spaceship broken need ride
And with those 4 words, my adventure out of Las Vegas began.
I woke up early Friday morning in a dirty motel room that reminded me of a horror movie I probably never saw. There was a knock at my door. I opened it to see an older man weathered by sun and dirt. He wore a Hawaiian shirt crustier than the room I had been sleeping in and he reeked of booze. Cheap booze at that. He told me my Russian friend sent him to tell me a message. To most, that would seem like an outrageous situation. To me, it was just another day in my life.
“Where is he?” I asked because I knew I had enough Russian friends in Las Vegas that this was a very plausible scenario. He pointed to the bus stop across the street and said “over there.” Sure enough Sasha was sitting across the street with his bag waiting for the bus. I went to sleep the night before sprawled out comfortably on the floor figuring Valery would eventually coax him into coming in the room. No such luck I guess and Sasha ended up sleeping in the bushes and had now given up on his friends and was taking a bus back to Russia. Or something. It was early and I kinda forgot the details.
I walk out of the room not wearing much clothes and the owner of the Motel starts yelling in some heavy accent reminiscing of Indian, Arabic, and a mouth full of mashed potatoes. He was telling me I already had too many people in the room and he wasn’t going to let me friend in. Uh huh. “Alright, man”
Sasha crashes out, we sleep for a few hours, and my trip to Denver begins on Las Vegas Blvd trying to catch a bus to the outskirts of town. I hopped the Deuce to the downtown transit center where I managed to get a ride to North Vegas. From there I jumped the 219 down craig street and got off when the driver said, “this is as close to I-15 as I get.”
I got excited when I noticed there was a Pilot truck stop right there at the entrance ramp. I had high hopes and stood next to the entrance near the semi fuel pumps. After a little while a cop showed up and told me management wanted me out of there. My day was off to a bad start. I toss my bag over my shoulders and start walking away already defeated by the desert heat and equally friendly police. While walking away wondering where the hell I’m going to go now, the same management I saw talking to the police told me I could stand out front on the sidewalk and try to catch a ride.
The cop came back and before he could get a word out of his mouth I told him “they said I could.” I eventually convinced the cop that I could stand there and I had a good conversation with the two police officers. 15 minutes later they wished me luck on my journey and even told me a couple other truck stops nearby.
I don’t know how long I had been out there because I lost track of time somewhere in Kansas. After what could have been an hour, a white pickup truck pulled up at the pumps and it was filled with a bunch of chicks. A couple of them saw the sign, laughed, and I flashed my pretty smile. I knew I was in, I just had to wait it out.
Eventually the driver approached me and said “we really want to give you a ride, but we don’t have room.” 10 minutes later I was laying in the back of this pickup truck, face towards the sun, singing Michael Franti as loud as I could as we sped north towards Utah. “I SAID HEEEEEY, I’LL BE GONE TODAY, BUT I’LL BE BACK COMING AROUND THE WAY. IT SEEMS LIKE EVERYWHERE I GO, THE MORE I SEE THE LESS I KNOW.” And it’s true. It’s the beauty of travel. Every time I think I have shit figured out, some new experience in life shows me how far off the path I was. It’s comforting to learn that I know nothing. I can’t be mad at my mistakes if I can accept how dumb I truly am.
The ride was wonderful. I’m not sure how long it lasted but in the end I was sad it was over. I would have loved to just lay back there until the batteries in my ipod died. At that time I’d sit up, look around, and keep going wherever I was knowing that the only path in life is the one we’re on. Whatever that means.
At some point after we left, we arrived in St. George where the girls all told me they were going to miss me. One of them asked if I had facebook, added me, and within an hour of meeting me was able to comment on the photo I took from her truck. It’s great to have that type of interaction with people. Facebook is such a wonderful tool that I use to keep in touch with those I meet.
I gave myself plenty of time to get to Denver just in case something came up that was worth veering off the path for. I’ve heard such amazing things about the nature in Utah and had planned an alternate route in case I wanted to get off the interstate and hit the back roads. Which route I was going to take next was going to be based solely on my next ride. If they were driving any further than 10 miles, I would have kept on the I-15 and headed north. If they were going any less, I was getting off at the 9 and seeing what life could show me. He was going 6, but liked me so much, he dropped me off at the 9 anyways! C’mon life!
The first time I set off hitch hiking, I was kind of timid about it all. It felt weird being out there so vulnerable. The cars flying past at 70mph didn’t help that situation at all. Now, it just makes me feel at home. Walking along this 2 lane highway in beautiful southern Utah was my first time hitching off the interstate. I walked on the eastbound side of the road with traffic to my back. With each passing car I could feel the rush of wind carrying the desert sands in a cloud around me. I can almost still feel the sun scorching the back of my neck as I walked along that road towards whatever lied ahead of me.
Donna worked at Dominoes pizza in town. She said she normally didn’t drive out this far for deliveries but because someone took the order, she had to do it. On her way back to town she saw me on the side of the road and decided to give me a ride. Donna looked to be in late 40′s. Faded brown hair in a pony tail that ran through the back of her hat and wrinkles around her eyes when she smiled, she told me, “I’m not supposed to give people rides while working.” Her red convertible Chrysler looked like it had seen better days, but hell, I look like I’ve seen better days too. The interior was worn from the western climate and lack of roof. There were tickets stuck all over the dashboard. Medium pizza, bottle of coke, delivery charge. $17.47.
Donna was a nice woman with a story. Everyone has a story. Some less defined than others. Some have been told so many times that the person living it is sick of hearing it themselves. Donna’s story was one of loss. Her husband of 12 years had died of a stroke. Her fiance after that was murdered. Now, here she is in the later years of her life and can’t open herself up to love anymore. She told me about her current boyfriend. How she wanted distance from him. She needed time. Time. We always think we have so much more of it at our disposal until one day we look back and realize it’s all gone. In no time at all, she was dropping me off at Domino’s Pizza in Hurricane Utah.
I like small towns these days. People talk about off the beaten path. There’s no path less traveled than that of small town America. With those perfectly manicured streets. Quaint little shops selling all sorts of crap I couldn’t possibly want. A nice little church where everyone congregates on Sundays. The families that grew up with each other for generations. The little diners where you don’t even need to order because the waitress who has been working there for 17 years can remember everyone’s favorite dish. Where you can sit around with a fresh cup of coffee for hours and run into all of your friends without leaving your seat. You can watch the people behind the counter cooking right in front of you while they tell you about how the kids are. They even got their first traffic signal last year! Sits right there at the corner of main street by city hall. It’s always the same. Yes. Small town America. Unscathed by that of a man carrying a rucksack.
I walked passed all these places along the one mile strip they call downtown. Peering into the windows of these buildings just wondering what kind of exciting tales these people were living. Where they worked, who their friends were, and what kind of juicy gossip was going around. I wanted to know it all just like the waitress at the diner. People were friendly here. A couple of them waved at me from cars, asked me my name, shook my hand, and because not many travelers come through here, they all want to know, “where you coming from.” I don’t even remember anymore.
Walking along these streets meeting these folks and wondering what life was like here I was approached by a group of teenagers. Probably no older than 16. One of them yells, nearly knocking me over from the force of her vocal chords, “I LOVE YOU,” while making a little heart figure with her hands. I smiled back, “I LOVE YOU MORE!” They were inquisitive to the nature of my travels. Where you from? Where you going? Holy shit, you hitchhike! “We just met another hitch hiker down the road.” I was intrigued by this. Who was this person? Where are they coming from? Where are they going? I thought I was off the beaten path, and here they beat me to it! “Yeah, she’s sitting on a bench down there at the museum,” while pointing east past the little grocery store on the corner. I tightened down my bag – that sometimes hangs a little loose when I walk – in order to lean into my stride a bit more and pick up the pace. I was excited to hear her story.
I walked a few more blocks. Past the high school. Past the grocery store. Past the little motel which I assumed didn’t fill up very often. Maybe it does though. Who am I, anyways? I eventually see a house with “Historical Museum” arching over the doorway. It was near the end of the main street. It was surrounded by lush greenery. As lush as the greenery can be in this region. There were a couple statues, a canon, and two empty benches. Had I been too late? Had this mysterious woman vanished before I had the chance to hear how she ended up in the middle of nowhere like me? No, that must be her there. The girl with her face pressed into her journal at a picnic table. A bunch of papers strewn out in front of her. Bits of food. And there. That’s her backpack. This has to be her! Before I could get a word out, she looked up at me, smiled, and stood to greet me as if she had been waiting all this time for me. As if we grew up together in Hurricane and our families had known each other for generations. We could have very well been in the diner down the the road. She looked at me as if she recognized me and was happy to see me. And maybe she did know me because she is me. While our stories differed only in the details, we both at some point made the same decision in our life; I can’t live in this box.
I sit down at the picnic table with her. She offers me some of her food; half a block of cheese and some fresh veggies. I oblige and offer some of my granola that had been given to me in St. George. We talk about stuff. Life on the road. Packing strategies. Personal hygiene. You know. Just stuff two dirty kids in the middle of no where would care about.
It was getting dark and I needed to find camp. I figured it was a random chance that two hitch hikers would meet in the middle of nowhere Utah and invited her along to camp with me. Her main pack was stashed in the woods up the hill a bit and we walked along the side of the road shooting the shit until we found her camp. Her bag was much bigger than mine, but probably 20 pounds lighter. I never thought I’d want to pack like a girl before, but here she was laughing at how much crap I had.
Donna had told me about a free camp spot just past La Virkin. It was off the side of the road, had plenty of shade, and even had a nice river flowing through it. I told Azami of this she asked if we could walk the distance. “Probably not,” I responded. “But we could hitch there.”
A few hundred feet down the road a pickup pulled over in front of us. A young guy got out. Late teens or early 20′s probably. He wore a backwards cap that barely covered his hair that was hanging down over his forehead. His truck was an older model that you would expect to see in these parts of town. Probably once used to haul farm equipment or something equally enthralling. He was really excited to give us a ride and asked where we were headed. I tried to tell him about the campground but I didn’t know exactly where it was. So he called his brother. We threw our gear in the pickup and hopped in with it. It was dark by this time and there wasn’t much light emitted from these small towns we were in. From the back of this pickup, we could barely see each other it was so dark. We could just make out the landscape around us. Tall rocks that jutted in every direction being illuminated by only the stars. I could hear the rushing Virgin river just off to the side of us, but couldn’t see far enough to know where it was at. We had the same conclusion right about this time. This is what we live for. So many of the people we meet will never understand what it’s like to sit right here with a companion of several hours in the middle of no where being driven by someone you never met. You just have to let go sometimes. We always hold on to these ideas of what should happen and what could be and what would happen if only this played out like that. When you throw yourself at the mercy of the universe you will be taken care of. There is only one path in life and it’s the one we’re on. Acceptance leads to transcendence.
We never found our campground, but we found some flat land with a beautiful view and we could hear the river just down the hill. I had made it to the base of Zion and I understood why it was called that. I had made it to heaven. Today was beautiful and life is good. Tomorrow is so far off so lets just sit here and chat. And we did just that until we each drifted off into a slumber that can’t ever be achieved in even the most beautiful of homes in the most luxurious of beds of any paradise you can imagine. Because none of that is real. All we have is now. And now is better than heaven because now is reality.
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