket.

I heard my name and looked to find that friendly face I was looking for. It was Jody, and I didn't even know she was in D.C. We smiled and hugged and she told me she had to hurry off to the show. After she left I put three squares of paper on my tongue and began my journey.

A while later, Little Red Riding Hood came skipping toward me. “Cold Rain and Snow” was coming from the Stadium. Her eyes never left mine as she skipped right up to me. She was wearing a frilly dress, red cape with hood, and had a picnic basket draped over one arm. She was blond and healthy and wholesome looking. She said she had to look in my eyes, and then she asked if I would like a “Very kind veggie burrito”. I said yes, I sure would, and inquired of the price. “No charge for the Mad Hatter” she said with a giggle, handed me her wares, and skipped along. I thought maybe my day was getting better.

The burrito, delicious and fresh as it was, made me thirsty. Way the hell out this end of the lot, there weren’t a lot of vendors. I went looking for a cold drink, and found a guy selling lemonade out of the back of an old truck. His sign read “Lemonade $6”. He was dispensing it in ten ounce cups. I was livid. I had guilt from not telling Dave what I thought of his WAY overpriced Sunny D, and wasn't going to let this guy go without an earful.

I told him just what I thought of people coming to the show and taking advantage of the poor, thirsty hippies by charging exorbitant prices. I told him he should be ashamed of himself and that he was behaving just like the capitalist “Babylonians” we eschewed. He told me if I thought his portions were unfair, to give him six bucks and drink all I want.

God help me, I did. I had about six glasses. It was days before I realized what I had done.

It wasn't long after that when I met the Grilled Cheese Guy. I thought the Grilled Cheese Guy was where it all went wrong. I wasn't thinking about the two hits of gold stars on blue paper, or the mop up, or the burrito, or the six glasses of lemonade. Nope, it was Grilled Cheese Guy. He reached into my head with his greasy grilled cheese finger and did something to me. It sounds funny now, but it wasn't at the time.

I started hearing his pitch from about twenty cars back. “Grilled cheese! Getcher Grilled Cheese! KIND Grilled cheese!” The later had a leering quality to the word “Kind” as if it were somehow satirical and I tried not to look when I passed him. The next time he hollered “Grilled” I had drawn up even and was looking right ahead of me at a drummer some distance off. With the word “CHEESE!” he leaned in front of me and tapped me solidly between the eyes with his finger. I didn't notice which one; finger that is.

Freaked me right out. That grilled cheese guy reached right into my psyche and was poking around in there for god knows what reason. I felt mystically violated. I wasn't going to hang around and try to toss fireballs with some evil wizard. I headed toward the masses around the drummer.

He was shirtless with dreadlocks, and I was halfway from the grilled cheese attack when I noticed I was dancing to the rhythm and the drummer was staring intently at me, drawing into him. I wondered if he was in collusion with the Grilled Cheese Guy. Lucky for me I was carrying a three inch ovate brass bell that was hand made by Buddhist Monks (at least that's what Jody's friend told me when he traded it to me for some gold stars back in Muncie).

I dug out that bell and found a whole different beat and broke free of the hold that drummer had on me and his grilled cheese friend too. I turned right at the next corner and danced away. I thought I heard whispers of “Mad Hatter, look!”. Two girls: plain, with straight brown hair, sat in the middle of the path. They were moving as if dancing, but weren't in step with “Franklin's Tower”, which was pouring out of the Stadium and further freaking me out. “In Franklin's Tower there hangs a bell. Might have one good ring baby, who can tell?”

One turned to the other when I drew closer, and whispered to her “Don't get in his shadow!” I did my best to remain calm and continue to the relative safety of the bus. “Franklin's Tower” turned to “Estimated Prophet” and I chilled a little. Then I saw those same girls again, coming toward me, and didn't know how they could be there. When I walked past, the one looked at the other and whispered “Don't look in his eyes!”

I was almost in a complete panic. I stopped and cast about looking for Grilled Cheesemen and evil wizards or at the very least, Dave's bus. The Vietnam choppers continued to threaten the skies. A friendly voice called out, “Hey bro! Come over here for a while, the helicopters can't see you under here.” I looked. There were two split window buses parked next to each other with a tarp stretched between. They had built a bunker, front and back, with bedrolls and gear and duffle and such. It was incredibly comfortable. Over at the stadium, we could hear “Dark Star.” A bowl went around.

By time it came to me, it was empty. I reached for my stash to refill it and the girl who had invited me in said not to worry. I handed it to her and she told me to watch carefully. She stuck the tip of the little finger from her right hand into her mouth and sucked on it a minute. Then she inserted it into the pipe and twisted it. With each twist her finger rose a bit more in the bowl. When she was done and handed it back to me, it was nearly full.

It went around again and a new girl joined us, sitting to my right. The bowl was empty by time it got to her. I told her not to worry and reached for the wooden pipe. I told her to watch carefully as I sucked on my right pinkie and then twisted it in the bowl. I imagined our hostess's eyes sparkled a little. I felt a small kernel rising in the pipe, I twisted. The pipe refilled itself again and before I, or the new girl could express our amazement, our hostess stood and commanded us all to hush. A neighboring jam box was playing a different version of Dark Star and they were synching up here and there. She told me I was safe to go back out now. I noticed Dave's bus a few rows over and excused myself. I was refreshed. I thought the worst of the evening had passed, but those brown haired girls would have none of that.

There they were, standing across from the bus. They were right where I had last seen the Bare/Bear Anything girl. The one looked at the other and whispered into her ear “They're taking his soul!” There's only so much a fellow can take. I dove right into the surprisingly unlocked van and hid under some blankets. The band was covering “It's All Over Now Baby Blue” Maybe the Grilled Cheese Guy did get me? I tried to meditate, but the only mantra I could hold was one of repeated panic. After an eternity, I heard a voice.

The voice said hey man, its okay. You know what to do. “Do I think about all the love in my life?” I asked. The voice chuckled. “You'll be alright.”

I smoked a joint. I was alright. No Grilled Cheese Guy was going to take my soul. I shouldn't listen to strange brown haired girls. After a while I got out of the bus. The show was over, the fireworks had started. I walked away from the lights a bit, but kept the van in sight. The first firework turned to smoke. The smoke turned into Tom Sawyer. I walked farther from the lights. The second firework turned into the woodcut of the skeleton with roses. Then it turned into just a skeleton. Then it brutally sodomized Tom Sawyer. I ran for the van.

It was locked. I stood at the van and tried not to look at the smoke. I also tried not to look at the truck across the way, lest there be two very mean brown haired girls or at the very least, one brown haired vagina looking back at me. I focused on a spot halfway from the bus to the path and up stepped The Man in Black. He was looking the other way, watching concert goers as the came out and walked along the path to their cars. I tried to convince myself that it wasn't him. It was.

The Man in Black reached into his left pants pocket and bowed deeply toward the truck across the way. Suddenly, he pivoted on his heels, and came up facing me with a huge stack of hundred dollar bills fanned out like a hand of euchre. There must have been thousands of dollars there. He looked up and smiled and pivoted back toward the path with his hands in his pockets. I was stricken. Then he glanced at a spot on his left and looked over his shoulder at me. Then to his left/ Then back at the path. He was inviting me. I dove back in the bus, which was unlocked.

No matter how hard I listened, I couldn't find that reassuring voice again. I lay on the floor and smoked another joint. After a bit I crept up and looked out the window. The Man in Black was gone. I crawled back out of the van.

Dave and Bill showed up, and eventually the hitch hikers. Neither wore the cast, they were carrying it. We all got in the back and smoked another one. Dave and Bill informed me that they were too high on mushrooms to drive. I told them about my night. They said if I didn't drive then we were staying right there. That sounded okay to me until the third time the cop came by and told us if we didn't leave we'd be towed and/or arrested. God help me, I drove out of that lot, and down the road to Dave's aunt's place in Virginia.

Every exit ramp had five or six cop cars waiting, with lights flashing, to bust the Deadheads. The helicopters were swooping and the buildings were glaring at me malevolently. I'll never go back to that damned town. The hitch hikers dropped a hundred and a half on Dave for gas and got out at the exit for Dave's aunt. I think Autumn was wearing the cast this time. Somehow we made it back to Dave's Aunt's. I don't know if Dave's aunt even really exists. I didn't see her. Bill and I had to sleep in the back yard and weren't allowed to use the toilet.

Dave and Bill ate mushrooms and so they slept like babies. I had done god knows how much acid (I still hadn't put two and two together about the burrito and the lemonade). I was up for the duration in a backyard where I wasn't particularly welcome in Virginia, damn close to the most evil city on the east coast and the grilled cheese sorcerer bastards it harbors. I decided to go for a coke. My soul seemed safe for the moment.

“Winding his way among goblins.

The dancing man ringing his bell.

Did it indeed occur as he's seen?

As he sees? Or somewhere in between?

In and out of the temple

betrayed by his leaps toward the floor.

Pipes were all dry, no love in their eyes

Heard a voice, swallowed stars, still denied.

Hunger drove him to that smiling maid.

Then he argued with a merchant on the price of lemonade.

The man shouted “Fine my friend! Take you two times three!”

How sore I erred.

In truth I fared

The price of gluttony.

Foolish and dumb,

The fruit had come

From a magic lemon tree.”

-TSB (from “An Outing at the Fair”)

The Anasazi Bellows Part II of III First Trip to the Hot Springs

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.

Thanksgiving at the Lake 2004

Wednesday November 17, 2004: Apache Lake Resort boat ramp 6:36p.m.

Sunshine and Tyler dropped me here at about 3p.m. I took a short walk (approx. ½ mile) and set up camp right by the ramp. My plan is to scout the area for a couple of days and then load the canoe and move camp to a more secluded spot. For now, I'll enjoy a few of the amenities the resort has to offer, like showers and toilets. I have to be back here to meet Sunshine and family for Thanksgiving. I'll ferry them to my camp in the canoe.

I met some guys who’ve been here fishing for the last couple of days and haven’t caught anything. They tell me the bass don’t start hitting well here until December, but I’m looking for food not trophies and not just flipping spinner baits after bass, so I’m not too discouraged.

Preliminary scouting reveals that with a little effort firewood shouldn’t be a problem. There are many mesquite thickets and much deadfall. I dined this evening on the abundant windfall Jojoba nuts. Note to self: collect a couple pounds of these before the rodents beat me to it. I’ve also found hackberries to be in season, dry and tough, but sweet.

It’s been a beautiful, mostly clear day. The high was supposed to reach 80. I’m guessing 60-65 now with a slight breeze.

Thursday November 18, 2004, 10:45 pm

Spectacular meteor showers to the Northwest during the last two nights. I just saw a ringtail cat. I canoed about 6 miles today (round trip). I visited Saguaro Point, Fox Point, Haystack, Ash Creek, Horsetail Bay and 3 Bar Point. All to the west of my camp near Crabtree wash. I fished the entire time using rubber worms, minnows, diving plugs, spinners, salmon eggs, salty grubs, et,al. I threw everything I had at 'em to no avail. I didn’t even get a nibble.

When I returned, I hiked up to the resort and called my friend Frank in Payson and told him where I’m camped. He told me that my friend Pat, from Chevellon, will be following him down and they will be meeting me Monday. I guess I'll stay here by the marina until then so they can easily find me. I hope Dee and Mikey are coming also.

There were four grapefruits at the base of the tree behind my tent when I got here and I had one for breakfast. Lunch was Jojoba nuts. In the evening a young couple I met invited me to share their campfire and we had mesquite-roasted bratwurst for dinner. They also had Beck’s Dark beer and a doobie!

Friday November 19, 2004, 6:21 a.m.

I awoke today just before dawn to the hooting of an owl in a eucalyptus tree above me and chest pains on the right side of my body. (The owl is traditionally a portent of death or extreme change). Last time I had an owl in camp, Maya, my faithful companion of 13 years was dying. I pay attention to the owls, man. Upon rising I determined that my pain is of muscular origin, from rowing against the wind and current all day yesterday. The owl was simply a neighbor saying good-morning. I also saw a ringtail cat at about 1a.m. while out for a moonlight hike and resin toke. I’m going to give my aching ribs a break and stay out of the canoe today.

7:45p.m.

Well, I couldn’t stay off the lake. I rowed down to Needle Cove, again caught nothing. I’m starting to wonder if there’s even fish in this lake. I’ve seen huge bass skeletons on shore, but not only have I not had a nibble, I haven’t seen or heard of anybody catching anything. I haven’t even seen any minnows or crawdads. Frank can really fish. He’ll catch ‘em if anyone does. Brunch: Jojoba nuts and coffee. Dinner: the last of my grits.

Saturday November 20, 2004

11:34 am

I grabbed a piece of steak out of the dumpster at the resort last night and fished with it. I got 2 bites but didn’t catch anything. I’m going to row west and shoot me something today. Breakfast: grapefruit and coffee.

Now to digress a bit, which I’ll probably do a lot. I get overwhelmed sometimes with the awesomeness of what I’m doing. I feel like I’m the richest man in America. I mean wow! Just look at my front yard! Sure am hungry though, and the jojoba are starting to upset my stomach. They are very high in tannins.

7:30p.m.

I wore myself out rowing against the wind again . I talked to Dave today. He owns Apache Lake Resort and Marina. He says there hasn't been a fish caught for a while. Didn’t shoot any varmints as I found a tub of worms, but I still haven’t got anything. Horrible stink turtles are stripping my hook without even ringing the bell. I caught one, but it smelled so doggone bad, I couldn't fathom eating it. Dinner: 3 small pancakes and coffee. Ran out of flour. I have one grapefruit left. Not looking good for Apache Lake. The Forest Service fishing report said Apache had the best fishing of the three lakes, but they were obviously wrong.

I wish I'd stayed on the Verde again this Winter. I not only survive there, but thrive. No matter. It’s best I start out with the hard part anyway. Quite cloudy out tonight.

11:00p.m.

Took a late night hike and surprised a couple of fellas at the cove on the other side of the marina. When I turned the corner on them, they turned off their flashlights and hustled off in different directions. One was a guy I've seen pushing a broom at the resort. If they were getting high, I wish they hadn't been spooked. I'm almost out of resin and my pipes are pretty clean.

Sunday November 21, 2004, 11:30 a.m.

About 10p.m. last night I put my rain tarp up, and that was just in time. It’s been raining on and off all day. I just talked to Sunshine and she did an interview about me with News Zap or Newzap or something like that. We think it’s an online newspaper. She’s supposed to take a picture of me for them on Thursday when she comes.

The receptionist at the resort just told me they had a fishing tournament yesterday. I guess, out of 17 boats, only one caught a single fish. Game and Fish blames an algae bloom, (see westernbass.com). I gave up today and had lunch at the Apache Lake Resort. A double swiss burger with French fries and an apple pie ala mode.

Latest report had the dead fish at Apache the result of both the algae bloom and runoff from fires. I asked Sunshine to check Game and Fish to see of the other lakes in the chain (i.e. Roosevelt, Canyon, and Saguaro) have suffered similar fates. If so, she’s going to check with the Cave Creek ranger station and try to get me an extended pass for Bartlett Lake.

I just talked to a guy who works here and he told me they opened the turbines at Roosevelt and that let a bunch of fire retardant flow down and it killed all the lakes. Also, he said there was a type of algae that got in from India somehow. I’ve heard a lot of reports about these airplane contrails and seen a lot of them here. On a clear day with no wind, I’ve seen them settle down as a mist, creating a fog through the entire valley. My local sources tell me they’ve seen smallmouth bass with open sores.

Another theory is that the crawdad population was wiped out and being the major food source for the bass, they starved. Fishing reports in the Arizona Republic and on the internet say the fishing through here is good. I don’t know where they get their information. The locals know better. It would seem they are trying to hide something. I’ve noticed that people cover things up for 3 reasons: Legal, political, or commercial. It’s 7:00 and the rain continues. I hope it’s done by tomorrow when my friends arrive.

Monday November 22, 2004, 10:25a.m.

And then the wind changed direction.

Its coming from the west now and that end of my tent is bent to the ground.

My rain fly ripped and one of my poles snapped. I repaired it with a hose clamp. The radio says it’s snowing in L.A. and Vegas. Feels like the temperature just dropped 10 degrees. The radio says its 49 degrees in phoenix with rain on and off today and tonight. That means it's much colder here.

Frank showed up, but nobody else wanted to come out in this cold rain. He started a fire using wet ground score willow during a downpour and then told me he had dry firewood but wanted to see if he could do it. We smoked some of his grass and drank a few beers and climbed a spur of Crabtree Wash to watch the fire. Then we went to the bar and had a few beers then I had a Martini and very strong White Russian.. Bad move on the white Russian after no food all day. I was up heaving out the tent most of the night.

Tuesday November 23, 2004, 5:15 p.m.

I awoke at 8a.m. and hiked up to Frank’s camp, only to find that he cleared out early. I hope he and his dog are okay. It’s not like him just to disappear like that.

Apache Lake and Resort is owned by the Schuster family and boasts 3 separate motel structures, a marina, boat shop, boat rental dock, several boat ramps, camping, RV sites, restrooms, showers, restaurant, grocery, bar, tetherball courts, horseshoe pits, ping-pong tables, volleyball court, sheriff’s station, and heliport. The lake itself boasts largemouth, smallmouth, and yellow bass; as well as rainbow trout, crappie, sunfish, bluegill, channel, flathead, and bullhead catfish, walleye and carp. (See Sunday’s entry) The elevation here is 1,900 feet, and claims 17 miles of shoreline encompassing 2,568 surface acres of water. Although the lake is situated within Tonto National Forest and administered by the Forest Service, it is owned y the Air Force. The maximum water depth is 253 feet. More information is available by calling (602)467-2511 or (928)467-2511. The resort website is www.apachelake.com.

5:45p.m.

No rain today, although there has been a great deal of thunder. As I sit here in the lobby of the resort (batteries are dead in my flashlight, so I am taking advantage of the electricity). Several people have walked past complaining of the cold. A Phoenix radio station is calling for temperatures in the high 30’s overnight in “outlying areas”. Lunch today was a cheeseburger and fries. Dinner: coffee. I catfished with night crawlers from 1:00 to 4:00, but gave it up when I didn’t even get a nibble in three hours. Earlier I hiked out a ways and did some target practice with my 22-revolver. Tomorrow, Sunshine, Tyler, and Gavin will be here and they’re thinking of buying a flatbed bass boat that’s for sale down by my camp. It’s probably the ugliest boat I’ve ever seen, but it’s priced reasonably and comes with an outboard and trolling motors.

11:27p.m.

Since my batteries are wiped out in my radio, I went over to the tables by where I had seen the ring-tailed cat hoping for another glimpse of it. If I couldn’t fish, at least I might see some wildlife. That’s when I noticed the guys sneaking around, following me. It’s disquieting having people lurking about bushes, whispering in the dark. I don't know if they are security, or those dudes I surprised the other night. They eventually left. One guy, on foot with a dog, the other on a quad and I waited around maybe for another hour, but I think the dog spoiled any chances I may have had of seeing the ring-tail tonight. I wonder if those guys were nosing around Frank’s camp and that’s why he left early. I wonder if they think I’m casing the joint, always hanging around the lobby taking notes on my clipboard around closing time. I also tend to use the restroom up there, rather than the one near my camp. It’s cleaner and warm.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004, 4:45p.m.

Some guy who I've seen around here in a white pickup with a short wheel-base and no bed just backed up to the rocks by my camp and stared me down in his rearview mirror. I smiled and waved, and he pointed at me with a scowl. I guess I get the message. He’s walking purposefully toward my tent. I’m in my tent writing. I’m going to call Sunshine and see if she’s on her way as soon as he leaves.

5:15p.m.

I was unable to reach Sunshine on her phone. They must be on their way.

A little later

I hiked to the resort and back about a dozen times, hoping to see Sunshine driving in. They finally showed and I suggested we load my camp and move to Roosevelt Lake in hopes the fish are alive there. They brought a full thanksgiving dinner with all the fixin's for tomorrow. Yippee! I haven't had a Thanksgiving dinner for years.

Thursday November 25, 2004, Thanksgiving Day Roosevelt Lake. 2:00? (Tyler says 12:50) 

Walnut Canyon game enclosure is 1 mile west of Bachelor Cove camping area (our camp). It’s part of research being conducted on the 3 Bar Wildlife area by the Arizona Game and Fish department in cooperation with the U.S. Forest Service. Within the enclosure the department is studying the population dynamics, habitat requirements, and pathology of mule deer and javelina.

Tyler used his 4 wheel drive to “flex his man muscle” upon the dynamics, habitat requirements and pathology of the many mud puddles.

Roosevelt lake (named for Teddy, not Franklin), was once the largest man-made lake in the world. It covers more than 17,000 acres. The lake is formed by the junction of the Salt River and Tonto Creek. As I’ve mentioned our first camp here is called Bachelor’s Cove, and is a fee site. $4.00 for tent camping. Fortunately for me, many of the campgrounds require the fee for parking, not camping. So, when the Dvorak’s leave, I won’t have to pay.

Bachelor’s Cove reminds me of Bartlett Flats, lots of RV’s and boats, and you can launch right from your camp. Last night was pretty cold and dewy. I’d say it’s in the mid to high 70’s now. I’m in shorts and a t-shirt now. We drove to the Punkin Center for gas (13 miles north). Regular was $2.04 and Tyler called that reasonable. I guess I’ve been in the woods awhile because it doesn’t seem reasonable to me.

Local vegetation includes saguaro, barrel, pincushion, and prickly pear cacti, as well as Palo Verde. Some mesquite and salt cedar trees, Jojoba, desert broom, and cockleburs. Firewood is scarce, but we scored somebody’s old stash on a jeep trail. I’ve also seen grackles, ducks, doves, and egrets. Geese are plentiful.

Breakfast: blueberry pancakes and coffee with real maple syrup and butter. Lunch: chips and soda. Dinner: Smoked turkey, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and mashed potatoes. I ate more today than I have all week. I may not need that extra belt hole after all. Wait! There’s pie! We drove up to Tonto cliff dwellings after dinner, but it’s gated and closes at 5p.m. (ruins close at 4p.m.). so, we went further east about ½ mile and did some more 4-wheeling. About 1 ½ miles up a wash we passed an old windmill and then got high-centered on a rock. All we had was a scissor jack, a tripod, and the kid’s compound bow I found when I met the White wolf years ago. I gave it to Tyler for Gavin when he's old enough.

The boulder was fortunately a sedimentary conglomerate. Had it been gneiss we’d have been in trouble, but despite its enormity it was light enough to dig and crumble a bit and muscle out with our legs. We’re back at the fire now. Tyler’s playing guitar and I’m thinking about that pie…coffee’s ready. Fishing report is better here. Folks are catching bass, smallmouth and cat. More importantly, the folks nearest us are using soft rubber bait not live bait, so that means I can catch’em.

We met some great folks who spend Thanksgiving here every year. I played guitar and sang for beers and had great fun. I ran out of songs I would normally think were appropriate for families, but the kids were asleep and they insisted I continue although I warned them all I had left were bluer or drug related tunes. I was a hit. They all sang along with the choruses of “The Ballad of Verde Hot Springs” and “Drinking after Midnight”.

Before I forget, I promised Frank I'd post this in case anybody is reading: “The Oxbow in Payson is the funnest place in town.”

Note: I believe The Oxbow is no longer open (2014)

"I Am Pan! Lord of the Forest"

The western edge of the outside hot spring is formed from the natural stone of the mountain. The rest of the tub is bordered by concrete slab poured generations ago and overlooking the Verde River. On the mountain side, there is an undercut beneath the stone going back about three feet.

I used to dive down into this hollow space and come up with Kaolin clay. Kaolin is a high quality ceramic clay that's used to make china and also in the cosmetic industry. I've been unable to find these deposits since the major floods of '04-'05.

Below the sand, gravel, silt, and rich black organic matter, the clay began. The first layer was gray from the humus that rested above it. The second layer had yellow streaks, and I used to make pipes from it in the coals of my fire. After several dives, digging with my hands, I would come to the third layer of pure, white, kaolin.

I used to sculpt the clay into little figures and sit them in the sun on the rocks above. I remember one day, meeting two hippie girls from Tennessee and we played with the clay, afterward smearing it all over each other before hiking back to camp. On hot days I would thin it with water and cover my nose to prevent sunburn.

One Friday in April, I went to the tubs early (as I liked to do on weekends). I had a new book I wanted to read while I soaked. Springer had stolen some magic mushroom chocolate from me and, by way of restitution, was providing me with beers and buds. I was well stocked when I reached the spring.

The sun was just coming up over Ike's Backbone when I got there. I had the place to myself. The morning proved to be too groovy for my book. Wildflowers were blooming yellow all along the mountains to the north and east. It was going to be another perfect day. I lit a joint and floated around on my back for a while, enjoying the sun.

I had a crew cut, and my head was sunburned and peeling. I applied my mixture of clay and water, but it kept flaking off so I put a LOT of clay on, covering my entire face and head. I made a long hooked nose and pointed ears and topped it all off with a large horn that shot up nearly a foot.

During this process, Rusty had come up from the trail to the south and Pat and Springer appeared from the direction of the ranch road a little later. Springer announced that he had prayed to God, asking that he send us thirty single women. Rusty aptly remarked that thirty might not be enough of a pool for Springer to find one that could tolerate him.

We spent the next hour or so drinking cheap beer, smoking cheap grass, and comparing notes on the summer camps we would soon be leaving for when the temperature rose. From the Spring, you can see traffic on portions of the road leading down to the Verde Valley. That morning, there was an endless line of trucks bouncing down the road. I was glad to have gotten there while it was still comfortably underpopulated. Looky-loos and weekend warriors were about to descend on our paradise.

The first to make the journey from camp to the springs were an unlikely coupl of city slickers from Chicago who called themselves Dan and Marge. They were easily in their late sixties. Dan didn't say much. He just sat on a concrete pillar and sipped from a flask. Marge was more gregarious. She stripped down to a one piece and joined us in the water. She was what we call a “Peter Gazer”. She couldn't stop staring at our Johnsons.

Finally, Rusty told her “Hey sis, my eyes are up here”. He also told her we were expecting a mule train with tobacco, ammo, and liquor. She believed him and pleaded with Dan to stay and see the mules. Later, back at camp, Dan went from camp to camp asking if anybody had any Viagra for sale. I told him that I could find grass and mushrooms, but knew noting of pharmaceuticals. He later scored some from a source I won't name and drove his mini van to a secluded spot.

They only stayed at the tubs for about an hour. Shortly after they left, Springer's prayers came true. Thirty single women came marching down the path. It was unbelievable. Remaining clothed, they lowered themselves into the outside tub with us, retired to the hotter, inside pool, or lounged around the patio. Seeing my clay mask, one of them asked if I was a Chupacabra. “No” replied as I got out to fetch another beer. “I am Pan! Lord of the Forest”!

One of the women gasped and three looked away with enough speed to cause whiplash. The gasper told the woman beside her they should warn the new people. Wanting to make her more comfortable, I offered her a beer. That's when I found out they were a lesbian Alcoholics Anonymous group.

I told Springer the next time he prayed for women he should be more specific and maybe not so greedy.

You Never Know What You Might Find at the Verde Hot Springs

I'd spent a couple of winters at the Verde, and thought I'd seen it all. I know now what an understatement that can be.

Spring was coming. I remember that because more people were showing up on the weekends and it was still a little cool in the mornings. Janine was there sleeping in a hammock. There were a couple of schoolteachers, fellas from Colorado, camping near her. Other than that, there was only one other truck in camp. It was unoccupied and parked in the Hackberries.

I woke at 6 O'clock on that Friday morning and decided to hike up and have a nice soak before the crowds rolled in. I packed my canister stove, coffee, water, and a worn copy of “The Monkey Wrench Gang” a hippie girl had laid on me. The river was a little high, so I took the old ranch road to the One Crossing. I approached the springs carefully, having heard a single gunshot when I was passing the old corral.

When I arrived, I found the tarp from the roof of the inside tub had been removed and hung across the doorway. I assumed a couple was in there and wanted some privacy, so I left my pack on the steps and lowered myself into the cooler outside pool.

After about an hour, I was eager to leave the breeze and 98 degree water for the warmer spring. After two hours, I began to get annoyed. There hadn't been a sound coming from the stone building just feet from where I sat. That was unusual. The water in there is pretty warm, and people usually have to at least stand up now and then to cool off. If somebody was camping in there, it was time for them to get up. Nobody has the right to monopolize the building like that. The other option that crossed my mind was suicide; that single gunshot I heard.

I had enough. I climbed out, naked and shivering, I stood at the door listening through the tarp. Nothing. “Hello”, I called. No answer. I carefully pulled back the tarp and nothing could have prepared me for what I found.

Next to the wood stove was a pile of dirty laundry about three feet high. Who in the world could have carried so much up the trail from camp. It wasn't there the night before. Odd as that was, it was nothing compared to what else I saw.

The inside tub is roughly six by eight feet. A shallow rectangle of hot water with a few steps leading down. The entire thing was covered in carefully placed sheets of glossy magazine pages. Closer inspection revealed it to be lesbian porn. In the middle was a large beach ball. Next to the steps was an empty wine bottle on it's side, a large purple rubber dildo, and a set of false teeth.

Who in the world would leave their teeth? Nobody. That’s who.

There's a cave on the other side of the outside pool, and the smart money said that whatever wackadoo owned this collection was probably in there, possibly armed, and likely didn't want to be found. I gathered my pack and my clothes and dressed on my way down the trail to the river.

About halfway back to camp I passed the schoolteachers, who shared some tasty blond hash. They asked how my soak was and I cautioned them about the gunshot, false teeth, dildo, beachball, and thirty pounds of laundry. They laughed and said they'd keep an eye open.

Later that afternoon, I was visiting with Janine and they came over. They said they thought I was just kidding. They were surprised to find everything exactly the way I described, with the addition of a little old man who appeared, packed everything up, and split.

How I Wound Up in Muncie, and What I Found There

I didn't really have a good reason for moving to Muncie.

I'd left my first wife in the spring of '88 and returned to Ohio. I rented a bungalow at a vintage motor court on the Dixie Highway and got a pizza job. By August, I still hadn't found an apartment and was getting discouraged. A girl I worked with told me it was shame I wasn't looking in Muncie, Indiana. She was returning to school in the fall and one of her roommates had backed out of their lease. She said there were plenty of pizza joints in town, and I should check it out.

On a whim, I traveled to Indiana and did a walk through. My room had double pocket doors, a marble fireplace with a mirror and columns all the way up to the twelve foot ceiling, and a private entrance. My portion of the rent would be $150.00 per month. On the way out of town, I got a job managing a pizzeria on campus. By September, I was living with three sophomore girls; two topless dancers and and the sweetest little architect student.

When I called my dad to tell him about the move, he said I was dumber than owl shit.

Friends from Dayton threw me a going away party and we dropped acid. At about 2:00 am they headed back to their wives and girlfriends and I got on the road west. I took the interstate and there was one lane from construction all the way from Dayton to Richmond. Large barrels crowded in on me, festooned with flashing lights that sent my LSD high into overload. My forearms were sore from clenching the wheel so hard and I kept forgetting to breathe. Even though I had the cruise control set at 40, I alternately thought I was creeping or racing. I should have stayed at John's place, or at least taken the farm roads.

Somehow, I found my way to Muncie and located my new home. The girls weren't due for another week. I wasn't really supposed to be there myself, but I knew the house was empty and I had a key and couldn't see paying another week at the motor court when there was adventure and exploration ahead of me. I stashed my grass, unloaded the hot rod, hung a hammock, and slept until four the next afternoon.

I posted a few posters and considered myself unpacked. I grabbed a manageable amount of buds from my quarter pound and jumped in the Buick, eager to see where the hell I landed. My first stop was the pizzeria, where I let them know I was in town and would report for work the following week as planned. Then I just drove around getting high and familiarizing myself with my new environment.

I found a street on the south side that was about thirty or so blocks long and bumper to bumper hot rods. The parking lots were full of pretty girls milling about in frilly little skirts and teased bangs. On one end of the cruising strip was a genuine old fashioned burger joint. It was like going back in time. On my third pass down Madison Street, I found a race. A '69 Nova lined up with me at the Memorial Drive stop light and by time we reached the railroad bridge about twelve blocks north, I had him by two lengths.

Suddenly, he turned off and just as I was thinking he was a sore loser for not pulling into McDonalds to meet me and talk cars, I saw the cop falling in behind me. First day in town, out of state tags, reefer... no thanks. I went the wrong way down a one way and punched it, turning off before the officer showed up in the mirror. I did that a couple of more times, and then headed back to campus where they had different cops.

I checked out the village, and was impressed by the counter culture scene. There were some good bars, and great music. I walked down University Avenue smoking fat joints and meeting groovy people. I fell in love with that town

I thought I'd end the night by stopping by the pizzeria for a take home pie and meet some of my new co-workers while it cooked. The pizzamaker was a pale, skinny, brooding fella who reminded me of Edward Scissorhands. The closing driver that night was an Irish guy with an afro who looked like a Hanna Barberra character. The shop was built in an old house and business was slow since classes hadn't started yet. The Hair Bear dude had a guitar out and played some old Cat Stevens and Don McLean on the porch while we watched the pretty girls go by.

Scissorhands offered me the pizza for free if I'd stay and help close. We locked up and the three of us smoked the last of my night's walking around stash in the walk in. Hair Bear invited me back to his place to sample his doobage when we left. I remember heading up the street I lived on and turning just before the fairgrounds and winding through a neighborhood to a huge yellow house. I tried to go to his house the next day and see if he wanted to hit the bars, but had a wild adventure trying to find it.

I turned just where I thought we had the day before, but it looked a little different. This street curved to the left and came to a tee at a dirt road. If I turned right on the dirt, I figured I might come out somewhere near where I was heading. I did so and a little while later the road curved to the left, then again. Then AGAIN! I had almost gone in a complete circle. Then, looking up, I noticed the grand stand. I had unwittingly driven onto the horse track at the fairgrounds.

I thought I was probably already busted, and anyway, when would I get another opportunity like this? I dropped it into first, floored it, did two laps and got the hell out of there. I headed to the village (where they had different cops).

Once again, I gravitated to the pizza joint where I thought I might get better directions to Hair Bear's place. I was told he was at another driver's place helping him move and they showed me a note on the bulletin board from Lucky Tailor, requesting assistance and accompanied by a map and the promise of free beer.

I now had plans for the evening.

The Unbreakable Pipe

      I had been at the Verde River a few weeks when a weekend hit that was every bit as exciting as my first. I met many people then who have been cherished friends now for over a decade. Most don't remember me from that time. I was still keeping mostly to myself and had shaved my head. My friends may have some memory of those meetings, but have revealed they were unaware it was me. It am reputed to be much more sociable (and hirsute) than I was that first trip.

      It was late April or early May and the weather was that from which summer memories are so often made. I was camped alongside the river below a grass crested dune of sand that no longer exists. My camp was invisible from the drive, yet I was afforded a view of all incoming traffic and a quick escape into the trees adjacent to the north side of my tent.

      A young couple, not noticing my camp from above, wandered in and stayed to share my fire and their smoke. It was good smoke and they were most welcome.

      He was a glass blower, specializing in pipes, and they were on their way to Bonnaroo or Burning Man or some such event to ply their wares. After a few drinks, my guests retrieved from their car a wooden case with samples of their art. They made a present to me of a small chameleon glass one hitter about three inches long.

      After showing it and announcing his intent to leave it with me as a gift, he raised the pipe over his head and dashed it into the rocks of my fire pit. It bounced about the stones for a bit and finally came to rest in the sand... unharmed. An unbreakable chameleon glass pipe is a wonderful gift for a fellow who lives outside among the rock.

      For the next month, whenever somebody at the hot springs or campground inquired for a pipe, I would proudly display my little gem, dash it on the rocks, then offer it up to smoke. It was a big hit and if I had contact information for the artist, I could have sent him a lot of business.

      Then it happened.

      One evening, as I was returning to my camp from an afternoon soak upriver, a group of campers asked if I had a pipe they could use. Responding in the affirmative, I revealed my now richly hued piece, and dashed it into the rocks of their fire pit where it exploded into tiny little pieces.

      They all just stared at me. One guy told me what a dick move that was and his girlfriend said I could have just said no, I didn't have to be shitty about it. I looked like an asshole. I explained myself; that the pipe was not intended to break, and they understood. I presented my rolling papers as an alternative and we enjoyed a good laugh as well as a fine joint.

      I'd like to find another of those nearly indestructible pipes.

  

The Redemption of Shattsworth

A year to the day from the time the mysterious van pulled in and parked, I found myself back at Bear Canyon. This time I was camped to the west of Forest Road 89, tucked way back in a little used part of the forest at the end of a fire road. This made for a longer hike to the lake, but also hid me from the prying eyes of the Feds.

This year, I had no forest closures to blame for staying in one region beyond the fourteen day limit. I had to avoid the scrutiny of not only the Law Enforcement Officers (LEO's) but of the Rangers, Toilet Rangers, Game and Fish Wardens, and Wildlife Rangers.

I maintained contact with the Fire Rangers, known as Hot Shots, because they didn't care how long I stayed in the forest. They said they saw a difference between recreating and residing in the forest and even though I overstayed the regulations, I was obviously recreating and that was cool with them. I fished and explored and always had adventures to share with them. They often told me they wished they could do what I was doing. They had become friends and often provided me with useful information on the state of the forests, fire bans, and forest fires. I met these guys the previous year. They were all in their twenties and expressed appreciation for my continued journeys.

So I was cutting through the main camp area toward my hiding spot with a stringer of fish when I saw a maroon Dodge van pull up behind the shitter. The driver got out, opened the hood, and checked the radiator. This couldn't be Shattsworth, could it? I thought maybe it was just the color of the van and the location he pulled into that reminded me of him. I circled along the ridge and came up from the other side for a better look. It was him. I stole out from the cover of the trees and silently moved up behind him without being noticed.

From about a foot away, I said “Don't tell me you have a hole in your Radiator!” loud enough to startle him. He turned and smiled and said he was hoping to find me here. He suggested we go to my camp and talk. Having learned my lesson from previous experiences, I told him I was camped a few miles away, in a spot where he probably couldn't get his van. There were some fallen logs nearby where the Forest Service had recently downed some trees that were victim to the Bark Beetles. We could sit and talk there. I hung my fish in a tree and he brought out his bong.

As we smoked, his story unfolded.

Shattsworth had a girlfriend once, and a house and a job. He lost them all. The girlfriend got hooked on Meth and hooked up with a friend of his. His birthday was approaching and he got an idea from watching a movie. That movie was “The Life of David Gale”. He was always talking about Kevin Spacey movies. The David Gale film, and “American Beauty”. I had not seen either. Apparently, in the movie, Somebody kills themselves by taping a bag over their head and handcuffing themselves behind their back after swallowing the handcuff key.

He said he came to the woods to do this, once his supplies ran out, but then he met me. He said he wanted to thank me and invited me to stay with him, should I find myself in Phoenix. He gave me his extension number at work and said he had a present for me in the van. I felt bad for having judged him so harshly. Still, I found it hard not to do so.

His bong had a huge bowl, and after he would load it and each of us would take a hit, he would dump the rest out. The first three times he did this, I kept quiet. It was killing me to see such waste. It was just regular Mexican, but still. I jonesed on the rim. Grass is hard to come by up in Mormon Country. It's not like the river, where pot is plentiful.

Finally I said something to him. It was along the lines of “What the hell are you doing, grinding good buds in the dirt?” He replied that he had plenty, and only wanted the green hits. I was flabbergasted. I had never seen such behavior. I told him so in vivid and voluminous detail. I entreated with him to at least dump the bowls on a plate or a rock as I could smoke a week or more on what he had wasted. He said nah, if he was going to smoke green hits, he wasn't going to make me smoke the remainder. “Remember” he stated, “I told you I was sorry I didn't share with you before, and promised to take care of you if I ever saw you again”.

I thanked him as humbly as I could, but damn! He didn't have to throw Marijuana away right in front of me! He demanded that we change the subject, which is quite assertive for that guy, and asked me if I liked creamer in my coffee. “Sure” I said, “but I'm out of coffee right now”. He went to his van and returned with a number 10 can of Creamora and asked if I wanted it. Sure, I said. I was thinking I might use it like I did powdered milk and add water and sugar and pour it over greens. “If you don't want it”, he teased, “you don't have to take it”.

“I want it.” I replied, “Thank you”. He tossed it to me and I pulled back the lid to check the seal and left it at that. I wasn't about to accept food from Shattsworth that wasn't sealed for my safety. I thanked him again and sat it down on my right side. With a sly look, he asked “Aren't you going to open it?” “Why?” I queried in return, “Is this a joke? Are snakes going to jump out when I open it?” “It's no joke”, he said, “Maybe you should give it back if you don't like it.” “I like it! I thanked you twice.”

He appeared not to be convinced and said I'd better just give it back. He said he was sorry he didn't have anything better for me. I handed it back to him, wondering what kind of sick Shattsworth game he was playing. First he was throwing away grass that he KNEW I was dying for, now he was making a weird issue of my not opening the Cremora.

He stood there examining the canister, removed the plastic lid and showed me the unbroken foil seal. He put the lid back on and turned the can over and over in his hands, muttering things like “mmm, let me see...how does this work”. Finally he unscrewed the bottom a quarter turn and tossed it back to me. As he did so he said “I'll need the empty can back.”

I opened it and inside was a quarter pound of the Mexican buds we'd been smoking. That magnificent twisted bastard! “Did you really think I'd drive all the way up here to bring you four pounds of creamer? How weird do you think I am?” “Pretty weird, Jeff, but wow! Man, thanks!”

We chatted a while about my adventures since he had last seen me. He told me he still carried the Bear shit (dog crap) he found in his camp. I asked if the ranger had arrested him or threw him out and he said “No, I left because you said I poisoned you. I didn't know what you might do.” I still think he poisoned me, just to see what would happen. I'd love to get my hands on his juvenile records.

We didn't discuss the poisoning much further than for me to express my conclusion that he fed me something that made me sick. In the end, We thanked each other, and before he headed back to the city, he extracted my promise that if I needed to come to town for any reason, I'd look him up.

God help me, a year later I did just that.