In 1971, however, the roads west, the main highways and back roads too, were clogged full of lonesome pilgrims seeking their own blue-pink nights. And so he found before he was long out of Boston where he started his trip that he was among kindred angels more often than not on the great hitchhike road dream brought by forbears like old okie hills Woody Guthrie and Lowell mill boy Jack Kerouac. So he walked roads, grabbed rides, got picked up for “vag” a couple times (including a couple of days courtesy of Yuma County out in the Arizona zombie night with bologna sandwiches and bilious water three times a day, Christ), went hobo jungle railroad tracks more than once (and worthy of recounting although not here , here we speak of heroic roads west, grail- seeking roads west)headed south a little to avoid the cold, then west landing just off Indio next stop in sainted ghost-ridden Joshua Tree on some wayward sixteen-wheeled giant green monster explosion.
Carrying his life-line (and life’s full possessions at just that moment) bed-roll knapsack combination Adam headed into the park. Walked some dusty stone-etched miles to one of the camping sites expecting to find some more kindred and stews against some hunger. Sundown was approaching as he fixed up his assigned site when he heard a loud blast of Bob Dylan’s youth nation national anthem, Like A Rolling Stone, coming from, coming from somewhere. Maybe it was the dust of the road, too many roads, maybe it was his time, maybe it was some tumbleweed passing by remembrance, but at first he could not fathom where such music would be coming from in the high desert.