How do I even begin this story?
Well, at the beginning, I guess.
About ten days ago, Lizzie and I were driving through a small mountain town called Ridgway, Colorado. Outside a Shell station, an old, grizzled cowboy-looking dude started chatting us up. He talked about how he had hitchhiked through New Hampshire many years ago, and told us some of the cool spots in town to hang out. He had long curly blonde hair that cascaded out of his cowboy hat, and he wore dark sunglasses. Wearing a Bob Marley shirt, he yelled at me "Hey man, you look like a young Jerry Garcia!" His teeth were gone, but his kind heart shone through.
We forgot about him fairly quickly. Until the Fourth of July.
We heard that the town of Page, Arizona had beautiful fireworks over gorgeous Lake Powell, so we decided to go there for the Fourth. Driving through town, we spy a man on a street corner with a sign that reads, "Where's the Love? 4/20". As we approach, I recognize him as the man from Ridgeway and I yell "Holy shit, it's the guy from Ridgeway!" He and I make eye contact and it is clear that the recognition is mutual. I immediately pull over.
We jump out of the car, and all of us say "We can't believe it's you!" We all introduce ourselves. I ask him, "What's your name?" He says "Ben." I say, "What's your last name, Ben?" He says, "You ever heard of John Wesley Powell?" I say, "Of course, he was one of the first explorers of the American West." Ben then put out his hand and said, "Well, I'm Ben Powell, one of his descendants. Pleased to meet you."
We proceed to spend the next six hours with Ben, trading stories and sharing beers. Ben, now almost 53, told us of how he has been living on the road since the age of 15, traveling across the country, never living in one place too long. He had picked mushrooms in Idaho, worked in bars across the west, lived in Alaska, Texas, and every place in between. He told us about hippie hot spots across the country where you can "meet some of the really cool-ass people. If there's any left, what with all this anal bullshit going on today." People he didn't like, he considered "anal". People that were ok were "way cool".
Ben wore his heart on his sleeve, telling us multiple times that he loved us and thanking us just for taking the time to spend the evening with him. He made mention several times of needing just a couple beers and a smile, so we bought him a case of beer. Ben told us that he knew a good spot to see the fireworks, so we all piled on into my car, and we followed his directions to a hotel parking lot directly in front of where the fireworks would be shot off.
Ben talked about loving the coyotes and how they would never hurt him, but then talked about a night where the coyotes almost ate him. He talked about a night that a bear ate all his peanut butter and then shit all over his tent. He told us that he suffered from CRS (Cant Remember Shit) and told us about FLRs (Funny Looking Rocks). He hated technology, but had a cell phone because he said he had to. He was writing a book called Bars and Saloons Across America, Women I've Never Had, Your Dog is Gay, Get Off My Leg. I'd read it.
Ben talked about women he tried to hang on to, but was unable. He talked about being woken up at 3 AM by the cops, but not to be hassled; instead, the cops just wanted to be sure he was ok. He told us that another homeless friend of his had been beaten to death by local kids the year before. He talked about his two brothers he lost in Vietnam, and about all the good and bad people he met on the road.
Despite being white himself, he had a general contempt for most white people. He said his true brothers were the natives, the Navajo. He spoke to them in broken Navajo, attempting to speak their language. Once we got to the motel parking lot to watch the fireworks, two Navajo men named Tom and Fabian joined us. Tom was an old shepherd who had fought in Korea, and played the most amazing harmonica I have ever heard. The old man put a Navajo blessing on my harmonica, saying "I have given your harmonica my voice. May you always be blessed."
Fabian was a man probably in his late-30s who had proudly served in the United States Army for five years and clearly loved his country. All of them were good men.
After singing a bunch of old country songs with the old cowboy, Ben and us parted ways in the parking lot, as both of us went looking for a place to camp. This blog post does not even come close to really capturing the essence of this man, but I hope it gives you an idea.
Ben, if you ever read this, may your road go on forever and the party never end.
Love to all,
Tom
