A Separate Place

Did he recall a special place, where time lingers long in the subconscious, casting shadows far beyond the moment, I asked.

A long silence. A long "Yeah".

He wasn't chatty. Guys can be like that. I prodded.

"Tell me about it." I said.

"Yeah," he said, "OK".

Back in college days he'd gone on a road trip. Got it into his head to hitch-hike to Yakima, Washington to pick apples. God only knows where he got the idea, he said. It could've been a casual comment picked up at a party.

In a whisper, he suggested to me the possibility of ulterior motives too, of an attraction, remarking that he may not have been entirely mindful of such considerations back then. It seems there was a certain Chip, another student also on the lam from his family that season. Lanky, laid back Chip had said he'd like to go pick apples too. My man told me he had developed inklings. Vague premonitions -- hazy images of open roads stretching endlessly, campfires casting flickering shadows, and whispered conversations drifting beneath star-drenched skies -- filled his mind.

He embarked on the adventure before Chip could get away from work. The plan had been to meet up in Santa Fe, where my blossoming friend spent a day visiting folks he knew there. Chip called him to say he'd been arrested at a protest and couldn't get away else he'd miss a court date. Perplexed by the sudden halt to his inklings, my adventurer randomly consulted for advice, as one does when traveling to the western lands, a page from Mark Twain's Roughing It. He was prone to that kind of thing, so it didn't much surprise me that he recalled the exact quote.

“The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And why shouldn't it be? -- it is the same the angels breathe.”

For our young traveler, that was motive enough -- the lure of angelic air and the pure, bracing west calling him forward. Leaving Santa Fe, a grandfatherly viejo and his wife carried him westward at a leisurely pace in their beat-up station wagon. They wound through the arid expanses of northern New Mexico and Arizona, through the Apache and Navajo nations, past mesas and mirages shimmering like distant dreams. Every few hours, they stopped in the shade of a solitary tree, the old man spreading a blanket with careful precision. He said he'd noticed how the husband arranged that blanket each time they rested -- just so -- to make things comfortable for his companion. I learned a life lesson, he told me. "What's that?", I asked. Having a snug place to rest is a fine thing, he said, but creating a comfortable bed for another is even finer.

"So was that your special moment?" I asked.

"Nah," he said. "That was just the beginning."

Next, he said a trucker took him to his home near Sacramento. The driver became intrigued by his quest for apples. They dissected the country's problems, and rambled on about books. Both liked Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The trucker's trailer park was dusty sprawl of mismatched RV's. The air carried a faint tang of grease and smoke, clinging to the dry, restless breeze. On arrival, the truck driving man introduced our traveler to his old lady, who expressed no surprise at having a stranger drop in for dinner. She fixed them thin, tough steaks and smoked while they ate. My friend didn't mention that he was a vegetarian. The simple act of sitting down to a meal with strangers felt oddly comforting. He said thank-you and commented how good the steaks were before heading back out to the highway.

My boy was raised right.

After some time, an off-duty California Highway Patrolman picked him up and gave him a ride northwards, almost to the Oregon border. They talked about weed, which was illegal back then, even in California. The officer was opposed to persecuting people for getting buzzed. He said the cop asked him if he smoked the stuff. Somewhat cautiously, he said that he had, maybe once or twice. As they departed, Officer Very Friendly pulled a baggie of shake out of the glove box, making a surprise gift of it. Even had a handy pack of rolling papers in it. "Confiscated it the other day," he'd explained, "but didn't want to bother with the paperwork. Why don't you take it?"

My buddy hummed 'California Dreaming' to himself as he strolled on down the road.

"That wasn't the special place either, was it?" I asked.

"Nah, just some weirdness along the way", he said. "Hold on, we're getting there."

After waiting a long time, a handsome stranger driving an Audi stopped and offered him a ride to Eugene, Oregon, where he lived, then insisted that he stay for the evening. The guy seemed genuine. They chatted away about the upcoming election and events of the day over wine, home-baked potato chips, and a restorative vegetarian ratatouille. Then he took a nice warm shower. As he sank into the warmth of the stranger's clean guest bed, he said he thought about how rare such unreserved kindness was in the world -- and how he'd stumbled upon it without asking. The next morning he asked his host if there was a decent place to camp out in the vicinity. The kindhearted fella drove his guest to the entrance of a nearby national park, handed him a pint of healthy snacks, and wished him safe travels.

"So no hanky-panky?" I had to ask.

"Nope".

A short walk led him to a small secluded meadow ringed by woods. He wandered the winding trails, meditated beneath a canopy of rustling leaves, and savored fresh fruit, trail mix, and a puff of that gifted California cop weed -- smooth, mellow, and not too gnarly. It was the first time in his young life that he'd spent a day alone, without a word of human speech to interrupt the natural flow. The accessible conversation consisted entirely of critters chittering, bugs chirping and birds singing.

At evening he made a meagre campfire and enjoyed a visit from a waddling porcupine.

He fell asleep quickly and deeply. At sunrise, he emerged from the pup tent, his frosty breath curling like smoke in the crisp morning air. Stretching and swaying in time with the trees, he let out a long, low 'aaaah!' -- a note that seemed to hum in harmony with forest's quiet symphony.

"And that's that", he said, "I've always remembered that day."

"Wow", I said.

"Yeah", he said, "Even now, when life feels noisy and cluttered, I think back to that day -- the stillness, the simplicity, the connection to the earth and the forest -- and I remember who I am."