Breaking Camp…

With winter coming to the high plains of northern New Mexico, I broke camp and headed for southern Arizona. On the road again, it feels like another person has emerged from within me, one charged with vitality and curiosity, joined with every passing moment, celebrating all that I encounter. You meet people you never saw before and will never meet again, conversing as if speaking in code… fleeting exchanges, nuanced with insights further grasped upon parting ways… the theater of the road.

At a gas station in Flagstaff, a young man was filling up his sedan in the next stall and made a comment about the Gypsywagen, admiring it’s lines and colors. We spoke of traveling and writing, referencing Jack London and other writers, and how journeys can fund good story telling. Articulate and awake, the twenty-three year old Brandon is a student at Northern Arizona University. Finishing our business at the gas station, and our conversation, we shook hands and parted on the square. I have a hunch that one day this fellow may take to the open road.

On that same day, as I continued west, I stopped at a market in Kingman to pick up supplies for my ongoing journey. The parking lot was crowded and I parked my rig at a far end of the lot. As I approached the market entrance I noticed a person, whom I took to be homeless, standing about thirty feet from the sliding doors. He was a big man, Native American in appearance, unkempt and appeared to be confused. My instinct was to give this fellow a wide berth, but the crowd of people trying to get into the store seemed to push me back. Then I bumped into somebody behind me. It was the big, Native American. 

I don’t think he restrained me but I felt somehow in his sway. His dirty clothes, missing teeth and alcohol breath quickened my senses. He said, “I have to talk to you, I need to talk to you.” 

“Ah… yah?” I replied. I didn’t want to appear panicked but couldn’t help wondering if this bear of a man was about to produce a weapon.

“I was in the Forest Service,” he declared.

“Were you?” I responded.

“I was in the Forest Service!” he repeated. Appearing quite desperate, he continued, “Who gets killed?” and loudly, “WHO GET’S KILLED?!”

“What do you mean?” I said. I didn’t know what else to say, and I could see this guy was really hurting.

Again he said, “I was in the Forest Service! Who get’s killed?”

By some instinct I said, “Hey, I used to fight forest fires…” I could see a change in his eyes.

So I repeated, “I used to fight forest fires in Alaska!” (This is true, something I did fifty years ago in the adventures of my youth.)

“You fought forest fires in Alaska?” he said. Panic ebbed from his face.

“Yes I did,” I said.

“What’s Alaska like?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s big,” I said. “It’s big this way,” as I gestured with my outstretched hands, “and it’s big that way,” again gesturing height with my hands high and low. 

“Wow,” he said, “you fought forest fires in Alaska.” 

“You’re a fire fighter too, aren’t you?” I said.

“Yes… I am,” he said. “Man, you’re my brother.”

“I know,” I said. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Dusty.”

“Justin?” I replied.

“No. Dusty!” he said.

“Sorry, I’m a little hard of hearing,” I said. “My name’s Bob.”

Dusty had calmed down. We said a few other things and then I told him I needed to meet someone in the market and was running late (I lied). He didn’t want to end our conversation but I knew we had reached a point beyond which there would be no other point. So we said farewells.

“I love you, man,” Dusty said as he hugged me.

“I love you too,” I said, and hugged him back.

And there we ended our communion, our journeys intersecting if for only minutes. Two complete strangers who have lived in the woods, in raw and primal ways.

That evening I arrived at the Colorado River and the home of lifelong friends. The next day we all celebrated Thanksgiving together.