Chapter 3: Thumbs Up to Taos

Tumbleweeds and never-ending flatness paint the background along Highway 14, the Turquoise Trail.  Terry, who’s been my host for two nights outside Santa Fe, drops me off on the shoulder.  Only 117 miles to Taos. 
 
I pose with my thumb up and a cardboard sign.  Terry gets his fancy camera.      “Let me take one last photo of you—with your skin still on.”
 
“Tell my parents I love them,” I reply, overly sentimental.  It’s a joke.  Sorta.
 
“Don’t worry, I’ve had couch surfers do this before.  And besides, no epic cross- country journey is complete without a hitchhiking episode.”
 
He’s right.  It’s the open road. 
 
Guthrie. 
 
Kerouac.
 
If name-dropping doesn’t work, I can fend off any ax murderers with the bear mace Terry gave me. 
   
I flip the sign over.  I scrawl Santa Fe, in black.  I hold it up, showing off my artwork. 
 
“A round-trip ticket,” Terry says with a smile.

***
 
Terry is from the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  He’s like a beachcomber who got stranded in Santa Fe.  He spends his days making mosaics of fish, using caps from beer bottles.     
 
“They remind me of the ocean,” he says. 
 
He’s got thousands of toppers, tubs and tubs of them.  Even Sherlock Holmes would conclude Terry was an alcoholic. 
 
“I was a brewer professionally for ten years, and worked in bars before that.”  He sifts through the buckets, creating two separate piles of gold Newcastle and green Heineken caps.  “All these are from years of collecting.”
 
Terry gave it all up and moved to a city full of artists.  Santa Fe comes in second for sculpture sales in the United States, right after New York. 
 
But I wonder if it was worth it.  Terry gazes out his workshop window, his eyes following an imaginary shore break.  No palm trees here.  Just cactus.  No crashing surf.  Just heat waves. 
 
“You know, Honey still hasn’t forgiven me,” he says, reaching down to pet his furry mix of Chow and Golden Retriever.  Her tongue is unfurled onto the pueblo floor.  The house, which is at least fifteen degrees cooler than outside, is still like a sauna.  Honey stares at me, listlessly. 
 
“But Buddy didn’t mind the move,” Terry chuckles.  “A desert is just as good as a beach to him.”  
 
I look around the workshop.  “Where is he, anyway?”
 
“Buddddeeeyyyyyy!!”  Terry bellows the name of his other dog, amplifying the sound with his hands.
 
I hear tap-dancing down the long hall.  Suddenly, the little wiener barrels around the corner.  He charges at full speed, as fast as his stumpy legs will allow.
 
The hot dog has too much momentum.  His big ears flare like parachutes, but it’s too late.  He crashes into me. 
   
***
 
Do I smile when I do this?  No, maybe not.  That doesn’t make me look tough enough.  Don’t want to look naive, either.  But I don’t want to look too dangerous.  Then no one will pick me up.  What if I just wave?  Maybe a little dance?  
 
I continue walking backward along the highway, thumb in the air. 
 
A chick in a red Ferrari convertible comes over the hill.  Please, pick me up. 
 
No luck.  She zooms past. 
 
A rusty Ford truck is next.  Eh, maybe not.  I hide my sign. 
 
Whew.  That was a close one.
 
I feel the noon sun cooking my skin.  This is the only way I’m going to make it to Taos, the town where Pueblo Indians have lived in multi-story adobe buildings for more than 1000 years. 
 
I turn around and walk down the desert highway, my back to the traffic.  Off to my right, up a hill, I see formidable-looking walls.  Barbed wire lines the tops. 
 
I remember what Pop once told me: “Boy, I’ll never forget the day I learned how to really say ‘barbed wire.’  The Okies always pronounced it ‘Bob Wawr.’  I always wondered who that guy was, Bob Wawr!”
 
A laugh tumbles out of my mouth.  Thanks, Pop.  I’m definitely not going to get a ride if I’m cracking up like a lunatic on the side of the road. 
 
But my real problem becomes apparent, as a big yellow sign about 100 yards ahead comes into focus:
   
        Danger
        State Penitentiary 
        Do NOT pick up hitchhikers     

 
So that’s what Bob Wawr is doing way out here.
 
My spirits sink.  I drop my sign in defeat.  But in front of me, I see a forest-green Toyota Camry throw on the hazards and pull over.  A hand waves out the window. 
 
The driver yells, “I’m not going to Taos, but I can take you into town where you’ll have better luck finding a ride!”
 
This is it.  I take a chance.  I run up to the car, open the door and get in.

***
 
The driver’s blue eyes are wise.  His nose is pointed.  He’s got long brown hair, which hangs flat.  He looks like Gandalf, if the wizard were 100 years younger—and a weekend duffer at the golf course.
 
My chauffeur is wearing plaid pants that are so gaudy, they’ve become fashionable again.  Plus, he’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt that offers way too much insulation for this weather. 
 
“Thanks so much, man,” I say.  “I never thought I was going to get a ride with that damn sign.”
 
“You don’t look like an inmate to me,” Gandalf replies thoughtfully.
 
Nice.  Turns out smiling was a good decision.
 
“Didn’t want to leave you in that heat too much longer,” he continues.  “It’s been so dry here, especially with the fires.”  He points to a plume of white smoke rising in the distance.  “At night, the mountainside glows looks like a second sunrise.” 
 
I remember the sinister orange gleam around San Diego in 2007, during the wildfires.  Coughing up smoke.  Ashes clogging my nose.  I know what he’s talking about. 
 
“I’m used to dry weather in San Diego, but this New Mexico heat is something else,” I tell him.

We speed along the feeder highway toward downtown Santa Fe, where the hitchhiking will be easier.  Gandalf is more than just a good driver.  He’s hip to the spirits.  
 
“I heard someone doing a rain dance last night,” he says.  “No houses for miles where I live.  I saw a small figure under the moon.  He danced and had some kind of rattle.  I tried to get closer, for a better look.  But when I did, he vanished.” 
 
Gandalf snaps his fingers like a magician.  I look out across the desert and wonder where the dancer could have gone.