Part One-Encountering Woody
“One night Jerry got out of bed to go to the bathroom and he never returned. I looked everywhere and called the Sheriff and filed a missing person report, but he was gone. This is what he left behind.” Nora Crump opened the door to the old barn revealing a trailer with a shiny aluminum skin wrapped around an aerodynamic frame.
“Looks like it’s some sort of an Airstream trailer,” Ike said, hardly hiding his glee at the discovery.
“Jerry called it the Airmadillo, because it looks like an armadillo, but you can call it whatever you want. It's a one of a kind is all I can tell you and Jerry built it all by himself. Took him five years. When he retired we were going to use it to travel around the country, but a week after he finished he took off without it … or me. To tell you the truth I wasn’t all that interested in spending time with Jerry and me cooped up in a trailer … and I guess he wasn’t either.”
Ezra Beeman wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he didn’t. “You told me that you need to transport it to Seattle, Washington,” he said, stroking the cool metal with his right hand.
“Our son, Mike, put it up for sale on the Internet and a fellow in Seattle, Washington bought it. The problem is how to get it to him. I sure never thought when I mentioned it to you after Church that you and Ike would offer to deliver it for me.”
Neither did Ezra, but after Nora told him about the trailer he had started thinking. His annual vacation would begin in several days. As the pastor of Prairie Star Community Church he was entitled to a month’s vacation and study leave. In the past few years since Louise, his wife, had died, he would rent a cabin in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. His days would consist of fly fishing in Lake San Isabel or sitting on the cabin porch overlooking the lake reading, After a week he was bored with fishing and reading books that were full of answers to questions he no longer asked.
Just a month before, Ezra had preached his Easter sermon on the passage in the Gospel of Luke in which two disciples meet a stranger as they walked from Jerusalem to Emmaus after the crucifixion. They invite the stranger to spend the night with them and as they eat dinner with the stranger they realize he is the resurrected Jesus. As soon as he finished delivering his sermon Ezra realized that it was just an uninspired summation of what he’d read in the books from his library. It was the work of an armchair traveler who was only talking the walk. If the two disciples had only talked and not walked they would never have encountered Jesus. Towing the trailer to Seattle would get him out of his armchair and on to the road. Sure, he’d be driving not walking, but he could take the roads less traveled, byways rather than the super highways. And he could camp out, albeit inside an aluminum trailer rather than a canvas tent. There was one major problem - he would need a vehicle with a lot more horsepower than his ten year old Toyota Prius to tow the Airmadillo.
“You can use my pick-up truck to tow it,” Ike Elizondo, said after Ezra told his best friend about the trip and the problem he faced. “There’s only one hitch, though.”
“I’m only towing one trailer,” Ezra replied, wondering why Ike would think he needed another hitch.
“The one hitch is that I come with you,” Ike replied. You shouldn’t try to handle something like this by yourself. Driving that far on your own is enough of a challenge, but you have no experience towing a trailer. Besides, there’s nothing I’d like better than to go on a road trip with my best friend.”
Ezra quickly agreed. Telling himself that it wasn’t because Ike was right in his assessment of Ezra’s driving and towing capabilities, but because there had been two disciples not one on the road to Emmaus. A couple of days later they were in Ike’s pick-up with the “Airmadillo” hitched behind them. As they turned onto Highway 50 and headed west toward the mountains, Ezra pulled a copy of the Bible out of the knapsack at his feet.
“Reading the Bible,” Ike laughed. “Isn’t this supposed to be a vacation.”
“I don’t consider reading it as work. Anyway, this is a study leave as well as vacation and I’ve been on this stretch of highway as far as Pueblo enough times that I don’t think I’ll miss anything.”
“Any particular thing you’re studying?”
“The story in Luke about the two disciples meeting Jesus while walking on the road to Emmaus from Jerusalem.”
“This trip we’re on should help your studies since we’re two guys on a road trip, just like them. Of course, they were walking not driving, but they weren’t towing a trailer behind them like we are,” Ike chuckled. “By the way, I brought something to read while we’re on our road trip.”
“You’re not going to spend all your time fly fishing?”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure we’ll both have plenty of time for that. I just figured that since you’d be spending some of your time studying, this being your study leave as well as vacation, I should also bring something to read. I stopped at Bunch of Books in Picketwire and asked Harry Bunch if he could recommend a book I could read that would go with our road trip. He said he had just the book since it was about two guys traveling across country, so I bought it. If you open the glove compartment you can see what I bought.”
Ezra opened the glove compartment, shuffled through some papers and finally pulled out a paperback. He held it up, “Why, it’s On The Road by Jack Kerouac!”
“You’ve heard of it?” Ike said.
“I read it years ago when I was in college.”
“You said you read it when you were in college,” Ike said, shaking his head. “Harry said it was a used book but I didn’t know it was that used. No wonder he only charged me a buck.”
“It’s not only about two guys on a road trip, it’s considered a classic of the Beat Generation.”
“Beat as in beatniks and bongos,” Ike said, rhythmically thumping the steering wheel. “I tried playing bongos once at a party. Harder than they look.”
“I don’t recall any bongo playing in it, but, like I said, it’s been fifty years since I read it.”
“Hey, why don’t we both read it while we’re on the road. That’s when you aren’t studying and we’re not fly fishing and having whatever adventures we’re gonna have.”
Several hours later, Ezra had finished reading the passage in Luke, but his attempt at studious reflection was overpowered by the scenery as they followed the Arkansas River through the front range of the Rocky Mountains. After skirting Canon City, Ezra spotted a man walking along the side of the road above the churning river with his left arm out and thumb up. He was wearing a gray hoodie with a backpack and carrying a guitar case in his right hand.
“That fellow looks like he needs a ride really bad,” Ezra said.
“You’re not just in the passenger seat, but riding shotgun,” Ike replied as if they were in a stagecoach carrying a strongbox filled with gold. “That guy could be a desperado who’s escaped from the State Penitentiary back there in Canon City.”
“I don’t think any escapee would be carrying a guitar case and wearing a backpack.”
“Gangsters hide their submachine guns in guitar cases, but what the heck, we wanted an adventure.” Ike pulled off the road onto a sliver of gravel just wide enough for the pickup and trailer.
“Thank you kindly,” the man said through the front passenger side window that Ezra had rolled down. “I’ve been standing there for hours.” He had pulled back the hood of his sweatshirt revealing a thick beard and a mop of long black hair tied back in a ponytail.
“This is a bad spot for hitching,” Ezra replied. “Canon City back there is where the State Penitentiary is, so folks are afraid that a hitchhiker might be an escapee.”
“Most people hitching are escaping from something, but in my case it wasn’t from prison,” the man replied. “I was visiting someone who you could call a guest of the state. After my visit I got a ride from downtown Canon City, but the fellow who picked me up let me off here.”
“He was only going this far?”
“He didn’t say where he was going, but wherever it was he didn’t want me along for the ride.”
“Who knows, he might have just escaped from prison, stole the car and picked you up because he figured they wouldn’t be looking for two people.” Ike said with a chuckle.
“If that’s the case I’m glad he let me get back to hitching. I don’t have time to be a hostage, because I’m supposed to be in Crested Butte tonight.”
“That’s where you’re going?” Ezra asked.
“Yeah, I’ve got a gig tonight at a bar there called the Rowdy Roost.”
“Crested Butte’s about thirty miles north of Gunnison, which is down the road about a hundred and twenty miles from here,” Ike said. “More like up and down since we have to go over Monarch Pass. We can drop you off in Gunnison and you can get a ride up there. Just hop in the back. Not outside in the truck bed, but in the back seat. It's a bit cramped so feel free to spread your legs on the seat. You can put your backpack and guitar in the truck bed. Whoever came up with the name crew cab must have been thinking of a crew of pygmies.”
The man threw his pack in the truck bed, but kept the guitar case. “I’d prefer to keep Woody with me.”
“Who’s Woody?” Ezra asked
“Woody is the name of my guitar,” he replied, placing it carefully on the back seat then climbing in next to it. “I named it after Woody Guthrie. You know him?”
“Sure,” Ezra said. “He was a great folk singer. Is that what you are?”
“I call myself a folk singer, but I don’t claim to be great.”
“Why don’t you play something for us on that guitar you call Woody and we can decide for ourselves?” Ike suggested, the grin on his face reflected in the rearview mirror.
“Sure, I’ve played smaller places than this for fewer people, and you’re giving me a free ride.”
“Just think of it as playing in the cab part of a cabaret.”
After he stopped laughing, the hitchhiker asked if they had any special requests.
“Since we’ve been talking about Woody Guthrie, how about This Land is Your Land?” Ezra suggested.
“That happens to be my favorite song of his. You know he wrote it after he finished hopping trains and hitching across America. He was tired of hearing ‘God Bless America’ being played constantly on the radio. The song is a protest against that holier than thou patriotism and the inequality in terms of land and wealth that he saw on his journey. Most people don’t know that two of the verses he wrote weren’t included when he recorded the song in 1951 because they were considered too critical of the capitalist system. Without them the whole protest part of the song is lost. In fact, they’re called the ‘lost verses’.”
“We sure won’t protest you singing them,” Ike said.
“Okay,” He said and proceeded to sing the verses a cappella.
“There was a big high wall there that tried to stop me
The sign was painted, it said ’Private Property’
But on the backside it didn’t say nothing,
That side was made for you and me.”
“And the second one is:
One bright sunny morning in the shadow of the steeple,
By the relief office I saw my people.
As they stood hungry,
I stood there wondering if God blessed
America for me.”
“I can see why they deleted them from the recording back in 1951,” Ezra said when the man finished. “It would have been recorded when Senator Joe McCarthy was leading his anti-communist witch hunt. I hope you include both verses when you sing it.”
“And, by the way,” Ike said. “Before you start singing we should introduce ourselves. I’m Ike Elizondo and this is Ezra Beeman. We’re from a little town in southeast Colorado called Beulah Crossing. And you are???”
“I’m Johnny Carducci, and I’m from a big city in Maryland called Baltimore,” the guy said. as he took out his guitar, plucked the strings a few times to get them in tune and then started singing. Ezra and Ike joined in on the chorus. When the song was over, the truck’s cab fell silent.
“I’d give you a standing ovation, but since I’m driving we’d end up in the river,” Ike said, nodding his head toward the Arkansas River on their right. Gorged by the run-off from mountain snow it rushed past just below the highway’s shoulder spraying water into the air as it smashed against the rocks that were unable to block its path. It was hard to believe that it was the same muddy river that flowed sluggishly through the prairie near Beulah Crossing.
“Look there, some folks shooting the rapids,” Johnny shouted as an inflated raft with half a dozen people paddling like mad careened over the frothy rapids in the opposite direction. “Now that’s what I call rocking and rolling.”
“Didn’t somebody say you can’t stand in the same river twice?” Ike asked.
“It was the Greek philosopher, Heraclitus,” Ezra replied. “He said that no man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.”
Ike slapped the steering wheel with his right hand and laughed. “I’ll tell you what, if a man stepped into the river right here it would be their first and last time.”
Johnny strummed on his guitar and sang the first stanza of Bob Dylan’s Blowin’ in the Wind, only he substituted “flowing in the river” for the chorus.
“Say, how about some coffee?” Ike said, and without waiting for a reply pulled off the road and parked next to a food truck with the name “Ed’s Eats” on it. They got out and walked over to the serving window where a woman in thirties leaned out and greeted them with a big smile.
“Where’s Ed?” Ike asked.
“I’m Ed,” the woman replied. “Short for Edith, but I prefer Ed and, besides, Ed’s Eats has a better ring to it.”
They ordered three coffees and returned to the truck. After they pulled out Ezra asked Johnny why he was visiting the State Prison.
“It’s not exactly a tourist attraction,” Ike added, sipping his coffee with his right hand while steering with his left.
“I’ve been corresponding with an inmate and decided I should visit him on my way through. Turns out I’m the only visitor he’s had since he was incarcerated.”
“Pen pals, huh,” Ike chuckled.
“I don’t know that we’re pals. It’s more of a professional relationship. Not the criminal profession but folk singing. The guy is a folk and blues singer. I met him when he was performing at a folk club.”
“Do you mind if I ask you why this fellow is serving time?” Ezra asked.
“His name is Wadell Wheeler but he performs under the name ‘Wailing Wade’ - sort of like the famous blues singer, ‘Howling Wolf.’ Wade was traveling across the country with a twelve string guitarist who went by the name of Freddie Fingers, playing various bars and nightspots. On their way to Crested Butte where they had a gig at some blues bar they got into an argument. Actually, they’d been arguing ever since they left Baltimore. It was so bad that Freddie told Wade to get out of the car and walk to Crested Butte. Wade got out and started walking, but it was getting dark and this was in the winter so it was really cold, and then if that wasn’t bad enough it started snowing. He saw some lights, but when he got closer the snow was coming down so hard he could hardly see anything clearly. Somehow he found a house, which they call a ski chalet. There weren’t any lights on and nobody answered when he knocked on the door so he turned the handle and it opened. He went inside just to get out of the blizzard. Unfortunately, there was a security camera outside the house that was monitored by the resort’s security company. A guard found Wade and he was arrested. He didn’t steal anything, he just wanted shelter from the blizzard outside. And that’s how he ended up in prison.”
“I don’t understand how being arrested for trespassing would get him a prison sentence,” Ike said. “The most he should get would be a few days in the County Jail.”
“Unfortunately for Wade there had been some other break-ins at the resort and they decided to pin them all on him, even though they didn’t have a shred of evidence. He couldn’t afford to hire a lawyer and the public defender was overworked and underpaid. When Wade refused to cut a deal for a reduced sentence his lawyer pretty much gave up on him. Wade decided that he was going to be convicted no matter what so he asked to testify. After he was sworn in to tell the truth he told them he was going to sing the truth. The prosecutor objected but the judge ruled there was nothing in the law that said a witness couldn’t sing his testimony. After the ruling, Wade sang Bob Dylan’s song ‘Hurricane’ about the boxer Rubin ‘Hurricane’ Carter, who was a Black man like Wade, and wrongly convicted of murder. When Wade was done the jury applauded his singing, but they still declared him guilty and the judge said he was a hell of singer, but he had no choice but to sentence him to three years in prison. He’s served one year.”
Ike shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“It was in the local paper. I got a copy of it if you want to read it.”
“No, we believe the story.”
“I just wish I’d been there to hear him sing ‘Hurricane’ as his testimony,” Johnny said. “There couldn’t have been a better place and time to sing a protest song.”
“I haven’t heard that song ‘Hurricane’ since Bob Dylan recorded it,” Ezra said. “That was way back in the seventies. There were a lot of protest songs then.”
“He recorded it in 1975. If you want I can sing it for you. I don’t get much chance to sing it, because it’s over eight minutes long. It’s not going to be as good as Wade singing it.”
“It’s not like we’ll have a chance to hear him sing it anytime soon,” Ike said. “So let’er rip.”
“That’s some song,” Ezra said when Johnny finished nine minutes later.
“Pretty good singing as well,” Ike said.
“What’s the name of this exclusive resort where Wade was arrested?” Ezra asked.
“Wade said it’s called Paradise Lake. I figure I’ll go by it on my way to Crested Butte.”
“Hey, we could give you a ride up there. They should have a campground or trailer park near there where we can spend the night in our airmadillo.”
“I appreciate it. What’s an airmadillo?”
“It’s what we call the thing hitched behind us,” Ezra said. “We’re delivering it to Seattle for a friend of ours who sold it to somebody there. Our friend’s late husband built it himself.”
Ike laughed, “She calls it an airmadillo because it looks sort of like a cross between an Airstream and an armadillo.”
“And you’re towing this airmadillo all the way to Seattle?”
“Eventually,”. Ike said. “The trailer doesn’t have to be delivered there until the end of the month so we’re taking our time. I own a sheep ranch, but I’m semi-retired and my oldest son has taken over most of the work. He’d probably do less work if I was fully retired and wasn’t in his way. Me being on this road trip is probably a vacation for him as well. As for my friend, Ezra, he gets a month every year for a vacation and study leave.” Ike chuckled and added, “Although he mainly studies fly fishing. But Jesus’ disciples were fishermen, so I guess it’s something a preacher needs to study.”
“You’re a preacher?”
“I like to think of myself more as a pastor than a preacher.”
“Pastor comes from the Latin word for shepherd and that means Ezra and I are in the same line of work. Right Ezra?” Ike said, slapping Ezra on the back so hard that he spat out some of his coffee.
“Why did you decide to go out on the road?” Ezra asked Johnny as he used a napkin to wipe away the drops of coffee that had splattered on the dashboard.
“I’m twenty and that’s a year older than Bob Dylan was when he left Minnesota to be a folksinger in New York City. The truth is, how can I sing and write folk songs when I’m just a kid who grew up in the Baltimore suburbs and lived my whole life with my parents, even when I went to college? That’s why a week after I graduated from college I hit the road with nothing but a backpack and my guitar. That was three weeks ago. I’m not in a hurry since I don’t have any particular destination in mind.”
“How do you feel about being on the road so far?”
“I feel like a rolling stone. Of course, Bob Dylan already wrote ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ about what that feels like.”
“People have been writing and singing about what that feels like since they left the caves,” Ike said.
“Since the Stone Age,” Johnny laughed.
“You bet and just like that philosopher fellow we were talking about awhile back said …”
“Heraclitus,” Ezra said.
“Yeah, that fellow. Each time they wrote down their experience …”
“They didn’t have writing back in the Stone Age, Ike.”
“Well, whatever they drew on the wall of the caves, Ezra, or maybe they just sang it and skipped the drawing part. The point I’m trying to make is that each time a person writes or sings or draws something they’ve experienced it different than what somebody else did and, not only that, it’s different than what they’ve done before because they’re different. I mean, if they were just repeating the same thing they’d have bored themselves to death and the whole human race would have become extinct.” Ike said. “Been on the road for less than a day and I’m already philosophizing stuff.”
Four hours later hours later they had passed through Gunnison and were on the road north on State Highway 135 to Crested Butte, which sat at the base of the towering mountains that filled the truck’s windshield.
Ike slowed down when he saw a sign for Paradise Lake and turned off. They crossed a bridge over the East River and followed the road through meadows of wildflowers until they reached a faux Swiss alpine village with several ski lifts climbing the slope of the mountain behind it.
Just before entering the village they passed by a small, man-made body of water. “Not much of a lake” Ike said.
“There’s some people fly fishing in it.”
“They’re like models in a fly fishing fashion show,” Ike snorted. “I bet that pond is stocked with designer trout that are selected based on how good they look on a hook.”
When they approached the village a sign informed them that only the vehicles of residents and their guests were allowed inside Paradise Lake and everyone else had to use the Visitor Parking Lot and register at the front gate for permission to enter, A long bar extended across the entry drive to block the entrance and next to it was a gatehouse.
“I guess that’s the Paradise Lake version of Heaven’s Pearly Gate,” Ike said.
“I don’t think that their version of St. Peter is going to find our names in the book he looks at to decide who gets admitted,” Ezra replied.
“That means we’ll just have to park over here in the purgatory parking lot,” Ike chuckled and steered them into the visitor parking lot.
After they parked they sat in the truck looking at the gate. The guard left the gatehouse and walked toward the nearest building.
“Looks like St. Peter is taking a coffee break,” Ike said.
Suddenly Johnny said, “Now’s my chance. You two stay here, I need to do this on my own,” then added, “You should keep your motor running.” He climbed out of the back seat and sprinted toward the gate with Woody, his guitar, strapped to his back.
They looked through the front windshield at Johnny as he squeezed past the bar at the gate and into the village. There was a row of shops built in the same alpine architecture as the rest of the village that fronted the lake. The shops looked like they were mostly boutiques. There were also a restaurant and a coffee shop that were next to each other. On the patios outside customers were seated at the tables enjoying the view. The main street continued past the downtown of the village and up the slope behind it, winding its way past chalets set in manicured meadows of wildflowers.
Johnny stopped in front of the restaurant and coffeeshop and swung his guitar around into playing position.
“Why, it looks like he’s going to sing something,” Ezra said.
“I don’t think he’s expecting any tips,” Ike replied.
Johnny was now playing Woody and singing, but Ezra and Ike could only hear a few unintelligible snippets carried by the breeze. As Johnny kept playing and singing people stood up from where they were seated at the coffee shop and restaurant and began waving their arms and shouting. Two security guards approached him and he stopped playing, slid his guitar on its strap around to his back and began to run. Johnny vaulted over the bar of the security gate at the entrance and ran to the truck, opened the back door, dropped Woody onto the back seat, slid in and slammed the door shut. The two guards stopped on the other side of the gate and yelled at them.
“i can’t make out what they’re yelling,” Ezra said.
“I think they’re telling us to go to hell,” Ike said, shifting into Drive.
“Now I know why you wanted us to keep the truck’s engine running,” Ezra said, after they were back on the road heading away from Paradise Lake. “And why you wanted us to stay in the truck. Our sprinting and hurdling days are long gone.”
“Mind if I ask you what you sang that upset them so much that those security guards chased you out,” Ike asked.
“This Land Is Your Land. They seemed to be enjoying it until I got to the lost verses. I stopped playing my guitar so they’d be sure to hear what I was singing. I also added Paradise Lake before the words Private Property. That’s when they realized what I was protesting,”
“And called out the guards,” Ike said.
“First time I’ve gotten bounced from my own performance,” Johnny laughed.
“I’m just sorry that we weren’t close enough to hear you perform it,” Ezra said.
“As a matter of fact, you’re both invited to hear me perform it tonight at the Rowdy Roost in Crested Butte. I’m going to introduce it by telling the audience about Wade’s experience in Paradise Lake.”
“You should also tell them about going back and singing the Woody Guthrie song with the forgotten verses as a way to protest what happened to Wade.”
“And how you escaped with those guards chasing you,” Ike added.
“Helped by my two unwitting accomplices,” Johnny said, strumming Woody’s strings.
“I think we’re pretty witty accomplices,” Ezra replied.
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