Somewhere in Utah.
Dave picked us up whilst we were hitching up through Northern California and proceeded to show us 24 hours of glorious ex-convict-meth-head born-again pot-farmer-shamanistic-Indian-spiritualist good times.
Here is Dave with his mother-in-law.
Dave even offered us employment and accommodation.
But the massive wooden-mallet Dave wanted us to use to guard his crops, as well as his various restraining orders around the neighbourhood, put my missus off a bit.
Country is a grizzled, wheelchair-bound Vietnam vet who lived in Dave’s girlfriend’s garage in Redding, CA.
Country had an amazing tattoo which read FUCK THE DUMBSHIT (one word). He got it serving in Vietnam.
This is Boss Man. We met him wandering the train tracks of Nelson, British Columbia, Canada.
Boss Man gave us some cookies he’d baked that morning for the kid who worked at the Greyhound station. They were good.
East Hastings, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada.
East Hastings has the dubious reputation of being statistically the worst place to live in North America.
East Hastings.
East Hastings.
East Hastings.
Jesus is Comming. Daubed across a rock face somewhere in western Wyoming.
Mean Jean we met on the Interstate just outside of Weed, CA. Jean had spent July in hospital, in a coma, after some guys, “Lookin' to rape some young girl” in the woods, hit him with a claw hammer on the skull.
Waiting for a ride, CA.
Paris and Ryan gave us a ride out of San Francisco. Paris had the ashes of her dog in a box on the dashboard.
Tim, a bigoted redneck who gave us a ride through southern Oregon. He kept alluding to knocking me out, tying folks up in the woods and having his wicked way with Sarah.
Knackered Sheds, upstate New York.
Sweet, self-proclaimed Hillbilly family who gave us a ride, and also ran a semi-kosher weed farm.
Train depot, Portland, Oregon.
Randy, a loner/ gold miner and former Hell's Angel with a shrivelled arm. He told us he’d ridden his Harley outta S.F. at the tail end of the 1960s, as things had gotten too wild for him there.
He rode as far as he could afford the gas, then traded his bike for some ancient gold mining rights belonging to the land up in the hills of Oregon. He had lived up there, semi-feral ever since.