by Neil Peart
You can imagine that I have been rocked to the very foundations by the unbelievable and unacceptable tragedies of the past 14 months. You know as well as anyone the way I tried to live my life — if I did well, I would try to do good, believing in some basic karmic principle that “if you do good, you get good.” Well, it ain’t true at all, for that is also the way Jackie lived, and the way we taught Selena to be, and her whole focus in life, even at 19, was to go out and fight injustice. Now she never will, and the world is the poorer for it.
And me, I’ve got to start all over. Not only build a new life, but construct a new person. I call my old self “that other guy,” for I share nothing but his memories, and everything he ever liked I’ve had to discover all over again, one by one, so that I’ve held on to, for example, reading, motorcycling, and birdwatching, but I’m not yet sure about art or music (I can look at it or listen to it, but not with the same “engagement” I used to), and I have no interest in work, charity, world events, or anybody I don’t know. In my present gypsy life, I encounter a lot of people every day, and some of them I instinctively like and respond to in a brief encounter at a gas station or small-town diner, but for the most part I look around at ugly and mean-spirited people and think, “Why are you alive?”
And more: sometimes I have a strong urge to take a machine gun and mow all the bastards down. (Sure, I’ve got a little anger!)
This was brought home to me sharply last week, when I was in Las Vegas for a few days. In the past I’ve always found the place moderately amusing (or at least that other guy did), but this time it was unbearable: Pigs! Scum! Cows! Low-life beasts! Die, die, die!
However, I was there for a good reason: Freddie Spencer’s school at the Las Vegas International Racetrack. Months ago, Brutus and I booked that, and although he didn’t make it, for reasons which I’ll get to in a moment, I did meet up with Jackie’s sister Deb, who was making her own trip down the “Healing Road” in an RV with her little family. Her partner Mark, a CBR 600 rider from way back, also took the two-day course.
I recall writing to you when I was taking the Jim Russell course in Formula Ford cars at the racetrack at Mont Tremblant, in Quebec, and while that was pretty exciting, this seemed way more serious, in the same way that riding a motorcycle on the street is more serious than driving a car can ever be. The main pressure, of course, was not to crash, and I was happy enough to succeed on that level, but I also had some highly adrenalized fun (rare and welcome in my recent life), and learned a thing or three about bike-handling. Even riding away from there on my way up here, I felt more comfortable and confident on my old GS than I had coming down that same road a few days before.
That R1100 GS has just passed 84,000 kilometres (52,500 miles) of which 27,000 (16,875) have been covered in the past two months, and it’s still the most comfortable, versatile, and fun bike I can imagine. From 1,000 miles of dirt, gravel, and mud up to Inuvik and back, to the endless twisties of the roads of Idaho, to the long, desolate stretches of Nevada’s Highway 50 (“The Loneliest Road in America”), it’s been my faithful steed and companion. A few oil changes, a couple sets of tires, new brake pads, and a 10,000-kilometre service in Vancouver, and again in Vegas, and on we go. My very loose “plan/no plan” is to drift south through these western states (I’ve already been driven out of Wyoming and Montana by early snow in the mountains, and have endured morning temperatures in the 20s in these higher elevations), and down into Mexico, and maybe Belize, until I get through Christmas — that formerly happy family season in Quebec. Then I’m thinking of storing the bike in San Diego, and flying back for January and February, the prime winter months, in hopes that cross-country skiing and snowshoeing will “work” for me in the way that hiking is on days like today, or on other days in Glacier Park, Montana, Sun Valley, Idaho, or Jack London State Park, in California.
There have been those who have actually said they envy me, though mostly strangers, and I doubt you’d be that short-sighted or self-absorbed. This is way more freedom than anyone should ever desire, and carries way more baggage than “freedom” can ever sustain. This is more like “desperate flight,” and another name I have for myself is “The Ghost Rider.” I’m a ghost, I carry a few ghosts with me, and I’m riding through a world that isn’t quite real. But I’m okay as long as I keep moving . . .
So — Brutus. [Summary of his story.]
Man. It’s awful for him, and for his wife and son, and I’ve taken it pretty hard too. First my daughter, then my wife, then my dog (my parents had been looking after him, but he had to be put down a month ago), and now my best friend. It’s tough to be philosophical, you know?
But I’ll help look after his family (I said I’ve lost my charity, but not my generosity to those I care about), and see if I can help get him out on bail for awhile, at least, but it’s pretty sure that it will be a long time before we ride together again. Of course, he knew the score (can’t-do-the-time, don’t-do-the-crime and all that), but still — it’s a blow.
And that same day I found out I have an ulcer. (Wonder why?)
But tomorrow I’ll move on to Bryce Canyon National Park, then Capitol Reef, Canyonlands, and The Arches (Utah’s pretty rich in incredible scenery), and just keep moving. Nothing else to do.
Ruby’s Best Western Inn, Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah
Well, here we are in a new scene; and one even more spectacular than yesterday’s. At 9,000 feet, looking south toward the Grand Canyon, and surrounded by unbelievable rock formations that form spires, pinnacles, arches, towers, and Gothic battlements. It’s named after an early Mormon settler, Ebenezer Bryce, who reportedly said, “It’s a hell of a place to lose a cow!” No doubt. (Interesting to note that the Utah state park guidebook changes that bad word to “heck.”)
Today, I just did the scenic drive around the park, stopping at the various viewpoints to look and photograph (I’ve taken more photos in the last two days than I usually take in two weeks), and tomorrow I’ll get out and do some hiking. They’ve already had a good fall of snow here, just a few days ago, so I’m glad the roads (and sky) are clear at the moment.
Anyway, I wanted to get this finished up and sent off to you, so I’ll shut up now. I hope things are not-too-bad with you, Joe, and now that I’m putting pieces of my new life together this way, I’m sure I’ll be more in touch in the months, and years, to come.
Over and out from the “Healing Road,” Highway 12 in Utah,
Your friend, NEP
On a long hike through a part of Bryce Canyon National Park called Fairyland Canyon, I walked down into the eroded sandstone walls and towers, between the sculptured pinnacles called “hoodoos,” all of them etched in a horizontal symmetry of colored strata. These individual elements of the scenery seemed more like works of art than of nature, and the landscape felt more like a museum. Among the comparisons that came to mind were Gaudí’s splendidly organic works in Barcelona, like the Sagrada Familia cathedral; the mud-mosques I had seen along the Niger River in Mali; the crumbling Greek ruins in Ephesus or the Parthenon; the Anasazi pueblos of New Mexico; the Foreign Legion fort in Beau Geste; the Valley of the Kings in Egypt; or perhaps something equally monumental, but unearthly, like a vision of Atlantis.
In a national park visitors center I had picked up a book called Desert Solitaire, by Edward Abbey, who had been a park ranger at Arches National Park in Utah during the ’50s, and I was deeply impressed by his essays and stories set in the high desert and canyon country of Utah and northern Arizona. He wrote of rafting and hiking through Glen Canyon on the Colorado just before it was flooded to become Lake Powell, and I began to understand some of what had been lost in the course of building the great dams. Then there were some of his human insights, such as this, “By the age of 40, a man is responsible for his face. And his fate.” Wanting to share this discovery with one friend who would surely understand, I immediately mailed Brutus a copy of Desert Solitaire, along with an anthology by various writers called A Desert
Reader.
Abbey referred often to Moab, a small town in eastern Utah located between two national parks, Arches and Canyonlands, and I decided to head up that way, passing through an amazing variety of landscapes in southeastern Utah, from prairie to lunar to redrock to high forest (9,400 feet) to sage and juniper, then up through Hanksville and around the Henry Mountains (the last-named in the U.S., I learned from a book about Major Powell’s exploration of the Colorado River I was reading, Beyond the Hundredth Meridian, by Wallace Stegner), to Moab, Utah.
Moab proved to be the perfect small town, at least by the Ghost Rider’s exacting criteria — those being that a town should have a decent motel, a good restaurant, a small museum of local history, a friendly post office, and a well-stocked liquor store. St. Helena, California, in the Napa Valley, had been my previous favorite, but Moab trumped it for its isolated and spectacular setting, its lack of crowds, traffic, and “Californicator” attitudes, and its feeling of being an oasis of culture in the middle of thousands of square miles of forbidding wilderness.
The Center Café, for example, was a totally unexpected treat to the palate of a jaded traveller, with its unpretentious elegance, sophisticated menu, and at least 20 different wines available by the glass. Then there was a fine little museum, open until eight at night, with displays of the area’s aboriginal life, geology, natural history, and pioneer and mining tales, and the nearby library too (with a display of first editions of Abbey’s books), which was open until nine.
Edward Abbey was obviously something of a local hero in Moab, for the local bookshop was called “Back of Beyond,” after a company owned by a character in his novel The Monkey Wrench Gang, in which (with typical humor and irreverence) Abbey introduced the concept of eco-terrorism, thought to have inspired real-life practitioners such as Earth First! Like many of the shops on the main street of Moab, which catered to visitors to the nearby national parks as well as world-renowned mountain bike trails and off-road vehicle tracks, Back of Beyond was open in the evening, and I enjoyed a leisurely after-dinner browse in its shelves. One whole rack of books was labeled “Abbey and Friends,” and I couldn’t resist buying a whole boxful of treasures to mail home from the friendly post office.
During my travels, I had often seen the chrome-plated plastic “fish,” a Christian emblem, affixed to the back of cars, and a few times I had been amused by a clever “evolutionist” variant in which the fish had little legs, with “Darwin” spelled out inside. (There were other variations in which a shark labeled “Jesus” was swallowing the Darwinian amphibian, with levels of irony perhaps unintended, and once I laughed out loud at the sight of one with “Gefilte” spelled out inside the fish.) I was mildly excited to finally find the Darwin ones for sale at Back of Beyond, and though tempted to stick one on the back of my luggage cases, I decided I didn’t want to give offense to any believers by trumpeting my “non-belief,” even though they might not show me the same courtesy.
The following morning I set out for a hike in Arches National Park under a steady, light rain. Sheltering under Navajo Arch for lunch, I put on my rain jacket and carried on. (Though I noted the melancholy atmosphere conveyed in the simple words, “rain in the desert.”)
The next day I rode the “scenic drive” around the Island in the Sky section of Canyonlands National Park, and the twisty road in was worth the trip alone. Still overcast, the prospect from Grand View Point was a little diminished, but never mind: there was the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers, the beginning of Cataract Canyon and the far-off, legendary Maze.
Mark and Deb were passing through Moab on their way north, and that night I visited them at the RV park, then agreed to meet up with them down in Monument Valley the following day. I was still waiting to hear what was going on with Brutus, staying in contact with his lawyer about the upcoming bail hearing, but there had been no news.
During a break in the Test For Echo tour, in the spring of ’97, Jackie and her long-time friend, Georgia, flew down to meet Brutus and me in Durango, Colorado, and we spent a few days travelling together through the Four Corners region: Brutus and me on our bikes, and the girls in a rented minivan. For the next few days I would be travelling some of those same roads, with the inevitable poignant memories.
Oct 24 Mexican Hat, Utah
Long way around yesterday, via Monticello, Dolores, Mexican Water, Bluff, Kayenta, and Monument Valley. Cloudy most of the way, even one brief shower. Tooth getting worse: infection, I now suspect, but of course it’s the weekend, in Mexican Hat!
Few drops of rain north of Blanding, where we four had breakfast that previous time, and just past the turnoff from Mexican Hat, where Brutus and I waited for the “lost minivan.” Gave me a pang, all along that road we had travelled together, feeling very sad approaching the San Juan Inn, and tears to find I’m in the same room Jackie and I stayed in. Ach.
Dinner last night at Goulding’s (mediocre) in Monument Valley with Deb and Mark, then nervous ride back. So dark out there. Awake until 2:00 a.m., finishing The Monkey Wrench Gang (excellent), then starting Desert Anarchist. Bufferins finally bring relief, and again this morning. Maybe head to Flagstaff, get treatment. Antibiotics, no doubt.
“Somewhere Down That Crazy River.” The San Juan River, in this case, hiking along the rimrock of the “Goosenecks” [high, meandering canyon], trackless but for occasional 4WD, ATV, or boot tracks. Trying to watch for rattlesnakes, and not walk on “cryptobiotic soil” (these National Park Service ranger signs and Abbey are having their effect on me).
Sitting here on canyon rim, in Goosenecks, silent but for whispering brown river far below (and the usual ringing in my drum-deafened ears!). Light breeze, pleasantly cool, few washes of white cloud here and there.
Hiking back with silhouettes of “monuments” above canyon, through quarry, old dump, gravel pit in distance. Came out from hike on cliff above hotel: scary. Crumbly red sandstone, and no apparent way down. But as usual, no going back!
If tooth remains quiescent, maybe try Page tomorrow. Rent a boat and look around Lake Powell, and the Glen Canyon that used to be there, before it was flooded. The Ghost Canyon.
Halloween decorations up here and last night. Second most “celebrated” event in America, Mark heard on the radio. After Super Bowl, I guess.
On a gloomy day of heavy rain I rode down into northern Arizona, then west through Black Mesa and the electric railroad which features in Edward Abbey’s The Monkey Wrench Gang, along with the huge coal power plant (called Navajo Scrubber Plant, or some such) right by Page, Arizona (“Shithead Capital of Coconino County,” according to Abbey). Circling the little town, which had grown up around the dam construction, I rode down the “Jesus Row” of big churches, then across the dam, where I parked to look at the lake and imagine the canyon as it must have been.
Discouraged by the continuing heavy rain and my nagging toothache, I thought I would head down to Flagstaff. The rain became biblical, the streets of the town were deeply awash, and I took refuge in a Hampton Inn by the Interstate, watching on the Weather Channel as they kept returning to “Stormwatch” and the big story of heavy rains in Flagstaff. (Yes, I know.)
A big wet blanket covered the whole Southwest, but Yuma showed sunny and 80°F. So, leaving early next morning, even as the rain turned gelid on my face shield and slushy gray on I-40, I headed down (elevation-wise) as fast as I could. A long stretch of old Route 66 had been bypassed by the interstate, thereby cutting off and effectively killing a series of towns from Seligman to Topock (the ultimate “Ghost Road”), and I turned onto that long loop, as lonely, scenic, and “entertaining” as I remembered it being when Brutus and I went that way in the spring of ’97.
The Sitgreaves Pass stretch was steep, winding, narrow, and rough, and I remembered reading that in the westward migration of the Great Depression, the Grapes of Wrath Okies had sometimes paid locals to drive their overloaded vehicles over that section, and some of the grades were so steep they had to be climbed
in reverse.
Then down past Lake Havasu, where I stopped near the “ghost bridge” — the original, actual London Bridge, bought, disassembled, shipped across the Atlantic, and reassembled in the Arizona desert by Robert McCullough, of the chainsaw family (who claimed the lake had been created to test his outboard motors).
After finally shedding my rain gear and under-layers, I rode south past scattered RVs parked in gravel washes, and “settlements” of them near the Interstate at Quartzsite, down and down to Yuma, Arizona, through stretches of farmland irrigated by the dregs of the Colorado (pretty much all of it siphoned off to the cities and irrigation projects of California, Arizona, and Nevada by that point).
Yuma had a nicely renovated old-town area, and I checked into a classic charter-member Best Western motel, the Coronado, built in the ’30s, with drive-up units under red tile roof, flowering bougainvillea, and open-air laundry machines under a breezeway. It seemed like a good place to stay an extra day, and take care of some chores.
Oct 27 Yuma
Busy day. Started with phone calls to Sheila, my “central liaison,” then Brutus’s lawyer (faxed “character reference” and “offer of employment”), then out to find oil change venue. Not easy! Couple of refusals, then bike shop reluctantly allows it: if I’m “time-efficient.” Man, what’s the big deal? Anyway, done.
Then visit museum in Territorial Prison (no prizes for guessing who I thought of there), send more finished books from post office, wander the main street area (still pretty dead), and the Century House museum. Lady there gives me more info than I could take in, but learned that Laguna Dam near here was first on Colorado, and that lettuce is flooded to keep soil cool, always planted in north-south rows, and fields are leveled with laser-guided machines. Also grow cabbage, broccoli, and cauliflower.