Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road

by Neil Peart

  The two of them agreed that the nearest gas was in Ely, 100 miles to the north, or Tonopah, 50 miles south. When I explained our predicament, the rancher said, “I wish I could help,” then pointed at the truck with a chicken leg, “but I’m runnin’ diesel.”

  With fine western hospitality, he offered us a piece of the chicken too, but I politely declined; I was still full from a bad breakfast we’d had back in Panaca, and I was also too worried about what we were going to do about this situation. The daughter suggested that we might be able to buy some gas from a rancher, and said they’d passed a sizeable ranch about five miles back.

  The Five Mile Ranch, it was called, with its brand of five chevrons on a sign over the gate. We drove up the laneway and stopped in the yard, but didn’t see anyone. The compound included a house, several outbuildings, and a couple of mobile homes, while a new mid-size Chrysler and a couple of “respectable-looking” pickups and tractors were parked in the yard. So the place looked inhabited, but still no one appeared. A tiny sprinkler dribbled on a fenced patch of lawn. The front door of the house was padlocked (!), but the workshop doors were wide open, tools and hardware visible inside.

  I walked nervously back to the mobile homes and a farther outbuilding in a grove of cottonwoods, calling “Hello” as I went, but there was no reply. When I returned to the bikes, Brutus was poking around the big steel fuel tank, perched high on a wooden cradle.

  “Can you tell the difference between gas and diesel?” he asked.

  “By the smell I can.”

  He handed me the nozzle, I smelled it, and told him it was gasoline.

  “Well, I’m going to take some. We can leave some money.”

  I don’t mind confessing I was terrified, but I didn’t have a better idea. Except one thing:

  “Let’s leave the money first,” I said, already imagining a door slamming open, the click-click of a chamber being filled, and a voice drawling, “Wudda you boys think yer doin’?”

  Later that day I wrote, “I can’t remember when I’ve been so afraid,” and I couldn’t wait to get out of there. In the old days, they used to hang horse thieves because by stealing a man’s horse, you virtually condemned him to death. Might they not attach the same seriousness to gasoline rustling? Anyway, we took two gallons each, and Brutus left a $20 bill (probably 20 times the at-the-pump price, in those times) with a note explaining our predicament.

  Thanks to Brutus’s fearless resourcefulness (and where had that got him now?), we had been rescued from a bad situation, but I felt guilty about it, and even a year and a half later I felt nervous when I rode by that ranch on my way to breakfast in Rachel, and more memories of travelling with Brutus.

  I carried on east on the Extraterrestrial Highway, noting the red pavement near Panaca (probably a signal to outer space), then onward to the Utah border, as the regularly spaced Joshua trees (named by Mormon settlers for their alleged resemblance to the upraised arms of a prophet) gave way to scrub juniper, then larger junipers and rocky, pillared canyons.

  That night Deb and Mark and family planned to make it to an RV park in Springville, Utah, near Provo, and I covered over 500 miles that day before I checked into the Best Western motel across the street from the RV park, made a series of phone calls regarding the Brutus Situation (gave myself “phone ear,” I noted), then had a quick dinner at the “Flying J” truck stop while I waited for them to arrive.

  It was then I realized that I hadn’t seen a familiar face for nearly a month, since Vancouver, and I was excited about the idea of being with people I knew, and especially, people who knew me. A break from always having to be on guard, or avoiding certain topics of conversation with strangers (for example, how I dreaded having someone ask me an obvious pleasantry like, “So, do you have any family?”). I could just be at ease with them, and share feelings silently, or make familiar jokes that might evoke the past — but in ways Deb and I found comforting rather than wrenching. We kept Jackie and Selena alive for each other, and we also shared the feeling that we were the only ones who really knew what had been lost.

  Another reason for our rendezvous was that we were all on our way to Las Vegas. After all Mark had endured trying to care for an inconsolable partner and a newborn son, Deb had wanted to do something nice for him, and had latched onto a plan dreamed up by Brutus — who had been planning to meet up with me in Las Vegas and take a motorcycle riding course at the local racetrack with three-time world champion Freddie Spencer. Mark had been a keen motorcyclist for many years, and Deb had signed him up for the riding school as part of their family getaway. Obviously Brutus wouldn’t be joining us, but at least I’d have Mark to share the experience with.

  The next day, we made our separate ways down to Las Vegas, their RV to the park at Circus Circus, and me to the riding school’s designated hotel, Excalibur, a huge showplace of pseudo-Arthurian style built on, of course, a vast casino. There I finally acquired an address where I could write to Brutus, and I told him all about my experiences in Las Vegas in a letter from Zion National Park in Utah, the first of many long, handwritten letters I would be writing to him during our mutual exiles. It would prove to be good therapy for me, and it didn’t seem to hurt him either.

  The opening comparison to being in Zion as opposed to Babylon is from a Rush song called “Digital Man,” in which I borrowed the dichotomy from the Rastafarians — though Bob Marley seemed to refer to Zion as a “promised land” located in Ethiopia, while his evil Babylon (as in the live album title, Babylon By Bus) seemed to be the United States. Some might say he got it exactly backwards.

  Oct. 16, ’98

  Zion Lodge

  Hey Buddy,

  About 15 years ago, this jerk I used to know put these words in a rock song:

  “He’d like to spend the night in Zion,

  He’s been a long while in Babylon”

  That’s pretty darn true for me today, after four nights in the howling chaos and annoying low-life society of Las Vegas! Man, I was not in the mood for that place. In the past, I’ve always found it moderately amusing (or at least that other guy did), but the traffic, the incessant jangling and ringing of slot machines, the crowds of fat ugly people, the lousy food, lousy service, and cheesy hotel room just drove me nuts. I was awful glad to escape from there this morning.

  It also occurs to me that you wouldn’t mind spending a night in Zion too. Another line that prescient jerk might have written for you: “Where would you rather be? Anywhere but here.” I’m sure that’s true enough, no? This time it’s my turn not to know what to say or do, but I hope I can be as good a friend to you through this bad time as you were through my bad times. I’ve told you before, but it bears repeating: nobody was as devoted to being my friend as you were, and I’m glad to have the opportunity to repay some of that dedication. So before I get away from this maudlin seriousness, just let me say that not only will I do anything I can to help you get out of, or through, this ignorant situation, but your family will be looked after for as long as it takes. Just don’t you be worrying about that. As long as I’m around, they’ll be okay.

  Now stop your blubbering, or I’ll give you something to cry about.

  The Freddie Spencer course went pretty well — meaning that I didn’t crash! I didn’t get my knee down, but I got “hanging off ” pretty well, and definitely learned one or two things about getting around quickly on a scooter. As we suspected, Freddie himself was quite a character, though he just “dropped in” from time to time to tell a few anecdotes from his racing days, or to give occasional demonstrations of sublime riding skill. During the second day, we each had the opportunity to follow him on the “racing line” around the track, and that alone was worth the trip. Humbling, to say the least.

  Nick Ienatsch (former editor of Sport Rider magazine) did most of the actual teaching, articulating Freddie’s principles of smoothness, bike-handling, and body motions in ways we mortals could understand. There were only seven of us in the class, so everybody g
ot lots of individual attention and substantial track time (though never enough!).

  Mark had a good time too (and also didn’t crash), and it was nice hanging out with them at the RV park, watching “South Park” episodes and eating “trailer trash” food at the Circus Circus and Excalibur buffets. Yum. And that reminds me: the same day I found out about your “misadventure,” I had finally broken down and called Dr. Earl to ask him why I was waking up in the middle of the night exactly six hours after I ate, and he said “that’s a pretty classic symptom of an ulcer.” ****! (Not sure if you’re allowed to read bad words where you are — ha ha.) So now I have to take a bunch of Zantacs every night for a month, and hope it clears up; especially before I hit Mexico.

  And just so you don’t get the idea that I’m having too much fun, I couldn’t get a table for dinner here until 8:30. Man! Babylon may have been jam-packed with wall-to-wall human waste, but Zion is pretty crowded too. (Though I did notice a big difference between the kind of Americans who frequent the national parks, compared with the ones in Vegas: these people are half the size, with twice the vitality.)

  You’ll remember our brief-but-unforgettable overlook of this area from up by Cedar Breaks, and it’s just as spectacular up close. The Lodge is nestled between the walls of the canyon, higher than it is wide, all reddish sandstone with cottonwoods and pines along the Virgin River at the bottom. I was lucky enough to get a cabin, though it’s one of those “fourplex” deals, and the stone fireplace is only a fake gas one. I guess you’re probably crying for me. This afternoon I took a hike up the canyon wall to the Emerald Pools, and sometime I’ll send you the photos I took from there. Sometime when I really hate you and want to torture you . . .

  Okay, yeah, it was beautiful, but there are a surprising number of other people who seem to think they have the right to, like, share it with me, you know?

  The same thing happened in California. After I talked to you from Salt Lake City, and there was snow blocking my way to Wyoming and Montana, I headed west through Reno, and from then on I was trapped in outrageous traffic. Getting through Lake Tahoe was already like L.A., with construction all over the place, and from there to Napa seemed like being in a bleedin’ parade. (Maybe I was a little spoiled after weeks of the Yukon, Alaska, B.C., Idaho, and Nevada.) I spent a couple of days in St. Helena (where, alas, I was freaked to learn about you), and did a nice hike in Jack London State Park over in the Sonoma Valley (by the way, Deb wanted to write to you as well, so I asked her to send you a couple of his books that I have enjoyed lately). I realized as I came down out of the Sierras that I was actually warm for the first time in a month. The morning after I talked to you from Ely, it was 22°F, so it was nice to be riding through California in just leathers and a T-shirt.

  But the price of that was all these vehicles around me, so I ran right away from there, back to Nevada by way of a great ride over the 9,500-foot Sonora Pass to Big Pine, where I picked up that fabulous road we took in the other direction, through Westgard Pass. After a night in Tonopah, and breakfast in Rachel (pausing to genuflect before the Five Mile Ranch, our unknowing saviors), I rode across to Springville, Utah, to meet up with Deb and Mark.

  And that pretty much brings us up to now. I could only get one night here, so tomorrow I’ll move on to Bryce Canyon, and generally bum around this area as long as the weather holds. It was pleasantly warm in Las Vegas, but darn chilly again back up here, though no snow at least.

  But I don’t know; it feels like there’s somebody missing, you know? (Actually, there are a few people missing.)

  I don’t know if I want to try the Hole-in-the-Wall road on my own, or the North Rim, but maybe I’ll head up towards Moab and see what’s shaking there. On November 3rd, I’ll be meeting Alex and Liam at Alex’s place in Santa Fe, and that will be nice, but sometimes I admit I feel a little “lost.” Being a “saddletramp” suits me in many ways, but some mornings I’d just like to be in Quebec, making my own food and bumming around the house, instead of bumming around America.

  But no. This is the best thing for me, at least until Christmas, and when I have those moments of weakness, the only thing to do is keep moving.

  I miss you man, and wish like hell you were here with me in Zion, instead of there in Babylon. We’d both be having a lot more fun!

  (Early next morning . . .)

  I was going to keep this going awhile longer, but since they’ve got a post office right here in the lodge, I decided to get it sent off, and that way you’ll get it sooner. I know from experience with my English friend and his periods of “holiday at Her Majesty’s pleasure” that a “bit o’ dosh” can be handy, and I was also able to get a money order here, so I’ll send you a couple hundred simoleons for any “necessaries” you might be able to acquire.

  If you’re up to it, I’d love to hear from you, and I get semi-regular mail infusions from Sheila, through the office, if you wanted to drop me a line. If there’s anything else I can do for you and yours, just ask; I’m here for you. (Maybe not here exactly, but I’ll be somewhere for you!)

  Here’s hoping that the bail thing comes together, and that your loyal supporters (like me) will be able to raise the “King’s Ransom” to get you the gosh-darn-heck out of there!

  “I loves you some lot.”

  “What?”

  “Nutting.”

  Your friendly neighborhood

  Ghost Rider

  While I was buying the money order and mailing the letter to Brutus, I learned that my little cabin would be available for another night, so I took it. During breakfast I asked the waitress about the lodge building itself, for I knew it had been another destination from the old train-travel days (Union Pacific in this case), but nothing seemed to remain from that time. She told me the original lodge had burned down in the ’60s, and had been rebuilt in 90 days. “And they’ve been trying to fix it ever since.” The chairs and tables had been made by the grandson of the original maker, in “branch and canework” construction.

  On the wall of the restaurant, I noticed Utah’s version of the warning against alcohol, similar to the one that was posted in restaurants and bars in California.

  “WARNING — THE CONSUMPTION OF ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES PURCHASED IN THIS ESTABLISHMENT MAY BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH AND THE SAFETY OF OTHERS.”

  I had little patience with this kind of overstated “father-knows-best” paternalism, and to my journal I editorialized, “Oh, fuck off.”

  Later that day I editorialized further about everything on my mind in yet another letter to a distant friend. It seemed I had entered a period of deep reflection, and as always, I seemed to do my best reflecting on paper. This letter was written to Mendelson Joe, a Canadian painter, musician, political activist, environmentalist, motorcyclist, writer of wonderfully idiosyncratic letters, and dweller in the north woods. A man of size and scale, physically and philosophically, Joe was possessed of (and by) a fierce intelligence, inflexible integrity, boiler-plate opinions, razor-sharp humor, and blistering contempt for most of humanity. We agreed on many things, disagreed on some, and enjoyed a stimulating, if sporadic, correspondence.

  Oct. 17, ’98 Zion National Park

  Dear Joe,

  You’ll be my guest for dinner tonight, in one of the most beautiful places you, or I, have ever seen. We’re dining at the Lodge, where I’ve been staying the past two nights, and I’ll be having artichokes, vegetable beef soup, Ruby Red trout, and Kendall Jackson Chardonnay. You can have whatever you like!

  On both sides of us, the red sandstone canyon walls rise up 2,000 feet, and the floor of the canyon is barely that wide, so the cottonwoods and lush vegetation along the Virgin River only see the sun in the middle of the day. Last night, on my way back from the restaurant to my little cabin, I stopped to watch the tamest herd of mule deer cropping at the lawn, one of them an antlered stag, then looked up to the brightest stars I’ve seen since . . . I don’t know when.

  Today we (that’s you and me) went on a 10-mi
le hike, climbing those 2,000-foot walls in the first four miles, up to Observation Point on the canyon rim, where we paused for a picnic lunch overlooking the eroded walls, some angular and fortress-like, others rounded in swoops and swirls by the action of water and the stones it hurled along. Higher up, the rock is white, while lower down the iron and other minerals have stained it various shades of red and brown. In short, gorgeous.

  The Great White Throne, The Three Patriarchs, The Weeping Wall, Angels’ Landing, The Emerald Pools, The Temple of Sinawava, all these have we feasted our eyes, binoculars, and cameras upon. And Joe, you’re probably breathing a little hard, for the canyon floor is at 4,500 feet, taking us up to 6,500 feet on the rim, so it was a breathtaking walk, in both senses.

  And this is how I’ve been getting along lately, as a modern-day saddletramp. I discovered up in northern B.C. that hiking is a suitable alternative to motorcycling — to keep me “moving” — so whenever I come to a place like this I try to pause and take in the scenery and the birds.

  The exercise is good, and it also slows down my pace a little. Moments of Truth and Beauty had been sorely lacking in my life lately, and it was the motorcycle which first delivered me to some sublime encounters with highways, landscapes, and wildlife. Pausing along the way, mainly in the national parks, and getting into the woods has been equally . . . if not uplifting, at least stabilizing.