Day Thirty-Five (Saturday, July 31, 1971)

We snored late into the morning. While he was still sleeping, I trucked half a mile to a delicatessen and picked up two sandwiches, two jumbo pretzel logs, and two quarts of orange juice for breakfast.

“We’re back,” I said, letting the salt granules of the pretzel melt on the top of my tongue. “Back on the road to equilibrium.”

“Did we really take that sidetrip? To the Grand Canyon?”

“It was a magic carpet ride of the highest quality.”

“Buddhists got wacky lingo, I’ll tell ya. I got all tuckered out channelin’ my bliss through the abstractions of my mental sphere.”

We roared. “That’s exactly what we did, Otto. We purified our formless receptacles. We made our material planes immune to delusion.”

“So tell me, Winans. Did I treat you right?”

“Always, Otto. That was the best damn jaunt on the trip. Thanks for moving us into position. That whole episode unfolded so . . . precisely.

 “I’m back—back to bein’ only a day behind from where I need to be.”

“You still a Christian?”

“Why, you ain’t?”

“Absolutely yes. All those monks gliding around in their robes made me closer than ever to the Gospel. But I worried for you, you know . . . about being too impressionistic. Ha-ha.”

“Think again, jack. The Buddhists ain’t convertin’ this kid.”

“Me, neither. I pledge my allegiance to Jesus Christ.”

“It’s all one God anyway.”

“Approach and perspective, that’s it. The way, the truth, and the life.”

“You got it now.”

“So we’re just two divinely-infused mortals who are thankful about everything. Let’s go.” We doused our campfire just it was getting too hot.

Mr. Businessman brought us to Parawan in a ’69 Buick Skylark. A beer distributor brought us to Provo in a loud truck. A redheaded Mormon squeezed us into his ’63 Porsche for a one hundred mile-per-hour cruise into Salt Lake City. Quarters were tight and the speed exhilarating. His family made cardboard boxes for a living, to ship fruit. Otto cut me off from asking more.

“You don’t wanna ask a Mormon too many questions,” he instructed afterward. “He may not wanna tell you about his ten wives and forty- three children and one hundred and twenty-eight grandchildren.”

It was good to scan over the gleaming cathedrals of Salt Lake and be able to say, “Been there before.” I recalled the odd troupe that swept us through the first time—Phil the evangelist; the greaser with a pack of cigarettes tucked up his teeshirt, and the sour-faced midget. I remembered Fellowship Mission and its pastor from South Korea speaking broken English. I remembered chucking ‘CALIF.’ and redoing it as ‘FRISCO.’ I remembered the beautiful woman with the scrumptious legs, her MG, my invitation to San Diego. How would the course of my life been changed had I taken that ride!

“After further consideration, man, I realize I’m better off with you,” I said to Otto’s startled gaze.

“You talkin’ in riddles, sons?”

“Forgive me, Otto, for almost throwing this trip in the crapper.”

“It’s over, Roger. Just go out and get us some good rides. I accept your humility.”

We ran the course on I-15 and fell back onto I-80, heading east. Salt Lake City was already in the valley behind us when a cigar-smoking old gent let us off at a gas station. I took a leak behind the bushes and went to get a Coke. Otto refilled his canteen. Two guys were standing near the pumps outside, next to their van. One of them gestured with his thumb. “You guys hiking? If you’re heading east, so are we.”

I stretched out on the hard metal of the Ford Econoline’s back compartment and picked away at grapes and watermelon at our hosts’ invitation. Otto looked at me, laughing. “We’re movin’ good and not even workin’ at it.”

“All day long. We’ve hardly participated in the process. They’ve been soliciting us. We’re on a roll, baby.”

Otto said nothing more and neither did I. But we both knew in the world of hitchhiking a great balancing force existed. For every two steps forward, you could expect one step back. Good luck like this precipitated a terrible pitfall somewhere down the line. Somewhere in the miles ahead—God only knew where—lay an abominably long wait.

My brain felt stretched out of proportion when I stumbled off the van in Rock Springs, Wyoming. Nighttime appeared out of nowhere. So did the familiar sage brush and barren mountains. I was drained but satisfied. Hard to imagine: This morning I was in the southern part of Utah. Now I firmly stood inside the brown state, Wyoming, pointed eastward. Again, I wished I hadn’t tossed out my winter jacket. Without clouds, the heat of day had no thermal layer to hold it in. As night took over, I was cold, almost shivering.

“Let’s make another campfire. Make believe we’re in an episode of Gunsmoke.” I looked around at the nothingness.

“Hey Roger, think there’s any rattlesnakes in this area?”

“George, you still believe a rattler’s going to sneak up on you? Let’s tempt fate, because I’m tired. I guess I’ll camp on the top of that hill. Care to join me?”

“I’m gonna pull an allnighter. This is the time when those big tractor-trailers are headin’ for New York.”

Without companionship, but feeling secure, I buried deep under my bag, away from the gleaming stars. The temperature had to be in the 40’s.

I slept, I dreamed, I shivered.