Friends of the Road
The difference between a rad excursion and an adventure is that an adventure includes something unforeseen, whether or not it should have been. A perfectly executed trip may be satisfying, but I find more fulfillment in that little something extra that I seriously doubt anyone else has experienced.
I expected that the most adventurous part of a river rafting trip would be on the river, with it's ever changing rapids that defy absolute predictability. I paid little mind to the part about getting to and from the river. Enter the unforeseen.
For spring break my junior year of college, two of my college buddies, my girlfriend (now fiancee, believe it or not) and I rafted down the San Juan River in southern Utah. It was my first overnight river trip, and I was hooked by the inevitable pace of traveling down a long stretch of river. By the end of the five days afloat, we had had enough sand, sun, and psychedelic sightseeing to get us through the final six weeks of the semester. Once again on the road system, the trip seemed to be winding down, but we still had to get back to Montana.
At the take-out we began to feel the weight of our thrifty decision to hitchhike back to the put-in at Mexican Hat to retrieve my truck, as opposed to paying a responsible person $170 to shuttle it for us. Being at the dead-end of ten miles of dirt road, we knew we would have to hike at least that far to the intersection with the paved highway to get picked up.
We all kept saying "It’s paved, so there must be some traffic on it, right?"
Ri and I left our two companeros at the beach to subsist on the leftovers of our river trip, which consisted of a handle of Old Crow Bourbon and a lime or two, and some water. The combination of these ingredients yields "San Juan Tea" which we had stomached since running out of beer two days prior. We left them at about four in the afternoon, telling them we should be back in six hours. Two hours of hiking, four hours of driving round-trip. If they got all the gear sorted and ready to load by the time we got back, we could be Montana bound early the next day.
The road wound among the Clay Hills and through countless shallow arroyos, making for a very pleasant sunset stroll. By dusk we could see headlights occasionally weaving along the highway, still miles away. Upon reaching the highway the headlights had dried up, and it was dark dark. So we hung a right. From there it might be seventy or ninety miles to Blanding, a crossroads just up the hill from my truck. The exact distance didn't concern us much, because we were sure that our ride would be arriving any minute. Ri and I share the attitude that walking while hitching is more honorable, so we walked and waited.
An hour or so later the ditch started looking like a nice place for a nap. Fourteen miles in I felt a tad silly in my sandals. Ri's running shoes were just sand traps though, letting it in through the top mesh, and then trapping it between her toes, instigating blisters.
It occurred to me how completely we were at the mercy of the first person that happened upon us. Feelings of vulnerability ensued. I tried to focus on the centerline instead. We hadn't turned our headlamps on yet, saving them for whatever the night might send our way. The yellow lines just looked grey in the dark. When one line went from solid to dashed, I got excited. I remembered that it’s legal to do ten miles an hour over the speed limit when passing. I thought how nice it would be to do ten miles an hour period.
Words from the MC 900-Foot Jesus song "New Moon" popped into my head, in which dashed lines on a highway were likened to grains of sand falling through an hourglass. Tick… tiiick… tiiiiick.
The woman in the song was driving a car of course. Faster ticks for her, so fast they became a blur. The distracting thoughts became crucial for me to blur the steps. Anything was better than dwelling on our situation. And the decisions that led us there.
There’s an apocalyptic sort of vibe that comes about while walking down the middle of a dark highway for hours at a time. We could have been the last ones. That wasn't the worst scenario I imagined.
Headlights. Intermittently we saw them crest a long hill behind us, then slide down again. Ok, better try to look presentable. Lil’ Miss rolled up her sleeves. To make her thumb more obvious, she said. Sneak another peek over the shoulder, damn they’re getting close. Start thinking of witty things to say when they pull over for us.
"Fancy seeing you here."
Cheesy.
" Nice night for a walk, huh?"
B.S.
"Hello?"
It doesn't matter.
Just one more peek. Taillights. Profanities ensued, then questions. What the what was that? Who does that? Why?
Lacking answers, we resumed our march down the center-line. Not much chitchat at that point. Wouldas, couldas, shouldas, and next times buzzed in my head. I would have gladly paid the 170 dollar shuttle fee just to get picked up five miles back. The idea of my truck waiting for us at the take-out became hilarious. My sandals should have fallen apart already.
It ain’t an adventure ‘til shit goes wrong. Said no responsible person ever. Adventure is a result of poor planning. Pretty sure Amundsen said that, or maybe Nansen. Pretty sure neither of them did much hitch-hiking.
We agree to take any ride, whether they’re going towards our truck or not. It was cold. The way a desert gets when the ground runs out of energy to re-radiate. It starts sucking the heat out of anything it can get for the night. And we were the biggest warm things for miles around, I think.
Headlights again, oncoming. I was reluctantly relieved. They could turn around for no apparent reason just like the last ones.
But they didn't, and then they were alongside. An old Nissan Pathfinder, Harley in tow. This should be interesting. As the passenger window rolled down we were greeted by the welcoming face of a Doberman-Pinscher.
The driver leaned over and pushed the dog back so he could see us. "Where you trying to get to?"
"Mexican Hat. My truck's there, we just got off the river."
"How'd you get here?"
"Walked from the takeout."
"From Clay Hills?"
"Yeah."
"Jesus, that's a ways."
"Yeah, it took a while."
"Well you better get in, I know a place for you to stay tonight and you can try your luck again in the morning. Nobody else'll be out here this late."
"Thank you so much."
His name was Craig, and he was heading to Hall’s Crossing on Lake Powell where he was seasonally employed as a ferry captain. Hence his rig was plugged with gear for the summer. He mumbled something about making room for us as he shuffled around behind the car. Then he gave us a direct order: “Hey! Come‘n grab these bottles! BOTH HANDS!”
Lil’ Miss and I stood on either side of him as he cracked the hatchback, hands groping in the dark, waiting for something to fall into them. I caught a half-gallon of Dewar’s in one hand, and a bigger bottle of white wine in the other. Captain Craig caught a big bottle of rum, and Lil’ Miss snagged another handle of scotch. Good catch.
We secured the booze and cleared the front and rear passenger seats enough to squeeze in. Craig introduced us to his pooch Athena, who couldn't have been sweeter. She sat on Mariah's lap up front and I sat in the back passenger seat with a big heavy plastic tote on my lap.
It occurred to me that if Craig tried to pull anything weird with Ri up front I would have a tough time doing anything about it, as I could just barely slide out the door from under the tote, let alone reach or even hardly see the front seats. But I rationalized that if he had a nice dog and all the stuff he had matched his story, then I might as well enjoy not walking for a while.
Mariah says all that she was thinking about was how happy she was to have a dog on her lap.
We approached the "Welcome to Lake Powell" sign and turned left into a trailer park. "Here's the employee housing, you can stay at Kelly's, she run's the gift shop."
"Perfect, thanks."
We went in bearing the big bottle of white wine and Craig brough the scotch. The wine was for Kelly, turns out. We were introduced to Kelly's kitty Cupcake, and we told Kelly the story of our night. She responded in a motherly fashion, telling us how lucky we were to be picked up by anyone at that time of night, let alone Craig. She bragged for him about his having been a green beret, since "He doesn't tell many people". I think he heard her telling us about it, but he was out on the porch having a dart with his Dewar's.
Craig came back in and Kelly brought him up to speed about the goings on at Hall's Crossing while they finished their respective beverages. By then it was about 1 am. They advised us to get some sleep and then go back out to the main road intersection where we couldn't miss any eastbound traffic. Although they would have to go down to the marina at 7 am for an employee meeting, we were encouraged to sleep in. So we pulled out the hide-a-bed and slept hard.
We came to at about a quarter to 8, with a bit of a hitch-hiking hangover. By that I mean a headache from dehydration, throbbing feet, and stiff joints on account of all the pavement pounding. After filling up our water bottles and packing up what little else we had, we headed out of the employee trailer park back towards the main road.
For some reason, we decided we might as well start walking the direction we needed to go, even though Craig had probably driven us 20 miles west from where we had already been 70 miles west of Blanding. Blame it on our hitch-hiking morals. We gave it about a mile and then realized how ridiculous an idea it was. And our feet hurt pretty bad and we were hungry. So we headed back towards the marina to find some grub.
About a mile back past the trailer park we saw a gas station. That gave us hope for a little while until we got close enough to realize it was very closed. I peeped in the windows just to be sure. We were starting to look like scavengers. Another mile or so down the road we heard a truck, and soon an official looking white pickup pulled up.
"You Craig's kids?" A man in sunglasses demanded through the open window. Another guy in the passenger seat grinned at us.
It took a couple seconds for me to process the fact that Craig had told his colleagues about picking us up, and since the story had been his, we now belonged to Craig to some degree in the mind of this man.
"Uh, yeah." I confirmed.
"Where you goin?"
"Well, Blanding and then Mexican Hat where our truck is."
"I mean where are you going right now?"
"Oh, we were going down to the marina store to buy some food."
"It's closed. But I'll be back in a few and open it up for ya."
"Great, thanks."
He ground off up the gravel road, so we continued to hobble down towards the lake. We passed a boatyard full of speed boats and party barges, all up on trailers. Without boats in any of the slips, the marina looked naked, and much of it was as dry as the boats up in the yard. The store was out at the end of the dock, which was still floating, but barely. It looked like a boarded up carnival. We peered in around the plywood and spotted shelves of food and lit-up coolers full of beer. A couple long minutes later the man with the truck came back and let us in.
"We don't have a whole heckuva lot. Just leftover stuff from last season mostly."
"That's fine, thanks for lettin' us in."
We grabbed some canned fruit and beans, jerky, pop tarts, a six-pack of cold Corona and some Bugles, while the man watched us in amusement from the register. Corona was the classiest thing there, so I was willing to pay for it, lest the man get the idea that we were dirtbags or something. I think even if we had his mirrored sunglasses on, the desperate look in our eyes would have been apparent.
As we piled our spoils on the counter he said "You know those Corona's are priced per bottle."
Only then did I read the individual stickers on each cap, I think they were $2.50 a piece or something that I was still pretty willing to pay to not look desperate. I said I hadn't noticed.
"Best deals' on the top shelf."
"Oh, thanks."
So I sheepishly walked back to the cooler with the Corona, wondering what could be on the top shelf that was so great. When I saw those beautifully cold and pristine looking mountains I felt refreshed already. Busch Classic. Twelve-packs for fifteen bucks. At 3.2%, it was probably as healthy as gatorade for what we were up to.
He rung us up and we stuffed everything in my little pack, the corners of the twelve-pack obviously jutting out the sides. He followed us out and locked the door behind us, and we walked back up the dock. When we reached the shore he veered off the boat ramp onto the beach.
"Hey check this out."
He bent down and picked up something that resembled a malted milk ball after the chocolate coating had been sucked off. I think he just called them beach marbles. He went on to tell us that they were calcite deposits, kind of like pearls that don't need Oysters, they just form in places with a lot of minerals dissolved in the water, like caves or desert reservoirs.
"The rangers say we can't take em, but there's plenty. Grab a few if you want."
"Cool, thanks."
We all wandered around on the beach for a while, hunched over squinting between our feet. We found a handful, some of them the size of gumballs, some closer to pea size, some with two or three clumped together like a model of a water molecule. When we were satisfied, our new guide offered to drive us back up to the crossroads, where we couldn't miss any traffic going our way. We thanked him once again before he left us to make his rounds.
The big "Welcome to Lake Powell National Recreation Area" sign was right there, so we hunkered down on the shady side of it. I had a couple Busch Classics and read a climbing rag that had been in my pack the whole dang time. Ri had a snooze. Pretty soon another official pickup pulled up, the driver of which also knew that we were "Craig's kids." He was just going to the trailer park, but he said he would keep an ear open for rides going our way, though it may be a few days before they needed to make a supply run. We thanked him and watched him drive off towards Kelly's. He drove back by a few minutes later back towards the lake and waved. I smiled and waved.
Then a big old truck came out of the East, with a tall canopy over the bed. A wiry old guy hollered out the window, wondering what we were up to. We recited our narrative, which he chuckled at.
"You're outta Bozeman, huh? My son's up there, nice country. Well if you're still here when I come back through you can hop in. Probably won't be for a couple days though."
"Much appreciated, enjoy the lake."
Half an hour later he was back and pulled over by our sign.
"Wasn't my scene down there, where'd you say you were headed?"
"Mexican Hat eventually, but as far as Blanding would be great."
"Well I was thinking about going back north, but Blanding I can do."
"Awesome, thanks."
"You can spread out in back if you like, I got it all set up."
"That sounds nice."
"I just got this canopy for twenty bucks, some guy had it sittin' out in his field."
"Sweet deal."
"Got a bunch of grapefruit in there too, help yourselves. They're so good I just been eatin' em like oranges."
"Thanks."
"I'm Ray Green by the way."
We shook hands, then crawled in back feeling pretty lucky. Ri and I split a grapefruit which was as amazing as Ray said. I watched out the window for a while, enjoying how fast we were going and the warm breeze coming through the vents in the canopy. Then we both napped like kids in the back seat of the family station wagon, faces and fingers sticky with grapefruit.
We woke to the tires leaving the asphalt for gravel. We were pulling over at a gas station, an open one.
"Must be Blanding."
Ray hopped out and opened up the back for us. "Here we are."
"Thanks a lot. The grapefruit was awesome."
"No problem, good luck gettin' back up to Bozeman."
"Great to meet you, have a good rest of your trip."
We shook hands, he closed the tailgate and dropped the canopy hatch, then he hopped in and took a left out of the lot, northbound.
Post nap munchies drove us into the gas station store for some sketchy egg salad sandwiches and sweet tea. Then we went out to the road and found a good place to stick out our thumbs. There was plenty of traffic, but not many second looks. Still it wasn't more than ten minutes before we caught one, a big one. It was a shiny new 18-wheeler with a Coors trailer.
"Where you headed?"
"Mexican Hat."
"I'm goin' through there, hop on in."
"Thank you."
"Name's Bill" (maybe).
We climbed up in the cab, introduced ourselves, shook his hand, and he pointed us to the bed in the sleeper cab. "Just sit back there out of sight a bit, company says I'm not supposed to pick people up, but I like having someone to talk to."
"Don't blame you, thanks for risking it. This is a sweet rig you got."
"Yeah, just got it not too long ago."
"Dash looks like it's out of a 747, lots of things for you to keep track of huh?"
There were indeed a lot of lights and dials on the dash. Also there was a picture of his daughter taped near his phone, the background of which was a very well-endowed lady in a bikini. Ladies man.
"Yeah, takes some gettin' used to. Has eighteen gears, can split em between drive and reverse, trailer brakes, tire pressure gauges, lotsa other stuff."
"Damn that's sweet."
"Yeah. You know any geology?"
"A bit, just took 101."
"This canyon coming up is real neat, cuts down through all kinds of layers, millions of years."
"Awesome, look forward to it. We just got done raftin' on the San Juan, got to see some pretty cool stretches of canyon along the way. Crazy thinking about all the sand and little critters it takes to make those layers."
"Yeah I never get tired of seein' this stuff."
"Me neither."
We dropped down through canyon as promised, which didn't disappoint, especially from our comfy perch on the bed with the huge windshield out in front like a movie screen, and the big tinted side windows to look out of.
Soon enough we were in Mexican Hat at the general store where we had paid to leave our truck. Ri and I shook Bill's hand and bid him farewell before making the big step down and out of the cab.
Good ol' Winky (short for Periwinkle) was sitting right where we left her in front of the general store/maybe headquarters for a river guide outfit. I went in to get the keys from inside. Six days earlier, we had parked the truck and given the keys to the guy at the store, along with thirty bucks. The rate to hold on to keys and keep an eye on a rig in the lot was five bucks a day, but I hadn't been sure how long it would be.
"It could be five days, but we're hitch-hiking back so it might be six."
"Eh. Time is irrelevant." The guy said with a voice that sounded like it had been buried in an arroyo for ten years before getting drug through a prickly pear patch. His face looked about the same. Funny thing for a guy to say who was charging by the day.
"Uh, I guess I'll pay for six. Thanks, seeya then."
"Yep."
Then we had walked five minutes back down the the put in where the boat was all loaded up and we shoved off. That seemed like months ago.
I walked back in to find a different desert rat behind the counter.
"Hey, I've got the purple Tacoma out front, could I get the keys?"
He fingered through the many keys hanging on a pegboard, which must have been organized somehow, because he handed me the the right ones. "There you go."
"Thanks, have a good one."
"Yep."
I went out and unlocked the truck, but while we were getting organized, the man came charging out into the lot. "Wait! This is your truck?"
"Uh, yeah?"
"Get back in here, people been lookin' for you."
"Oh. Ok." My face was reddening, I should have known our getaway wouldn't be that easy.
As he dialed someone on the dusty phone he explained "Your friends reported you missing."
"Jesus."
"Yeah. Hey Bob, this is Steve down at the store (probably not their real names), we found those missing kids of yours. Yeah they look ok. Here's one."
He handed the phone at me "Tell him you're not missing."
"Kay. Uh, hi, this is Jake. She's here too, we're fine. We caught a ride to Hall's crossing and stayed the night there before catching a ride this way this morning. Oh, you went out there? Yeah we bought some food at the store there. We must have passed you when we were napping. Thanks, sorry for the drama."
The cop kindly informed me that our friends had reported us missing that morning, so they had called the store where our truck was to confirm it was still there, then traced my credit card to the marina store at Hall's Crossing and sent a cruiser out there.
We must have passed them going the other way in the back of Ray Green's Truck, hunkered down flat in the back like some real fugitives. They talked to some of the workers at the lake who had seen us only an hour before, but no one there knew how or where we had gone. So the cops started to worry.
They called our friends back to see if we'd made it back there again somehow and we hadn't so that got them to worrying more. Then they called the store again. Still no sign. Until we waltzed in and solved their little mystery. The cops then called our friends to give them the good news, which they toasted heartily.
It was a nice afternoon, so we decided to take the scenic route back to the take-out. The Moki-Dugway is an amazing set of dirt switchbacks up to the canyon rim, which bypasses Blanding and the paved road that winds down through the canyon, but it probably added about an hour to our return trip.
We got back to our friends at dark, and were greeted with a cheer, hugs handshakes, beers, shots, the whole works, like returning war heroes. They were pretty drunk. Turns out they had basically just been partying their faces off with each successive group that came off the river, all of which had plenty of leftovers and sympathy.
The first group had arrived only a couple hours after we had set off on foot the night before. They were religious, and therefore unnerved by the two San Juan Tea totalers. But they were also moved by the story about us being out on the road in the dark, so they set off to pick us up and bring us back to camp for the night. They had paid to have one of their rigs shuttled to the take-out, but they had another to retrieve in Mexican Hat, so they were going there anyway and would give us a ride, but not til morning.
"It's twelve miles to the main road, no way they'll make it." So the do-gooders drove out to rescue us for the night, but found only footprints on the dirt road. Then they drove another four miles east on the highway before concluding "No way they could have made it this far, they must've been picked up." So they turned around and went back to the take out for the night, leaving Ri and I cussing a half mile away.
The revelation that those headlights had actually been looking for us took a minute to digest. They were so dang close to sparing us the last 24 hours of adventure. But at that point, I was happy they hadn't. We were back with our friends, and another party of river rats who had plenty of leftover cold beer and hot brats and babes. So we indulged and regaled them with all the details of our time on the road, and the friends who had helped us along the way.
While Ri and I had been out, Bonk and Pyper had evidently been telling our story as some kind of epic tragedy, at least while ladies were within earshot. They had effectively cut all the other guys out of the conversation by the time we returned, which seemed to have caused some bitterness, as none of them had had any luck over the course of their five days on the river with the same ladies.
Eventually it was down to Pyper and Bonk whispering sweet nothings into the last lady's ear. For a while it seemed like it was anyone's game, but then Pyper realized the girl spoke Spanish as he did. And Bonk was out. Later that night, Pyper got lucky down on the river bank. I think he even had some kind of awkward reunion with her a few months later. Your welcome, Pyper, for the pick-up line "Will you help us find our friends?" cue eyelashes.
The next morning we lethargically loaded up the raft and what provisions we had left into Ol' Winky, before Tetrising ourselves into the small cab. Four people in the front of a 1999 Toyota Tacoma for 17 hours is not boring. We tried to rotate somewhat often to get blood back in our butts, I even took shifts in the back seat, but by the time we rolled into Bozeman everyone was effectively a semi-sentient pain in the ass.
Then out of frustration with my janky FM transmitter iPod thingy, and local radio station commercials, I settled on an evangelical channel. In my road numbed mind it was hilarious slash profound. Bonk just wanted it to stop.
He reached forward from the backseat and tried to change it, Ri Blocked him from the shotgun seat, Bonk blurted "Bitch!" then Ri gave him the right hook to the temple. And I kept us on the road.
We drove the final few blocks to Pyper's place in silence. Except I was probably laughing. Bonk elected to get out there and walk the remaining seven blocks to his house.
We're all still friends sort of. I dream of a reunion in which Ri, Bonk, Pyper and I meet up with the friends Ri and I made on the road during that missing 24 hours. Captain Craig, gift shop Kelly, Sprinkles, the other helpful employees of the marina at Hall's Crossing. The well-meaning cops we evaded, the most legit desert rats that I have ever encountered at the Mexican Hat store, Ray Green and Trucker Bill (probably not his real name), and of course those nice religious folks that almost happened upon us in the night, and the less-religious folks that hosted us the last night at the Clay Hills take out. Everyone we met or almost met contributed to our adventure, and in ways more interesting and personal than the river itself, although the San Juan did bring us all together in a meandering sort of way.
Of all the whitewater features, holes scare me the most. It's difficult to predict whether one will spit a boat or a body out immediately, or if it will hold one down and churn it up a bit first, or hold one down for good. When approaching a hole, I've been told the best thing to do is point the bow straight at it, paddle hard, and lean into it. I came away from our San Juan trip with a similar attitude towards people. Be straightforward, put some honest effort into each encounter, and commit.
Our hitchhiking hole swirled us around for a day before spitting us out where we wanted to go. Or, at risk of sounding too anatomical, our humanity hole. We can't take much credit for the outcome. It wasn't thanks to any logistical or nautical talent. It wasn't a quirk of hydrology that saved us, just friends of the road. It was a few strangers who acted like good people when we trusted them.
I no longer believe that adventures can be boiled down to preparation or a lack thereof. The motto "Be Prepared" was seared into my psyche as a Boy Scout, but I now think it's much more useful to "Be Prepared to be Unprepared". To paraphrase Tom Waits, it was not the adventure we had imagined or dreamed of, it was the adventure we got.