A Native American Cowboy Hippie Climbs into My Van

A hitchhiker reminds me not to judge a book by its cover

A man is hitchhiking on the side of the road. I do not risk stopping. My kid is sleeping in the back, and I don’t need a stranger. We are traveling in a Sprinter van, an Airstream Motorhome edition, moving through the Western States. Over the next three weeks, we plan to see the parks and a few hidden places my kind friends have shown me in the last decades. My kid is twelve. He is on the threshold of ignoring me, but we still have a bond. No, I don’t need a stranger in the van.

Then I slow. I am a quarter mile past the hitchhiker. His appearance finally sinks in. Tan cowboy boots are midway to his knees, pulled up over his naked legs. The cut-off jean shorts descend midway to the knees from the other direction, in the fashion of the seventies, but too short by the standards of today. Their bottoms are fraying. A tan buckskin vest is on his naked torso. Two diagonal fringes meet in a v-pattern on the front of the vest. The leather frills are four inches long. No hat on his head, but one is hanging over his daypack.

I make a u-turn, drive past him, u-turn again, then stop. He is a slight man, with a few years on me. Tanned, darker than his buckskin. He climbs in.

“Telluride?” I ask.

“Where else?” he nods.

Only one road leads to Telluride. The same road lets you escape. When you end up there, it is with intention, never by accident nor on a drive-through to another place. The town is a captive of the Rockies, which clench their jaws around it and squeeze it into a gorgeous valley. These mountains are tall and steep. They forbid casual visits and mandate commitment. Well, it used to be so in the days of the miners, who came here to dig for gold and silver over a hundred years ago, and lesser metals like zinc and copper. Today, it is a resort for the moneyed folks. They fly in their jets.

“Why did you change your mind and pick me up?” he asks.

“Your costume. I am curious about the story.”

“Costume? That’s everyday wear, my friend,” he laughs, “Well, not in the winter.”

“Even more interesting, then.”

He gives me a curious look. But then he nods.

For a few miles we ride in silence. He is comfortable with it, more than I am. But I am holding firm. It is a skill I am building, to let the silences hang. The depth of conversations grows in the quiet spaces between empty banter. If only this conversation were to start.

“Why Telluride?” I ask.

“Bluegrass Fest. Have you been?”

“Oh, shit. Did not realize it was this weekend. Yeah, I have. Was planning to take the kid for a few quiet days of hanging out and mountain biking, but I don’t think it will be quiet with the fest.”

He looks at the empty seats behind him. “Where do you keep the kid?”

“I stuff him in the back. There is a bed in there — less arguing, more peace, and by the end of the day, we still like each other.”

He stares at me with concern, then bursts into laughter. His laughter is loud and theatrical, and I wonder if he mocks me. But his eyes are laughing and I buy into his sincerity.

“If I buy a vehicle,” he says, “I will go for length and a bed in the back. That could have kept a girlfriend or two around for longer. Live and learn. Live and learn.”

I almost say, ‘What’s with the outfit?’ but I don’t. It may come as an insult. Although, I want to know how the bottom of a Texas cowboy adjoins the middle of a hippie, and the top of a Native American, with a head of a surfer. I suspect he could be all of those things, for in America, such melding happens. Unlikely as it is, and even contrary to history, it occurs with regularity. It is a reflection of America itself, not in a way of obnoxious, in your face, contrasts, but in a quieter way, where unlikely things coexist at all scales.

His laughter shakes the restrains off the conversation, and we begin to trade questions and stories. Slowly, I shift to listening as he picks up steam and weaves a tale of his life. A summary, indeed, but fascinating and as contrasting as his costume. His story moves through the anti-war protests, The Dead concerts, pursuit of the “American Dream” of comfort and security and attachment to things — a prison of the mind, he calls it.

Then, onto finding his own freedom again, away from the dress pants and buttoned shirts of the office and into the “costume” he was wearing today. He air-quotes “costume” and winks at me at me as a reminder of my misstep.

As he talks, I notice my kid move into the seat from the bed. He looks through the window, glances at our companion at intervals, and he does not have a Game Boy in his hands. Just listening. Without a Game Boy.

“Going back to Telluride is a bit like going home,” the man says, “We built that ski resort in the seventies and a bit in the eighties.” He spins a tale of the early days, the few of them out there, skiing and making runs, working through the summer. “Just a few of us built it at first.”

An hour passes, and we roll into Telluride. People are everywhere, pushing through the smell of weed, beer, and joy. I stop downtown, and he is ready to jump out the door.

“Regular folks don’t usually stop to pick me up. Maybe they are too afraid of my costume,” he laughs at the word, “It is usually someone who must save me with Jesus or hippies in an old VW bus. Cool. Thanks for stopping.”

He jumps out, takes off his buckskin vest, stuffs it into his rucksack, and, bare-chested, melts into the crowd.

“What a nut,” I say, “but a great story.”

“He is like Forrest Gump,” my kid says, “Is it all true?”

“Maybe some of it. I don’t buy it. He did not build this resort, I’d say.”

“How do you know when to believe people?” my kid asks.

“I don’t know. But some stories are just too incredible.”

I hope he does not push further. I don’t have answers to such questions. I am a jaded cynic, and I don’t want him to be. I want him to see more in people than my history allows. I want him to believe the stories they tell. But more so, I want all those stories to be true.

We find a parking spot, far from the chaos of the downtown, and meander through the streets. My son wants sushi for dinner, but it is too early, so I talk him into riding the gondola up the mountain. In the summer, the gondola takes mountain bikers to the top, and used to take hang glider and paraglider pilots two decades ago, when the lawyers were not too many. That is how I know this place, from the bird’s eye view, when I came here in my younger days to fly the ridge. I want to show him the majestic valley from the height of the steep peaks.

We get off the gondola at the top and head for the exit. There are photos and plaques on the temporary exhibit of Telluride’s history. And as we walk by them, I stop cold.

“No fucking way!” I say. I am too loud and draw disapproving glances. I point my son to a photograph. Young men stand around the old-fashioned two-person ski lift, happy and smiling.

“That’s him!” I point. Young but unmistakably him with the laughing eyes, honest and earnest.

“So it was true,” my son says.

“Looks that way,” I feel embarrassed. “Maybe when someone tells you an incredible story, it is a better default to believe them.” I don’t think he gets what I am trying to say. I go on, “You know, where I came from, I learned to see the worst in people. It is not right. I am unlearning that bad habit. Should give people a chance.”

“Crazy story,” he says.

“Yeah. For sure.”

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