It is the only explanation I have for it.
It was a cool morning in the San Francisco Peaks, north of Flagstaff and south of the Grand Canyon, and I was headed to the white Aspen trees where I planned to camp for a few days and eat some pharmaceutical LSD. My unpaid assistant, the ever loyal Maximillian Chopper Diaz (that was his AKC name) was perched on the armrest as he checked out the forest passing by. Just in case, he had his favorite toy, a Mr. T action figure, that he had amputated the arms and legs off of, leaving the torso and head, replete with mohawk haircut and earrings intact. Mr. T never left his side; he would even hold him in his mouth when he went swimming.
Chopper loved that toy and trust me when I say, you could NOT take it away from him.
Don’t even bother.
She was at once sexy and beautiful and I could not take my eyes off her. Sporting an explosion, for lack of a better word, of crimson hair, and pale baby blues, she was standing by the roadside with her thumb out, looking every bit like she could give a shit if anybody stopped or not.
I stopped.
“Where ya headed,?” I asked. I tried purposefully NOT to stare at her.
I failed.
“North is cool,” she cooed (I thought she cooed everything).
Cherokee was her name.
Really.
I asked her about the whole red-headed Indian thing, and she just cooed that she saw a John Wayne movie when she was a kid and she always like the name.
I had packed the cooler with ice and beer, four Porterhouse steaks that I had personally cut off the aged Angus steer loin, and my favorite camping side: Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. One of the steaks was Chopper’s and don’t think he didn’t know it, making it his personal mission to stay close by the cooler, protecting the beef with his very life if need be.
“Something smells good,” Cherokee smiled as she pointed to my ashtray, overflowing with joints and roaches. “I have this huge chunk of hash that I took from my asshole ex-boyfriend who hit me one time too many. We’ll have to roll up the windows.”
She was holding up what was easily a twelve-ounce chunk of Blonde Afghani hashish and I had just met my new best friend.
Chopper knew the drill. He climbed over the padded boot to the back of the camper and splayed out on his blue beanbag.
I told Cherokee about our plans to do this acid I had received in a swap for an old Martin guitar I had. It was ten vials of slightly yellow-colored liquid that had the Royal Pharmaceutical seal prominently displayed on the sheath.
Fucking Brits.
Gotta love ’em.
My plans soon became Cherokee’s plans and we tripped for just over two whole days, laughing and talking in a new language that we and we alone, had invented and understood. We went for a stroll through the woods that saw us getting lost and having to rely on a very suspicious Forest Ranger to help us find our way back to our campsite. We started peaking around the time when Cherokee was asked where our campsite was. She turned to me and whispered, “what state are we in?” That was it.
I lost it.
I started laughing uncontrollably and the ranger was getting short with us. Somehow, the stoner Gods were looking out for us and we drove right up to our site. After promising the ranger we were not leaving until the following day, he left.
We drank all the beer and finished off a quart of VO Canadian whiskey before falling exhausted into a field of mountain wildflowers. We were awaken by a slight mid-afternoon shower that felt cool on our warm cheeks.
Chopper was dutifully curled up right next to the cooler where one steak remained, obviously in need of his protection.
We would end up together for five months, going our separate ways after camping out at Lake Powell with some girls we had befriended in Reno. I was young, had money and drugs, and I was camping out orgy-style with four very hot girls and one not-so-hot girl.
It was like the movie Cocoon.
I thought I’d never get sick, never get old, and never die. This was a pretty good end-game if you will, at least I thought it was when I was twenty years old.
Cherokee left with the four girls, but left me about a five-oz. chunk of hash. I’ve often wondered what happened to her; she was such a gentle spirit and totally unaffected.
I would end up hustling nine-ball in Reno, a site I would return to some five years later, shooting as a top individual shooter in a nine-ball league.
My odyssey would continue and Chopper and I were ready for our next adventure.
After a final breakfast of steak and eggs, we hit the road again.
Life was good.
And I still had four vials left.
***
Stay well.
