It was late on a Friday in mid October 2011. I had worked all day and then had some responsibilities that kept me in Portland until nearly 8:15pm. I was expected in Bend, about three hours away, by a woman that had been my girlfriend. Jumping into my Jeep, I had all my gear loaded in, including my pipe (chanupa), which I had once been instructed to always keep with me. Whether that was meant figuratively or literally at the time could be a topic of discussion, but I, to this day, try not to take chances.
I checked the gas gauge: it was at about a half tank, a little under. I could probably make it, at least to Redmond, I thought. But why take chances? I would gas up in Sandy, about 35 minutes away.
But I didn't. As was my habit in high school and in many areas of my life, I wait until the last minute. Sometimes this has pleasant consequences, sometimes it does not. This was one of the latter, because as I passed the last gas station in Sandy (too crowded) and looked at my watch, I figured I could just gas up in Welches, a small mountain town 15 minutes up the road. Looking at my gas gauge, it seemed a little lower than I thought, so I would definitely need to gas up there or gamble on something being open in Warm Springs, the reservation town I would drive through. I didn't want to be wandering through Warm Springs on a Friday night, thank you.
I arrived in Welches at 9:04. The station had just closed.
Now I could go back to Sandy to the 24 hour station there, or push forward and really take it easy and hope for gas in Warm Springs. I may even make Madras. No way I was making Redmond.
The Jeep did ok as far as gas mileage went at 55-60 mph, but who wants to go that slow through the mountains? I had the top down, I was bundled up with the heat blowing. It was pleasant enough, with a carpet of stars framed by mountains and trees. I loved driving at night. Not many cars were going over the pass this time, and there were lots of stars. Perfect. I knew that counting on the gas station was a precarious proposition however, so I kept it slow. I noticed once or twice the speedometer closer to 70 and backed it down, but how long had it been there?
By the time I hit the desert stretch 20 miles before Warm Springs I knew I was in serious trouble. The needle was bottomed-out below "Empty", I had well over an hour to go before Bend, 40 miles to Madras and 30 to Warm Springs. It was pushing 9:45pm. I started hoping for two things: to at least get into cell coverage before I ran out of gas and that the gas station on the highway in Warm Springs would be open.
I took it easy on that stretch of highway, long and straight, that I usually found great joy in speeding upon. When I reached the edge of the great canyon that drops down into Warm Springs and my cell phone showed two bars, a corresponding level of hope entered my psyche; maybe the gas station would be open. After all, it was Friday night in a reservation town. One would imagine that the Native revelers would provide ample opportunity for a fuel station cum convenience store to increase an otherwise ho-hum bottom line? I literally coasted five miles to the bottom of the canyon with baited breath. It would be at least an inconvenience if not outright dangerous to run out of gas in this town at about 10pm on a weekend night.
Closed.
I mentally berated myself for not taking the five minutes in Sandy to wait in line and get gas, for taking chances that were unnecessary. A stream of memories that seemed along this same theme paraded mercilessly through my mind as I began the climb out of the canyon with more hope in my heart than gas in my tank.
When the Jeep sputtered and almost immediately died I wasn't even close to surprised. I just coasted over to a very convenient dirt pullout and let it roll to a stop. I sat there, shaking my head. Coming out of the canyon at this point I didn't even have cell coverage and wouldn't until I got to the top of it, several road miles away. I often had an empty fuel can in my Jeep, but with the amount of gear I felt I needed for the weekend, space was at a premium and I had removed it. I removed everything that I thought would be interesting to an unsavory character and stashed it over the edge of an embankment. Then I put the top up and resignedly stuck my thumb at the first car coming my way, which promptly pulled over.
With baited breath I ran up and looked into the passenger side window which had been rolled down to accommodate the tenuous hitchhiking transaction with which I had once been quite familiar, but no more. It was a young Native American man headed into work in Madras. I told him my predicament, he told me to hop in and we started down the road.
I knew I had been lucky to get a ride with a nice guy, but I didn't know how lucky I was until we started talking. I am a sucker for a story; I used to interview homeless kids to get theirs and put them in a blog. This man's story was nothing short of inspiring. I don't remember all the details, but I do remember it involved making significant sacrifices in his life as a single father to be able to provide for his young daughter. He had no social life; he was working several jobs to make a life for the two of them, the mother absent due to the all-to-common scourge among Native Americans, alcohol. I alternatively listened to his story, asked questions, and expressed sincere amazement at his dedication.
By the time we arrived at the nearest gas station, the Safeway in Madras, I was inspired to be a better father myself. I thanked him profusely, wished him the best and waved as he drove away.
Turning my attention to the next task at hand, I walked up to one of the attendants at the busy gas station. He was an older man with kind eyes. I would guess that he was in his mid-60's at least. He was friendly and empathetic when I explained my plight. I bought a gas can and he filled it. I stepped aside to make a phone call to my girlfriend to tell her what happened. When I returned, he was talking to a man who had driven up in a late model white Ford. I walked up to the nice older attendant that had helped me and that was now talking to the guy in the car. I needed a ride back to my Jeep, I explained to the driver. Was he going back that way?
It was as if they had been talking about my situation already. The driver, an older Native American man with thick, long and graying hair, barely looked at me and accepted almost as a matter of course. I asked that he wait a few minutes so I could run to Safeway to get some cash to give him, and he accepted.
When I got back he was ready and waiting, but still chatting with the nice station attendant.
I don't share my spiritual path with too many people, and it is tricky math sharing it with any Native folks because many of them are not too happy having white people anywhere near their sacred ceremonies. But as sure as anything in my life I felt not only that I could share anything about my life with this man, but that I should commence immediately. We were not out of the parking lot before I had told him I was a Sundancer and pipe carrier.
Again, I don't remember all the details of my conversation but I do remember the man's name: Willie Smith. I remember that he told me he had once struggled with drugs and alcohol but that he had changed and been a drug and alcohol counselor to his people for literally decades. As we drove through the dark, he spoke about his desire to reconnect with a sweat lodge and pray in that way again. It had apparently been a while. We spoke about the huge changes in my own life. He listened and asked questions. At one point he told me something to the effect that there was no such thing as mistakes as long as one truly did their best. His manner was gentle, his voice was soft. He spoke slowly and deliberately. I felt entirely comfortable opening up to him. All this in about fifteen minutes of driving.
At one point, I looked over at him. I will never, till the day I die, forget what happened next. There was a lull in our conversation and I looked over at him. He was looking straight forward, intent on the dark road. I noticed two things simultaneously. First, with his hair unbound, his profile was huge. Immediately my Sundance dream came to mind. Then it occurred to me that I was riding in what appeared to be a white, late model Ford. A sense of astonishment began to wash over me. Almost as a formality I turned and looked towards the back seat and back window. The back seat was full of stuff, as was the back window.
I was filled with a sense of incredulity. I even told him that he reminded me of someone in a very important dream I had once had. While I don't remember exactly what he said in response, I do remember that the proclamation served only to deepen the good feeling between us. Indeed the whole car seemed filled with good will and a sense of well-being.
His headlights fell on my Jeep. I was almost sorry to see it. It was getting late. I didn't expect it, but he kept his headlights on me as I retrieved my stuff from over the embankment and loaded my Jeep again.
Another image now arises that I will never forget. It was Willie, standing with his headlights behind him.
"Eric," he said, "I love you."
"I love you, too, Willie. Thank you for everything," was all I could say.
He smiled, got in his car, and drove away.
Not many months later I drove into the Safeway gas station to see if I could find the nice gas attendant that knew Willie. I wanted to see if I could get hold of him to invite him to a sweat.
I asked three separate men at that station about the old man that had helped me. Not one of them could recall a man fitting my description. Asking about a "Willie Smith" from the rez was even more fruitless.
To this day I have found no sign of either.
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