Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road

by Neil Peart

  About 40 bikes from “Iron Horse Tours” in parking lot, mostly cruisers: Harleys, Hondas, one [BMW] R1200C. Am I jealous of their companionship? On reflection, no. Prefer being solo saddletramp.

  Oh yeah — tooth got better, by itself! Life is good . . .

  [Letter to Brutus]

  Oct. 30, ’98 Bisbee, AZ

  Hey Puddle-Jumper!

  For a week now I’ve been putting off this letter, having heard there was a bail hearing coming up. Well, I called Bloomenfeld [the Toronto lawyer] from a payphone in the middle of Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument yesterday, only to hear that the judge had “suspended judgement.” Well, that’s enough: I’m going to write you a ding-dong letter, and see what happens later! Wouldn’t want you to feel neglected . . .

  In any case, I guess that’s good news (from what I’ve learned from “Law and Order” anyway). Basically, “I’ll think about it,” no? Today I was thinking that you usually have enough bad luck to get into bad situations, but enough good luck to get out of them. So far, anyway. My hopes are with you this time.

  So, what brings me to the bustling burg of Bisbee? I thought you’d never ask . . .

  [Recap of my travels as far as Yuma]

  Heading east from Yuma on I-8, this half-familiar motorcycle appeared behind me, black with protruding hard bags, headlight on bright, and riding in proper, staggered formation for 100 miles to Gila Bend. It reminded me of someone I used to ride with, but alas, I wasn’t fooled. Just another Ghost Rider.

  South of Why, and just west of Gunsight (the day before I passed Nothing, Arizona — love it!), I decided to check out Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, and ended up camping for two nights there. After two months of carrying tent and sleeping bag, it was finally warm enough, for one thing, and there was a general store and café five miles down the road in Lukeville, on the Mexican border (otherwise known — and signed — as Gringo Pass), so I went for it. I nabbed one of the few shady sites, under a mesquite and a palo verde tree, and set myself up among the saguaro, organ pipe, cholla, ocotillo, prickly pear, and creosote. I rode the 20-mile scenic loop around the eastern section of the park, on a classic desert road (gravel, sand, rocky wash), picked up bread, cold meat, and cheese in Gringo Pass, walked the trail around the campground as the sun went down to leave a bright half moon, stars, planets, a passing satellite, and a few lingering jets from the Air Force base (the Barry M. Goldwater Range).

  Up for the sunrise next morning, I rode down to Gringo Pass for breakfast (past about 100 border-patrol SUVs), then did an eight-mile hike to the abandoned Victoria mine, walking along and naming all the newly learned cacti and shrubs. Great birdwatching too, with many found only in that part of the Sonora desert.

  Early Next Morning Still Bisbee

  So, having used up my on-hand oil filter in Yuma, I noted the address of the BMW dealer in Tucson, thinking to stop by if it “crossed my path.” Fortunately it did, for I got to talking to a couple of the guys there, and when I told them I was thinking of heading north to Canyon de Chelly, one guy says it’s snowing up there, everywhere above 7,000 feet, and raining everywhere else.

  Nothing if not flexible, I said, “Well, maybe I’ll go to Tombstone instead,” and the other guy offered, “Yeah, go down through Tombstone to Bisbee and stay at the Copper Queen.” So I did.

  You can imagine that Tombstone is pretty much a “theme park,” with regularly scheduled “Gunfights at the OK Corral” and people dressed as cowboys and music-hall girls standing around the covered boardwalks. But still, stuff actually happened there, so it carries a certain amount of conviction, especially on a cool, overcast day with a gusty wind blowing dust through the street. And what do I hear just as I’m parking my bike in front of the saloon? “Ghost Riders in the Sky.”

  I don’t know if I told you or not, but that’s been the title of my [imaginary] “book” lately — and me. “Ghost Rider.” Literally and metaphorically, I feel a bit of a ghost drifting around the West; I sure carry some ghosts with me (you among them; no offence!), and so often I find myself following the ghostly trails of Jack London, Hemingway, Edward Abbey, Major Powell, or even places like Telegraph Creek: a real live (or dead) ghost town. Sometimes it’s me who’s not real; sometimes it’s the rest of the world, but either way I always feel a sense of “alienation” toward everybody and everything.

  Even this place fits. Bisbee was once the largest mining town in the world, with 20,000 people, and the Copper Queen hotel, built around 1903, was its centerpiece. Now I might compare it to that Hotel La Fonda we stayed at in Taos, slightly funky and clinging to a faded past, like the town (like me!). Set in a narrow valley at 5,000 feet, it’s supposed to have the best year-round climate in Arizona, and so attracts enough visitors, along with some retirees and the kiss-of-death “artists’ community” (that would be aged hippies, I imagine), to keep it going. A ghost town for a ghost rider.

  What’s that line from “Aquarius,” “mystic crystal revelations”? Yeah man, that’s it . . .

  If I can ever do as Jonny Bealby did [in Running With the Moon, the tale of a motorcycle journey across Africa as a kind of desperate therapy following the death of his fiancée], and crystallize these mystic revelations into a book, that title would make a fine sequel to The Masked Rider. But we’ll see about that. More and more often these days I feel pangs of homesickness, and would love to be sitting at my computer and looking out at late autumn on Lac St. Brutus, but . . . not yet. I’m still determined to hang in until Christmas (or hang out, or hang on), and another good thing which emerged from my visit to “Iron Horse” in Tucson (BMW, Triumph, and MZ) was learning that it would be no problem to store my bike there, which might make a good “gateway” from Mexico.

  And maybe by that time I’ll be able to see your ugly mug. I really don’t want to see you there (in several senses), though of course if this nonsense stretches out too long I’ll come visit, but I don’t think it will be nice. The last time we got together in Quebec makes a better memory to hang onto, for me anyway.

  But we’ll see what comes down, and of course I will visit the great El Cuervo anywhere, if he wishes it. Even . . . there . . .

  Same with the phone; if you want to talk to me on that cursèd instrument (an angelic harp to you!), just say the word. For now I’m okay talking to you this way, and I wouldn’t want our conversation to be warped or stilted by “circumstances,” or surroundings. But as people had to do for me during my tribulations, I’ll follow your lead, Buddy-boy.

  I’d certainly like to hear from you, if you’ve got the time (ha-ha), but that too is up to you. I read once that Thomas Jefferson received a letter from a friend complaining that he had nothing interesting to report, and old Tom told him, “Just tell me about the events passing daily under your eyes.” So yeah, I’d like to hear about what you do in a day, what you can do, any characters you’ve encountered, what you’re reading (Georgia told me about you hanging around the law books — good idea! You could probably get a lawyerin’ job in Tarawnna!), and all like that. Sheila gets mail to me fairly regularly, and I would love to hear from you. Or maybe when the judge is finished “reserving judgement,” we’ll be able to get you out of there, and I can talk to you like a “normal” person. Whatever, I’m here for you, buddy!

  Oct. 31 Socorro, NM

  Or I’m here for you. Or somewhere. Anyway, I’m there for you.

  And a Happy Halloween to you. Hey, what you going out as? Ha.

  Early today I passed a place in eastern Arizona called Skeleton Canyon, and a sign pointed out that Geronimo, “the last of the hostiles,” had surrendered there. Stories and more stories, everywhere I go, and most of them “ghost stories,” fittingly.

  I was thinking today that it’s impossible to really write about these areas, or to know them, without a lot of study. The West is so darn complicated, you know — with interwoven political conflicts over water, mining, logging, rangeland, and Indian reserves.

  This afternoon, th
reatened by thunderstorms and hail, I made it here to the Super 8 Motel, next door to K-Bob’s Steakhouse, after a nice long ride of 703 kms (439 miles). (Odometer now at 88928 [55,580], for 31821 [19,888] on this odyssey.)

  At 6,000 and 7,000 feet most of the way, it was also darn cold, but some splendid scenery through the Gila National Forest, and the Very Large Array [radiotelescope dishes] just west of here. Tomorrow I hope to check out the Trinity Site, if I can get in there, then mosey over toward Roswell, to tie together the Outer Space connection with Rachel and the Extraterrestrial Highway.

  The next day, I’ll be heading for Santa Fe to meet up with Alex and Liam for a few days, and I’m looking forward to that; not least to being in somebody’s home for the first time since Vancouver, six weeks ago. (Deb and Mark’s RV doesn’t count.) Not that I’m not at home in the Super 8, you understand, but . . . you understand.

  Anyway, time to wind this epistle to a close. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than read my drivel all the ding-dong day! And if not, why, I’ll write again soon! I’ve got a copy of The Monkey Wrench Gang to send you, and as soon as I get to another bookstore, I’ll send you some other good stuff. Santa Fe should have something. Meanwhile, I’ll enclose another couple hundred cruzeiros for your dining and dancing pleasure, and just let me know if there’s anything else I can send for you, or do for you. I remain,

  Your obedient servant The Ghost Rider . . .

  Before setting out on this journey, and along the way, I had jotted down the names of any places I might like to see — whether a geographical feature like Devil’s Tower, Wyoming (never did get there), Bonneville Salt Flats, a car museum, the Grand Coulee Dam, or Jack London State Park — and in my map case I carried that list of various places of “Americana” which might cross my path — or come within 1000 miles, realistically.

  The Very Large Array of radio telescopes was on that list, and as I rode across the high plateau of the Plains of San Agustin in New Mexico, the miles of white dishes, angled symmetrically to the storm-clouded sky, were a dramatic sight.

  Roswell, New Mexico, was on that list too, as the alleged scene of a UFO crash in the late ’40s which gave birth to the UFO craze, as well as a series of conspiracy-theory books and made-for-TV movies about the incident. Since adolescence, I had been attracted by the romance of such tales of the mysterious and supernatural, but the museum, a former cinema, was ultimately disappointing to a would-be convert; it only documented the history of the story, and there wasn’t a single piece of real evidence. (I know, I know — the government stole it all . . .)

  Another scenic attraction on my list was White Sands National Monument, and its dunes of pure white gypsum powder were spectacular under the desert sun. Riding along the blinding white roads, with banks plowed to the side, I couldn’t escape the illusion that I was riding on a snowy road in Quebec: most disconcerting on a two-wheeler.

  A fitting end to my travels on the high desert, and indeed to this phase of my solitary quest, was a stay in Santa Fe. Alex and his wife, Charlene, had a house there, and he and I had arranged to meet for a few days in early November. It also happened that our long-time friend and tour manager, Liam, was on his way home from a tour of Japan with another band, so he agreed to stop off there too.

  Liam’s professional relationship with Rush was difficult to define, for it was so wide-ranging and crucial. Formally, he was the band’s tour manager, as well as the executive producer of our recording projects (both jobs might be simply stated as the responsibility for getting everyone and everything in the right place at the right time — with all that can entail), and he was also a close friend to all of us. (In fact, he was married to Sharyn, Jackie’s friend since her teens.)

  Liam had actually been with the band longer than I had (before I joined, Geddy and Alex had played together for six years as Rush, with another drummer), and over the years of our ascent from nowhere to somewhere, success-wise, he had worked his way up from second-in-a-crew-of-two to the quiet, but absolute, president of an on-the-road crew that numbered more than 50 stage technicians, sound mixers, light-show electricians, rear-screen projection operators, riggers, and truck and bus drivers.

  Along with Sheila, Liam had perhaps done the most to hold my life together through the past 14 months of hell, for he was so knowledgeable about “how to work the world.” When I needed flights to England and hotel rooms for Jackie and me and Brad and Rita, it was Liam I called. When I needed to find grief counselling for Jackie in London, it was Liam I called. And more; he was also one of those I called when I was just feeling lost and lonely.

  In every way, it was so nice to be in someone’s home again, for the first time since my stay with Danny and Janette in Vancouver. After another two months of motels, gas stations, and restaurants in a world full of strangers, I was able to relax with two of my best friends, a real fireplace to play with, Alex’s legendary cooking, shared stories from our respective adventures, a few excursions around Santa Fe and up to the Anasazi ruins at Bandelier National Monument, and sleeping in a lovely guest room with good sheets and pillows.

  Inevitably, I would have to pay for this interlude by suffering yet another attack of the “visitor syndrome,” after I left there to ride on alone while Alex and Liam flew home to rejoin their lives and families. But while it lasted, I surrendered to the warmth of companionship and the feeling of being cared for by good friends.

  I turn my back to the wind

  To catch my breath, before I start off again

  Driven on, without a moment to spend

  To pass an evening with a drink and a friend

  I let my skin get too thin

  I’d like to pause, no matter what I pretend

  Like some pilgrim, who learns to transcend

  Learns to live as if each step was the end

  TIME STAND STILL, 1987

  Chapter 8

  LETTERS TO BRUTUS

  We are islands to each other

  Building hopeful bridges on the troubled sea

  ENTRE NOUS, 1979

  One evening in Santa Fe when Liam, Alex, and I were sitting around the kitchen table drinking and telling stories, the telephone rang. I had been trying to reach Brutus’s lawyer all afternoon, and when Alex handed me the phone I hoped it would be Mr. Bloomenfeld with some good news. But what I heard coming out of that receiver was the voice of the man himself, and the familiar salutation, “Hey, buddy, how ya doin’?”

  Surprised, delighted, tongue-tied, and moved, I let him talk for a few minutes, then was able to ask him a few questions about how he was getting along (surprisingly well), his legal situation (unclear as yet), and if there was anything else I could do for him (send more books). He was definitely the same old Brutus, cheerful and optimistic (at least for those few minutes on the phone), and just speaking to him, hearing his voice, made me feel better, and much closer to him again.

  After I said goodbye to Alex and Liam on a rainy morning in Santa Fe, heading vaguely west again, I passed through three dark, lonely days. The only thing that seemed to keep my spirits up enough to keep me moving forward (if that could be said to be my actual direction) was that more and more I began to see the journey through the eyes of Brutus. Despite the grimness of his situation, somehow things still looked brighter through his eyes than through mine (at least the way I saw it; he might not have agreed).

  On the phone in Santa Fe, Brutus had said something like, “You just get out there and ride for me,” and I told him I would, but if it was true that Brutus was living vicariously through me, in a way I was doing the same with him — riding along every day, thinking about what I was seeing and feeling and how I was going to write it to him. From then on, much of my story would be told to Brutus, in a series of letters that I thought about all day while I rode across the West, then wrote down while I sat drinking a glass of The Macallan in my motel room, or the bar, or at a table for one in a restaurant. My whole life became a letter to Brutus.

  Nov. 13
, ’98 Furnace Creek Inn Death Valley, CA

  Hey Fender Bender!

  If that dateline isn’t torture enough for you, I’ll add that I’m having a frozen margarita on the upper terrace, facing the salt pans, the chocolate-colored Panamints and their mocha-colored alluvial fans, and the setting sun in a wispy-clouded sky.

  Should I shut up now? Hell, no. I’m alone and fairly miserable, and it’s all your fault! Well, maybe not all, but you know what I mean. You’re supposed to be here, making me have fun, instead of languishing there with all your new friends.

  Anyway, I’m glad to be here for a couple of nights, for I’ve been having some pretty nasty days lately. The week in Santa Fe was nice all right, but as Jackie and I used to find in London, it was great having friends visit, but worse when they were gone. I pulled out of there on Monday morning feeling low, fragile, and dispirited, and was immediately hit by cold rain, fog, nasty crosswinds, construction through Albuquerque, and even heavy flakes of wet snow, blinding and worrisome “under-wheel.” Down I-25 (getting south as fast as I could!) the snow went away, but the crosswinds were deadly, especially while passing trucks, and where I bypassed old Las Cruces to Deming, the cold rain grew ever worse. I hunkered down in Lordsburg for the night, weepy and lost (at an exceedingly mediocre Best Western and neighboring restaurant, “Kranberry’s”), and carried on next morning (sunny at least, though still cold and fiercely windy) to Tucson for an oil change with my buddies there.

  I had a route carefully mapped to miss the sprawl of stinky Phoenix (Abbey’s “the blob that ate Arizona”), but 50 miles out of Tucson my speedometer died. Hating to turn back, I carried on north to the dealer in Phoenix and convinced a reluctant service manager to fix it (“can’t get to it today,” “everybody’s booked up,” “haven’t got one in stock,” the usual). In my usual shy and retiring way, I settled in to wait him out, and suggested he might have a GS around he could take one off. (Why doesn’t this ever occur to these guys first? You can tell they’ve never been parts manager for a farm equipment dealer, like I was for my Dad, where you have to get your customers going now!) So, a few hours later, I was again hunkered down in a mediocre Best Western, just west of Phoenix (had to get out, at least). Next day, rain and cold again, as I headed into that mysterious part of southeastern California (the Colorado Desert, officially), with irrigated farmland almost from the Colorado to the Imperial Valley, and an impressive stretch of sand dunes, the Algodones Dunes.