I’m still working on this memoir and I’ll add/insert several more chapters when I get time.

DEATH OF THE HIPPY

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By that fall methamphetamine had swept through the Haight Ashbury, with malefic consequences, destroying minds and casting a dark pall over the neighborhood — just a few short months after the unreal exuberance of the “summer of love.” Instead of music and dancing in the streets on LSD and marijuana, there were gun battles on the intersection below my flat on Page street, as the Hells Angels and Blacks fought for control of the meth trade.

I finally had to start locking my door when meth addicts came in and stole anything of value while I was gone. Developed in Nazi Germany for their rapid “Blitzkrieg” invasions of other countries, methamphetamine makes a person self-centered and indulgent, insensitive to others and devoid of compassion.

The Diggers, a loosely knit band of anarchists and artists who staged “happenings” and street theater, as well as providing free food and places to stay, organized a mock funeral titled “Death of the Hippie,” meant to signal the end of the summer of love. A procession marched down Haight Street holding aloof a dark coffin filled with hippie paraphernalia and the words “Hippie, devoted son of mass media” scrawled on its side.

Mary Pat told me that her friend and fellow LSD dealer, Superspade, had been tied up in a bag and thrown off a cliff by Hells Angels. Not long after that it was reported that another LSD dealer, her erstwhile lover Shob Carter, had been stabbed to death by a guy who was arrested driving Shob’s car with his severed arm inside.

I’d instinctively avoided using speed, except for the occasional Dexedrine when working all night painting for classes, which, while quite effective for putting off sleep, didn’t produce the best work. I did smoke what was probably an early form of crack cocaine with Huey and some of his friends. After a few deep hits a stream of bliss engulfed me, lighting up all my senses, especially my visual sense, with indescribably ecstatic feelings. It only lasted a few minutes and I was left wanting more. I could see that it was highly addictive and indulging in it further would be a mistake.

Huey had started shooting meth. As his mental state deteriorated his delusions and hallucinations became more prolific. He said that little men were all over his apartment — an apparition common to both schizophrenic and shamanistic visions. He ended up injecting “speed balls,” a combination of meth and heroin. He said his wife had taken their young son and left the City and he spoke longingly of how smooth her skin was and how much he missed her. Eventually I heard he was living on the street and had lost all his teeth. I recalled how he’d said that it was all right to take drugs because this was all an illusion anyway.

The last time I saw Wolf he was managing a head shop in Marin County north of San Francisco. He had grown his curly brown hair out into an impressive Afro and was wearing bell bottom pants.

Ned freaked out at about the same time I finished the mural on Haight Street. He threw all his mirrors out the back window of his third floor flat — where they made a tremendous crash on the concrete near the back door to my basement art studio. I wondered if it was some sort of message, pertaining to the way that mirrors (and images on windows) reverse things. Shortly after that he moved out. According to Mary Pat he started his own “ORG” (Scientology center) in North Beach.

Later, a couple of imposing Scientology guys came by looking for Ned. They said he owed the organization a lot of money.

One day, as I walked down Haight Street past the shop with my mural, a crazed looking character came charging out the door holding up the first two fingers of his hand extended apart in a V. When that two fingered salute started appearing as the “peace sign,” I couldn’t help wondering if it had originated as an abrogation of a real sign of peace — such as the two joined fingers held up by my Goddess figure. Had the sign of blessing and union morphed into the symbol for victory?

ON THE ROAD

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My brother Paul and our Mexican-American friend Andy had been planning a trip to Oaxaca in Southern Mexico for months, saving money and getting the necessary paperwork in advance. When I decided on the spur of the moment to come along they were kind enough to let me join them. The ostensible purpose of the trip would be a search for Hongos, the fabled magic mushroom.

I’d resolved to give away everything and become a homeless wanderer. A trip to Mexico seemed like a good start to life “on the road.” Without much money, I would sleep in the car Andy had purchased especially for the trip — a sweet, dark green and black, ’47 Chevy sedan.

We began by driving down the coast from San Francisco to Lime Kiln Creek, just south of Big Sur, for a Spring Equinox celebration and wake for Neal Cassady, who had recently been found dead on railroad tracks in Mexico from exposure and various drug interactions. Immortalized by Jack Kerouac, Cassady’s career (if you could call it that) spanned both the Beat Generation of the fifties and the counter-culture of the sixties. He personified the reckless abandon and wild, questing spirit of both movements.

Lime kiln Creek, a meandering tributary flowing down to the ocean through ferns and ancient redwoods, was dotted with campsites and makeshift driftwood shelters, home to a ragtag community of refugees from contemporary society — seekers after mystical awakening whose sacraments came from chemical sources, both natural and synthetic.

On a bright and beautiful morning, LSD was liberally distributed amongst a large crowd that gathered on a dazzling white-sand beach, where the creek flowed into the blue Pacific and turquoise waves curled lazily along the shoreline.

A pit was dug along the back of the beach and whole skewered lambs were set to roasting over open fires in front of a long line of drums beating out a continuous rhythmic flow of sound. Various half-naked ascetics and yogis appeared from the forest and a little oriental guy in a loincloth, who looked a lot like Suzuki, did a dance in front of the fires, moving his arms slowly in salutation to the ocean, to the sky, and to the crowd on the beach.

The whole event, like similar gatherings that preceded it, was otherworldly, joyous and pagan. It felt like a wake not only for Neal Cassady, but for the end of the sixties in the Bay Area and the wild freedom and magic of that brief era. I took so much acid that most of that weekend is a forgotten blur.

When we finally left the coast and drove down to the border at Nogales, I worried they wouldn’t let me across without the proper papers, but Andy assured me it would be okay. Sure enough, returning from a visit to the office on the Mexican side, he informed me, “They only want $5 to let you across.”

As we drove through the check point the officer stopped us, gesticulated towards me and spoke loudly in rapid Spanish, which Andy translated. “He says that for YOU they want $10.” I guessed that was because of my long hair and full beard — still a rarity outside of San Francisco. Andy and Paul had both cut their hair before embarking.

I didn’t know if I should be insulted or flattered at being worth twice as much with long hair and a beard. Throughout our trip through Mexico I would often be greeted with a hearty, “Heey Castro.”

Andy took us on a tour around Northern Mexico that included a meeting with some “revolutionaries” — earnest young men gathered in a concrete room on the roof of a large building, who apparently viewed us as comrades in the cause. We also spent an evening out on a beach with local fishermen getting drunk on tasty beer from cases full of tiny bottles not much larger than hot sauce bottles. With scant knowledge of the Mexican language, Paul and I were dependent on Andy’s translations to understand what was going on. At one point, when I asked what the drunken fishermen were saying, he said they were talking about killing us, but that he thought he could dissuade them.

When we got to Culiacan, a city that I likened to the Chicago of Mexico, we were stopped on the outskirts at a little roadside “Policia” booth. After some negotiating we paid a modest bribe to a portly uniformed officer who claimed to be the Chief of Police. In return we received assurances of protection during our visit and were told how to find both drugs and prostitutes. We reluctantly skipped the latter, but once Andy and Paul were settled into a cheap inn, it was arranged for us to buy some marijuana.

As Andy and I waited nervously on the designated street corner, a low-riding ’57 Chevy hardtop pulled up next to us. Two aging pachucos in the front seat, both sporting impressive pompadours, directed us to get in the back. They proceeded to drive down through a rough-looking neighborhood of unpaved streets and abandoned vehicles that, while quite colorful, was somewhat intimidating to a lone gringo.

One of them passed back a fat marijuana cigarette. Already quite paranoid (I imagined we might have been set up to be robbed, or worse), I reluctantly took a tentative hit off the joint while Andy engaged our captors in conversation, none of which I could understand. After a couple more hits, potent THC washed over me and my paranoia peaked — only to abruptly change into an expansive feeling of brotherhood and affection for our new amigos, who I realized were really sensitive, peaceful dudes. They sold us a pillowcase full of loose bud for 10 dollars.

I don’t know if it’s the Southern clime, or just the nature of foreign travel, but the further south we went the more time slowed down and the higher I got. Sitting meditating crosslegged on the Chevy’s commodious back seat I imagined I was an important spiritual dignitary from the north on a mission South to check out the local religious customs and mystical happenings. I was fascinated by the roadside shrines scattered about the rural countryside, many featuring statues of saints or the Madonna and adorned with profuse offerings of flowers and candles. Some churches displayed exquisitely realistic, life-size wax statures of religious figures. The rich blend of indigenous beliefs and devout Catholicism, along with the passionate devotion on display, was like tasting a rare, aged red wine.

Cruising south from Culiacan we got lost on back roads and stopped for a peasant dressed in classic loose fitting white trousers and tunic, who Andy said could direct us towards Oaxaca. He jumped in back with Paul and pulled out a bottle of clear liquid to pass around — which turned out to be potent mezcal, replete with a little worm in the bottom. I thought it tasted like lighter fluid, but Paul and our new amigo proceeded to pass it back and forth with gusto.

It was Holy Week, which apparently is taken seriously in Mexico, or at least as an excuse for a week of colorful festivals. Instead of proceeding on towards Oaxaca we ended up at the destination our erstwhile guide was heading — a picturesque park of ancient weeping willow trees by a small lake, with families dressed up in their holiday finest promenading slowly around the meticulously groomed, grassy shore. We bought some sodas and snacks from a vendor and sat back on a sloping lawn to observe the festivities. Paul promptly passed out, flat on his back, from the Mezcal. He said later that he could hear everything that was going on, but just couldn’t move his body.

A ’57 Chevrolet hardtop abruptly drove up and parked in front of us. A Mexican couple jumped out — along with their voluptuous daughter, who started making eyes at me. Andy and the parents engaged in an animated back and forth, while the father opened up the trunk of the car to reveal a stash of suitcases. He gestured towards his daughter and towards me.

“They want you to marry their daughter,” Andy laughed.

For a moment I was tempted, both by the buxom senorita and by the cherry Chevy, but my innate caution and timidity prevented me from engaging in such an impulsive proposal.

After the disappointed parents had driven off with their daughter, who gave me one last winsome look, we threw Paul in the backseat and headed south again. Andy said the daughter was probably pregnant, which made me feel a little less regret for the imagined honeymoon I’d missed out on.

We didn’t intend to stop in Guadalajara, but on the highway bypass one of our tires started getting very low and we had to wobble into the city that night after all. It was the evening before Easter Sunday, when Jesus would have still been in the tomb waiting to be resurrected. What made that night even more momentous was a total Lunar eclipse, or “blood moon.” As the moon went dark behind the earth’s shadow and we slowly rolled (on three good wheels) into the center of town, a strange sound filled our ears — a deep groaning and wailing of human voices. Turning a corner we came upon hundreds of supplicants crawling down the street on their hands and knees towards the Basilica of Guadalajara, praying and performing penance.

Andy somehow managed to get the tire repaired and we continued south to Oaxaca. He and Paul rented a small boxy concrete room that sat atop the corner of a fortress-like home enclosing a large inner courtyard with an impressive wooden, drive-through gate, which I nicknamed “Fort Apache.” Their landlord informed us that hongos were not currently in season but that he could get some dried mushrooms for us — which turned out to be too weak for much effect.

After a few nights sleeping in the wide back seat of the Chevy. a rapping on the window interrupted my slumber. It was one of the comically attired local policemen, whose elaborate uniforms sported epaulets and ribbons reminiscent of turn-of-the-century European officers.

I sat bolt upright, fearful of what would be my punishment for sleeping in a parked car. The officer pointed to the lock button on the windowsill of the front door, and I complied by lifting it to the unlocked position. He opened the door, put his nightstick on the floor, lay down on the front seat, and promptly went to sleep.

I guess I should have been relieved to have the law on my side, so to speak, but not only did he snore fitfully, he farted mightily, until the whole car reeked of recycled beans.

Andy told us about a Bruja he’d heard of, “She’s 144 years old and wheeled around on a dolly,” he exclaimed, “Very famous around here, a powerful healer.” I was skeptical. Andy was sometimes given to exaggeration, especially in regard to spiritual matters. The image of a 144 year old woman, a “Bruja” or witch, ensconced on a dolly, struck me as farfetched.

One fine morning I wandered away from the main part of town, along the dusty streets of the surrounding barrio, reveling in the beauty of brightly colored adobe buildings fading in the southern sun. Walking alone in such unfamiliar surroundings brought me completely into the present moment, where I felt wonderfully open and alive.

At a wide intersection I stood pondering which direction to go in next, when diagonally to my left at the far corner of the street, a young man appeared wheeling a dolly. Near the ground, on a small platform in front of the wheels, sat a wizened old woman whose legs were folded flat together and covered by a shawl or thin blanket. Except for a remarkable life-force that emanated from her she looked to be well over a hundred years old.

The young man and his unusual cargo stopped abruptly at the corner. As I gazed at them across the expanse of dusty street, the old woman smiled, put her thumb and forefinger together, and gently shook a gnarled hand in my direction — a gesture like a grandmother would make leaning over a crib to squeeze the cheek of a baby. I was instantly overcome by a jolt of overpowering love, a love almost sexual in its blissful intensity, unlike anything I’d ever experienced. In a haze of blinding light I staggered off down the street.

Along with a delicious warmth that lingered with me for days, I felt immense gratitude — even though I wasn’t sure exactly what it was she’d given me.

We drove out from Oaxaca to the famous “Tree of Life,” an incredibly huge Montezuma Cypress, with the widest trunk of any tree in the world, almost 165 feet around, and over 2000 years old. It’s said by some that Quetzalcoatl, the god of rebirth and resurrection, was buried at the base of the tree. As I gazed down at finely packed earth under its spreading branches, a momentary vision of endless rooms opened up below, occupied by people going about their normal routines.

On a flattened mountain top near Oaxaca sits Monte Alban, the former capitol of the Zapotec civilization, who ruled that region for  thirteen centuries, beginning in 500 B.C. The site is famous for its impressive architectural ruins, including a Great Plaza, an ancient ball court, and numerous tombs. The guide Andy hired said the Zapotecs played a game similar to basketball and at the annual tournament the captain of the winning team was accorded the great honor of being sacrificed to one of the local deities. In an underground area that he claimed was secret, our guide showed us wall carvings, the provenance of which was a little sketchy, that featured all four races of mankind, and even a figure sitting in the full lotus.

I was impressed by the many indigenous Zapotecs around Oaxaca, who still spoke their native language — a staccato drumbeat of words whose meanings can change simply with their tone and pitch. When we drove over the mountains to the coast from Oaxaca, the Zapotecs we passed walking along the roadside had a wide unfocused gaze, indicative of an unusually expansive and open awareness.

After a few weeks hanging out around Oaxaca, Paul and Andy decided to travel further south into Honduras. I was running low on money, so instead I decided to hitchhike back to San Francisco.

I stood on the side of the highway for the better part of a day, vainly trying to hitch a ride, before someone finally told me about “riding the cream.” As instructed, I walked to a gas station and started asking truck drivers going in and out for a ride — simply saying the name of the next major city in a questioning manner. It worked like a charm. I easily rode the cream north, listening intently while my truck driving amigos went on and on in incomprehensible Spanish. When they laughed, I laughed, and when they acted angry I nodded in agreement. By the time they dropped me off, we were the best of friends.

In Mexico City, I trudged through miles of dense urban sprawl, pausing to view the famous painting of the “Virgin of Guadalupe” at the central basilica. I was most impressed by a beautiful, very realistic, life-sized wax figure of Jesus standing outside the church surrounded by oblivious crowds and traffic congestion, his bloody hands held out, looking upwards with a quizzical expression, as if to say, “What the fuck?”

I’d heard Stories of a man in Mexico City who was blind, but could somehow still “see.” Walking along a side street of small shops and cafes, I caught sight of a tall, slender, very attractive figure with shiny black hair, surrounded by a small crowd of people. As I approached, he abruptly turned around and looked directly at me with obvious recognition — except that both his eyes were vacant, unseeing voids. The brief moment of meeting him seemed to stretch out in time forever, like taking a hit off some potent mind-expanding drug.

When I finally got to the outskirts of the city, a guy trying to start a shiny new Triumph motorcycle asked me to help him — as if all gringo’s were natural motorcycle mechanics. But I’d once owned a similar one myself, so I kicked it over a few times and adjusted the carburetor. It started right up. Sitting on it, revving the engine and feeling that power at the turn of my wrist, I seriously considered taking off in a mad dash for the border. Instead I turned it over to its grateful owner.

As I headed north with the trucks I decided to make a side trip over to San Blas on the coast. Dropped off near a solitary covered shelter selling soft drinks, I crossed the highway to where a road went west to San Blas and waited for the bus I was told would soon arrive.

At first I was the only one standing in the hot sun on the wide dusty pullout, but as the day wore on, I was joined by more and more people, some even toting chickens and other small livestock.

By the time the bus finally arrived there was a large crowd waiting. I was disappointed to see the bus was not even full size, but an antique looking rig of dubious proportions. When the driver stepped out and the crowd started clambering up into the little bus, I thought maybe I should give up on a trip to San Blas, but my fellow travelers wouldn’t have it — they pushed and pulled me up into the bus until I was crammed halfway down the aisle, standing wedged between several richly endowed peasant women.

Once it was fully loaded and everyone was onboard, the driver left the bus and crossed the highway to the soft drink shelter for some refreshment. When he hadn’t returned after some time, and the heat and close quarters inside the bus became unbearable, the passengers started chanting “Avanti, Avanti,” louder and louder, until the whole bus swayed from side to side with their desperate exhortations.

At last the driver casually walked back to the bus and we took off towards San Blas — with blessed air flowing through the wide open windows. Before we were halfway to San Blas the crowd inside the bus had thinned considerably and I was able to sit by a window to watch as we passed through a classic jungle of dense greenery and vines, dotted with parrots and other colorful birds.

San Blas was indeed beautiful and I spent the first night sleeping on a wide beach. The next day I chanced to meet “J. B.” an attractive blond about my age. We hit it off immediately. She was deeply conversant in the Tarot cards and able to discuss them at an impressive level of intuitive understanding. When I told her I was hitchhiking back to San Francisco she asked if she could come along with me. I gladly agreed, as some feelings of sexual attraction were starting to stir between us. She took me back with her to a nice villa that night, which she said only cost $35 a month to rent. Two surfers, who had been staying with her, offered to give us a ride to L.A. the following day when they headed home. But the next morning J.B. was feeling sick and insisted I go on without her.

As I rode away from San Blas with the surfers in their Volkswagen van, they asked if I knew who J.B. was. I shook my head. “That’s Neal Cassidy’s widow. Did you see that vase on the mantel? That’s his ashes. She’s taking them back to San Francisco.”

Later, rolling on a long straight highway across a high desert of scrubby brush and tall cacti, the van’s engine suddenly started sputtering and misfiring — before finally coming to an abrupt stop. After several futile attempts to start it again, we sat starring at the barren landscape stretching out in every direction, the abrupt silence and stillness of our situation descending on us. It had been hours since we’d passed through anything resembling civilization and no sign of anything lay up ahead.

“It sounded like the points,” I volunteered.

The surfers shrugged. Both confessed to total ignorance in regard to all matters automotive. They’d purchased the van especially for this trip and didn’t know much about it.

It was shiny and relatively new looking, with windows all around — definitely not a typical hippy van. I got out, went to rear and opened up the back. To my surprise, I found a well equipped toolbox with an extra set of distributor points and a new rotor. The previous owner of the van must have prepared for just such an emergency.

I opened up the engine compartment, took off the distributor cap and started taking out the old points, which I could see were totally fried. As I worked, I saw some movement out of the corner of my eye. Two old Mexican men in ragged sombreros were standing in the desert next to a tall branching cactus looking on with calm curiosity. I nodded at them and stuck my head back into the engine compartment. By the time I’d finished, the two bystanders were gone, as mysteriously as they had appeared.

With the new points in place, I realized there was no way of knowing what their correct gap was, so I just eyeballed it, made an educated guess and adjusted them, hoping for the best. With some trepidation I got back into the van and told them to see if it would start.

To my relief it fired right up and ran like a top. My surfer friends were beside themselves with gratitude and amazement.

Cruising north to the border, I lay in the far rear of the van on my back in the yogic dead pose and meditated on the Kabbalistic Tree of Life, absorbed in a wonderful vision of  healing water cascading down the pathways between the worlds of the Sefirot, filling me with indescribable bliss.

In Southern California, the rich sprawl of wealthy suburbs were a striking contrast after the squalor of Tijuana. To my surprise the two surfer dudes informed me that they were both “Sannyasi” with the Self-Realization Fellowship founded by Yogananda, a Yogi from India who had settled in LA. When they dropped me off, one of them handed me a miniature paperback of the Bhagavadgita, a little book that would inspire me for years to come.

By the time I got back to the Bay Area I was sick as a dog. To make matters worse, my new landlord, Jeremy Ets-Hokin, had locked me out of my flat, and my belongings, my furniture and paintings, were tossed into a large dumpster at the curb. I hadn’t paid the most recent rent and in those days landlords pretty much did as they pleased.

Ets-Hokin was something of a San Francisco celebrity, a wealthy investor and real estate developer who the columnist Herb Caen often mentioned. His most serious crime against humanity was certainly not the destruction of my humble flat, but he’d also purchased San Francisco’s Playland at the Beach, with its iconic roller coaster and classic Funhouse, an irreplaceable work of art which he demolished to build condominiums and a shopping center. However, it turned out he cheated numerous investors out of their life savings and was sentenced to seven years in prison for fraud. In the end Herb Caen reported that Ets-Hokin was living in the Mission District on a $381-a-month disability check. 

LEAVING HOME

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For Buddhists “leaving home” usually means having your head shaved to become a monk and going to live in a monastery. It’s a way to dedicate yourself to meditation practice with the support of other like-minded individuals under the guidance of an experienced teacher.

To me that didn’t fit the original idea, which I took literally to mean complete homelessness — not just to leave one home for another.

In India, there’s an ancient tradition of renunciation and giving up worldly life to become a homeless wanderer, bereft of even the most basic social connections. That’s how the Buddha reportedly lived until his deep enlightenment sitting in meditation under the protection of a large fig tree — although some accounts say he was accompanied by several relatives that his father sent along to look after him.

In the spring of 1968 circumstances certainly seemed to be pointing me in that direction. The country was in crisis, deeply divided and politically polarized. The assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, riots, racism, cops beating anti-war protesters, everywhere I turned there was discord and chaos.

I’d lost my flat in San Francisco and my belongings had been hauled off in a dumpster. I’d been staying with my parents in Berkeley recovering from a deathly intestinal illness after hitchhiking back from Mexico. I’d dropped out of graduate school, without a job or any way of supporting a normal lifestyle. With Patty gone I felt like I had nothing to live for — other than a burning need to find some kind of inner salvation or enlightenment.

So I tied an old rectangular sleeping bag into a bed roll with several pounds of brown rice and a few cooking utensils inside, and I was ready to hit the road — to become a homeless wanderer, without possessions or attachment to people or places.

Although I was only twentyfive years old, I felt like I’d already lived a full life.

Henceforth, that sleeping bag, which I’d had since childhood, would be my only home. It was a nicely faded military brown on the outside, with images of Hopalong Cassidy and his white horse imprinted on red flannel lining inside — flannel so soft and smooth I’d get sexually aroused just sliding half-naked down into its welcoming interior cocoon. I fashioned leather straps and an old belt to tie up the bedroll so I could sling it comfortably over my shoulder when hitchhiking.

I easily caught rides east up Highway 80 over Donner Summit to Truckee, and then north into Sierra Valley — a long, flat valley on the east slope of the Sierras. From the valley floor I hiked several miles up a trail into a high mountain wilderness, making camp at an auspicious spot where two small streams come together in a lovely secluded meadow surrounded by dense forest.

I’d packed a 1000 microgram tablet of Owsley’s White Lightening LSD, four times the normal dose, with the expectation that it would get my new life as a vagabond off to a strong start.

On a beautiful fresh morning, after fasting and meditating the day before, I swallowed the tiny white tablet with water from a nearby creek and sat down in meditation posture at the edge of the meadow. The spring grasses were a brilliant green and puffy white clouds danced slowly across a pale blue mountain sky. As the acid came on, the boundary between the surroundings and my body dissolved. I could feel roots growing in the moist earth. Branching tendrils and opening buds reached upward for sunlight.

Wandering around the small meadow I came upon the half-eaten carcass of a deer sprawled across a fallen limb on the grassy floor. On its exposed viscera a mass of large gray maggots streamed side by side in perfect formation, absorbed in a frenzy of feasting and gratification.

I thought of Patty buried deep in the earth, the body I so adored being devoured by nature — soft sweet skin and flesh sinking back into soil.

Late in the day the sky clouded over and the air filled with a strange feeling of energy and anticipation. Deafening thunder sounded. The scene suddenly lit up, as a round ball of intense light and fire the size of a Volkswagen flew down and bounced across the meadow, followed by several more. Each time one of the balls of light hit the ground a tremendous clap of thunder burst out, resounding deep in my chest.

I stood transfixed, afraid to move lest I be obliterated by one of the fiery balls (which I learned later were not hallucinations, but a real phenomena known as “ball lightening”).

As quickly as they had come, the white orbs of glowing light disappeared, followed by an abrupt downpour of rain. I gathered up my bedroll and left the meadow as night fell, marching down the mountain accompanied by a procession of gods and goddesses in shining raiment, the rain and droplets of water dancing all around like colorful sparkling jewels in the darkness.

By the time I arrived down at the highway the rain had stopped and the air was cold and crisp. The first car that came along, full of rollicking teenagers, picked me up and took me north through the valley to a tiny settlement of a few buildings brightly lit up in the night at the intersection of a highway running west back down into California and east towards Nevada.

When I walked past a small electrical substation a loud explosion sounded and sparks burst out overhead. All the lights along the highway went out and everything was plunged into darkness.

Afraid I would be blamed for the blackout, I quickly walked east down the highway towards Nevada before finally stopping at a pullout to hitchhike. It was getting late, with hardly any traffic over the mountains. I could see my breath in the dim moonlight. My clothes, still damp from the brief thunder storm, felt like they were starting to stiffen up and freeze.

Whenever the lights of a car appeared in the distance I’d get my hopes up and compose myself before putting out a thumb — only to be let down when the car zoomed past. I thought of the poor soul in the parable of the good Samaritan, lying half dead on the side of the road as people passed by pretending not to see him. I started sending righteous anger at the passing cars receding in the distance — when seemingly out of nowhere an old 1940s pickup pulled to a stop in front of me. I eagerly reached out and swung the door open.

“Where you heading?” the driver asked.

“Nevada,” I answered, knowing there was not much else in that direction.

“I’m goin’ to Reno, do a little gambling,” said the old black man behind the wheel — so dark-skinned it took some time for my eyes to pick out his features in the darkness.

“Great,” I exclaimed and jumped up onto the narrow seat in the old truck.

Rolling down the long, straight highway into Nevada, I was filled with such immense gratitude I almost reached over to give my good Samaritan a hug. The old truck had an amazing heater, a separate boxy little unit that hung below the dashboard and blew a blast of hot air right at me. As he rambled on about this and that, I savored the warmth of his company and the amazing heater. By the time we reached Reno, my clothes were completely dry.

When he let me out in the casino district downtown I thanked him profusely and told him he’d probably saved my life.

Out on the sidewalk, lit up by garish pulsating lights from the casinos, I recalled stories I’d heard of hippies who had ventured into Reno and were arrested without reason, brutally beaten by cops, and thrown in jail. I realized how conspicuous I must look with my long hair and beard, in a sea of clean-shaven characters in cowboy hats, along with waves of older touristy couples — balding men in plaid pants with big haired women in tow.

Trying to blend in and keep a low profile, I headed straight for an extra wide casino entrance on the corner. I was hungry and knew that casinos had restaurants that served good cheap breakfasts 24/7.

I only made it a few steps inside the casino before a loud clanging alarm bell went off and a fat lady, just to the side of me, cut loose with a terrifying scream. All heads inside the crowded casino turned at once to look in my direction — while I stood there like a deer caught in headlights. The lady who screamed had just scored a jackpot on the giant slot machine at the entrance.

I quickly slipped away to the restaurant and took a seat at the counter. As I perused the menu I looked up at my image in the expanse of mirror on the opposite wall. My long hair and beard had turned a metallic grey overnight and I had the pale, deeply lined face of an old man.

Ignoring my transformed visage, I ordered hot coffee with eggs and hash-browns.

By the time I finished the meal, my youthful countenance was restored. Feeling much better, I left the casino by a different door. Down a side street I came upon a sign that read, “Beds $1.75” — a classic flop-house. I was exhausted, so I climbed the steep stairs and paid my fee to an old guy at the desk. Assigned a bed in a narrow room lined with beds, most of which were occupied by drunks in deep repose, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the cheap pillow.

I awoke late the next morning to someone angrily shouting, “Who let that hippy in here, who let that fuckin’ hippy in, I’m calling the cops.” By the time I’d gotten up, gone down the stairs and hurried to the end of the block, two police officers in riot gear and helmets, with long black clubs, were marching towards the flop-house from the other direction. I abruptly turned down an alleyway and ran to the back entrance of a bus station halfway down the block. As I pushed open the door, I glanced back to see the cops rounding the corner and coming down the alley in my direction.

Inside the bus station, a main doorway lay straight ahead, open to a busy street outside — an obvious path away from my pursuers. Instead, without thinking, I went sideways around a low partition into a coffee shop, where I ducked into a booth and peered through some decorative plants — just as the two officers dashed into the center of the bus station. They paused and looked around, clubs at ready.

For a moment time stood still. Then they charged straight ahead out the front door to the street.

I went back out the way I’d come, up the alley and over to the main highway towards Las Vegas, where I caught a ride with an old guy pulling a small, ramshackle mobile home, who said he’d retired from life as a trainer of prize fighters. We reminisced about the glory days of boxing all the way to Vegas, where he dropped me off to try his luck at the casinos.

~To be continued ~