THE STOCKHOLM EFFECT, ON INTERSTATE 70 !

During a History Channel episode of "MODERN MARVELS;" great engineering roadway feats were discussed. The show jarred my memory and I recalled appreciating the beauty of Interstate 70 along the section that cuts through Utah and Colorado.                       I-70 GOING WEST, CUTS THROUGH THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS

In 1976, I combined hitchhiking and Greyhound buses to do a 68-day solo trip across the country. I kept a daily log and mailed it home to my parents...in lieu of letters. This journal is still in my mother's house. I always meant to type it out but in all these years, I still haven't re-read a single word. Today's highlighted excerpt will give you a flavor of my experiences as well as a taste of I-70's beauty.

During my trip, at a fast-food restaurant in Phoenix, a fellow backpacker approached me.  What a coincidence, she had been in my Kiddie-Lit (Children's Literature), at Brooklyn College. We re-hashed old memories and shared our adventures since leaving New York. Later. she invited me to stay with her and her boyfriend on their camp-site at the Grand Canyon.

When I got to the Grand Canyon, they had befriended a bunch of people and it wound up being a huge hippie hang-out, (you may recall from a previous blog, in which...I thought...that gang had awakened me at 6AM, by gobbling like turkeys. Through my tent, I yelled for them to stop. I got so angry that I unzipped my tent to give them a piece of my mind. I was shocked to see twenty or so actual wild turkeys serenading me).

From that group, a couple from Slidell Louisiana stood out in my mind. Mostly because I obsessed over the girl. She was so friendly, funny and beautiful but completely unattainable for me. In addition to her boyfriend having that Charles Manson look, he was into hatchet throwing. If that wasn't intimidating enough, he also carried a bull-whip and would crack it inches from this girl's face whenever she hesitated in carrying-out his bidding. It was a horror to watch her unconditional obedience to him. What was far worse was her defense of his actions and putting herself down to rationalize his behavior.

I gravitated to a guy in the crowd with a fresh scar from stitches next to his left eye named Will Raymond. This rural Coloradoan would let me vent to him about this girl. I even used my B- knowledge of Psych-101 to explain the concept of the Stockholm Effect...a phenomena where a victim, over time, identifies and sides with their captor. Will's response was, "Cut the shit!  Be a hero and save her from the abuse... or shut-up." Regretfully, I shut-up.  Thus starting our friendship.

Will encouraged me to visit him in his hometown, tiny Georgetown Colorado. He told great stories about his friends and the laid-back attitude in this former silver mining boon-town. He gave me his address and phone number, and invited me stay over if I ever made it there. We got along so well, that I decided to hitchhike back with him.

Our first stop was Flagstaff Arizona. We soon learned that the town was known for its racial tensions. Surprisingly, these problems were Native Americans versus...everyone else, (of course we never heard the Indians side of the story).

To avoid broiling in the 115 degree sun, Will and I had our thumbs out in the shade of an overpass. We were stuck there over an hour when state troopers stopped to interrogate us. They wanted to see ID and money, to make sure we weren't runaways and/or vagrants. When we checked-out, the trooper's parting words were, "Don't take a ride from an Indian. They'll drive you to a secluded spot in the desert, cut your hands off and while you're running in agony, use you for target practice!"

Another hour had gone by and the trooper's words were still fresh when a pick-up truck stopped. Naturally there were two Indians inside. Without speaking, the passenger motioned us to sit in the bed. We got in. I later found out that Will was as scared as I was. To pass the time, Will told me about all the girls he knew back home. His chat made the risk seem worthwhile. A couple of hours later, the Indians safely dropped us off at a cut-off for Tuba City.

TUBA CITY, IS AN UNINCORPORATED TOWN IN COCONINO COUNTY.  ITS POPULATION (8500) MAKES IT THE WORLD'S LARGEST NAVAJO COMMUNITY.

They drove away on the dusty road to Tuba City and left us in the middle of nowhere.

Other than the blacktop highway and the unpaved crossroad,  Will and I were the only dots in the lonely, stifling hot landscape. Like a scene out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie only four cars whizzed by during our first thirty minutes out there.

The only relief we got  from the elements came from fluffy, harmless looking clouds temporarily blocking the sun. That's why it was so shocking that one gigantic gray cloud appeared in the distance.
In no time, the cloud darkened and zoomed on a collision course straight at us. It was overhead when the hailstorm started. At first it was funny but soon the little frozen pellets increased to penny-size. The sky was almost black and with no place to run, the heavens opened as a torrent of golf ball-like hailstones painfully pinged and pelted us for ten minutes.  It sounds crazy but seconds after the last hail stone bounced off my head, it was 115 degrees again.
                 (STOCK PHOTO) HAILSTORM IN ARIZONA'S SONORA DESERT.

Our next ride dropped us at Lake Powell. Lake Powell is a man-made recreational center that straddles the Arizona-Utah border. That night, it was so hot along the shore (around 95 degrees) that we tried to sleep on top of our sleeping bags. In the dark, Will was telling me that the Red Ram Saloon. was the coolest place in Georgetown. I became distracted by low flying birds and moaned, "Geez these swooping birds are annoying." He laughed, "Birds? Those aren't birds, they're bats!" I think I lost twenty pounds from sweat that night because, I got into my sleeping bag and zipped it right up to my chin.

In the morning, the Lake Powell visitor center was a modern, air-conditioned building with restrooms, a gift shop and restaurant. We spend a lot of time inside because it was so damned hot outside. In speaking to other travelers, we found out, if we thought it was hard to get a ride in Arizona...its almost impossible in Mormon Country (Utah).

For four hours, we still hadn't connected with a ride. At noon, Will was telling me his best friend Frank was the bartender at the Red Ram. He was dabbing at the tender scar on his face as he continued, "Frank'll let us drink free all night.  He's the kind of guy who'll give you the shirt off his back." Will stopped bragging when a trucker picked us up.

This malicious bastard took us less than twenty miles and said, "This is where I turn off." We were stranded and left in Utah's version of the middle of nowhere. Except we had no visitor center, no shade and couldn't fill our canteens.

It seemed like we were out there forever. I was considering walking back to Lake Powell when an RV picked us up. Inside were four generations of non-English speaking, German tourists. It was uncomfortable but they might have saved our lives. They dropped us off in the town of Kanab.

Oasis-like Kanab was a small green patch in the brown desert wilderness. At first it was refreshing how many townspeople took the time to stop their car and sincerely wish us luck.  But since none of them picked us up...the novelty wore thin, quick!.

At dusk, a guy driving a Sanford and Son-like dry-ice truck, offered us a ride...with the stipulation that in exchange for the lift, we were to unload all his deliveries.

"SANFORD AND SON," STARRING REDD FOXX AND DEMOND WILSON WAS A HIT SIT-COM FOR SIX SEASONS AND 135 EPISODES, (1972-1977). THE SHOW CENTERED ON A FATHER AND SON JUNK BUSINESS.  (above) IS A REPLICA OF THE 1951 FORD F1 TRUCK USED IN THE SHOW.  THE DRY ICE TRUCK THAT PICKED US UP WAS SIMILAR, EXCEPT  FOR A MAKESHIFT, WALK-IN, WOODEN, FREEZER BOX BUILT INTO THE BACK OF THE TRUCK. 

His delivery route was gas stations along that dark, two-lane highway. I had no idea that in 1976, there were still so many soda machines that were refrigerated by dry-ice. We soon learned that our savior's plan to use us as laborers had nothing to do with laziness. While we schlepped giant frigid blocks for him, he drank whisky with the proprietors/managers/attendants.

After many stops over the next few hours, he was ripped. Then he got a CB message that a girl with a low-cut top and a large chest was driving ahead of us in a white, late-model Chrysler Imperial convertible. He got that old truck up to 90MPH and wove dangerously around the occasional car in our path. My mind also raced...to the tragic death of Jayne Mansfield.

THE "BLOND BOMBSHELL, "JAYNE MANSFIELD (1933-1967) WAS AN EARLY PLAYBOY BUNNY AND MAJOR SEX SYMBOL OF HER GENERATION.

While we flew through the night, my thoughts fixated not so much on what might happen to the girl we were chasing but what might happen to us.

ON JUNE 29, 1967, NEAR NEW ORLEANS (above)  THERE'S NOT MUCH LEFT OF THE 1966 BUICK ELECTRA CONVERTIBLE THAT RESULTED IN THE DECAPITATION DEATH OF MANSFIELD.

In mid-burp our driver gleefully announced, "There she is," when he spotted her car in the distance. Seconds later, (thank God), we heard the siren of a motorcycle policeman behind us.

When the dry-ice dude spoke to the cop, he was so wasted that he couldn't put together two sentences. So when you consider how conservative Utah is, it was crazy that he talked (slurred), his way out of a drunk driving summons...and his speeding ticket ($30.00) was determined as a dollar for every mile per hour over the limit he was driving.

Will and I were dropped us off at 1:AM, at a city park in Richfield Utah.  Before leaving, our intoxicated benefactor was conscientious enough to point out that the on-ramp for I-70 (our link to Georgetown Colorado), was a few blocks away.

We hid ourselves in a grove of trees behind the playground and slept. In the morning, Will mentioned that Frank the bartender might be able to get me some day-work at the bar. He added, "It's a good idea to not piss Frank off because as 'together' as he is..." Will paused, dabbed at his facial stitches and groaned, "He also has a bad temper."

Will went into the public restroom to clean-up. When he came out, I went in. When I came out, Will had vanished. I checked my belongings and everything was intact. I was more intrigued than angry and I decided to go continue on to his slice of Eden, (I still had his phone number and address). There was a Greyhound station in Richfield and Georgetown Colorado which also abutted the interstate was a straight-shot, 500 miles away.

I-70 was the first US interstate to be started.  It was under construction from 1956 till 1992 . It begins a little farther west in Utah and goes east 2153 miles into Baltimore. The section I was riding along is considered one of the most picturesque highways in the world as well the most challenging to build.

      ALONG I-70, NO PICTURE OF GLENWOOD CANYON COULD DO IT JUSTICE

This part of the country was inaccessible prior to the roadway coming in. Running through the heart of the Rocky Mountains, I-70 runs parallel to the Colorado River and cuts sharply around mountain walls and gorges. Sewn into the fabric of the hostile terrain, I-70's engineering marvels allow it to pass over the San Rafael Swell in Eastern Utah, go through the Glenwood Canyon and blast through a mountain for the Eisenhower Tunnel.

                              SPOTTED WOLF CANYON IN THE SAN RAFAEL SWELL

On the ride to Georgetown, all of my attention was focused on the scenery. Every twist in the highway brought greater beauty. I also thought it odd to see bicyclists on the shoulder but I found out that because of the sparsity of traffic, I-70 is the only Interstate that permits non-motorized vehicles.

THIS COULD NEVER HAPPEN OUT-WEST. THE DRIVERS THERE ARE KINDER AND GENTLER.

At the Georgetown exit, my bus went down the off-ramp. On the outskirts of the tiny town, I got off at the gas station/post office/Greyhound depot. It was getting dark as I read the address that Will gave me back at the Grand Canyon.

The little town was sandwiched west and south by mountains and cut off by I-70 to the north. My search for 37 First Street began. The first cross street was 11th. I looked to the left and the width of the town was four streets and one more to the right. It was amazing that I went ten minutes without seeing anyone...it felt like I was on, "CANDID CAMERA"   Soon, the weirdness intensified and I was convinced that I was in the "TWILIGHT ZONE" when a pack of mangy, stray dogs came out of an alley at 8th Street. They were growling and nipping at my heels...I thought I was going to soil myself until a jeep drove by and scared them off.

Normalcy set-in on Sixth Street, the big commerce center. The Red Ram Saloon was on that corner and there were active stores, homes and people. I continued until I saw that there was one street beyond Third and it was Second...then a mountain!

I saw a man checking his mail and asked, "Where's First Street?"

He said, "We don't have a First Street."

"Well, I'm looking for 37 First Street."

The man looked at my paper and said, "We don't have a First Street.  And...there's no two-digits addresses in the whole town."  He pointed at that phone number and added, "See that exchange...669?"

I said, "Yeah."

"Well...there isn't a 669 exchange anywhere around here."

I made a U-Turn and headed for the Red Ram Saloon.

(CURRENT STOCK PHOTO)  35 YEARS LATER, THE RED RAM IS NOT ONLY STILL THERE BUT IT ALSO BOASTS ABOUT BEING GEORGETOWN'S NUMBER ONE EATERY...OF COURSE IT MIGHT BE THE TOWN'S ONLY RESTAURANT ?

I entered the Red Ram Saloon with a lot of questions. Despite the dimness, I found the inside to be brand new. It was decorated with plastic, Western memorabilia and looked like a cowboy-themed attraction in Disneyland. The long bar went the length of the right hand wall and ended with swinging doors that led to the bright florescent bulb lit kitchen. On the left hand wall, a one-flight, split staircase led to a square-shaped over-hanging walkway that was dotted with fake hotel-type numbered doors.

A TV was set high above the unattended bar.  Five people were watching the 1976 Olympics. In the large barroom there were three other couples at different tables. When I walked in, it was like I had spurs attached to my sneakers...everyone stopped what they were doing...and in a hostile way, stared me down.

I went to the TV watchers smiled, "Is Frank the bartender around?"

A skinny redneck in a sweat-stained yellow bandanna on his head said, "Who the hell are you?"

I said, "I'm a friend of Will Raymond...and Will said, when I got to town..."

A drunken girl in a Grateful Dead tee-shirt put two fingers in her mouth and interrupted me with an ear-piercing whistle. A huge (fat and tall) bearded man burst through the kitchen door carrying a meat cleaver. When he stopped, this behemoth who resembled Bluto from the Popeye cartoons, eclipsed the brightness coming from behind.

BLUTO (aka BRUTUS) WAS FEATURED AS POPEYE'S BULLYING NEMESIS IN COMIC STRIPS AND CARTOONS SINCE 1932.

The redneck called out, "Frankie, this boy tells us that he's a friend of Will Raymond..."

I was already back-pedaling when the giant boomed, "Well, I almost killed Will Raymond with my bare hands!"

The skinny redneck cut-in, "And no jury would have convicted you."

Frank gave him a dirty look and pointed the cleaver at me, "Will Raymond ain't welcome here and neither are you."

When he started towards me, I turned and walked out to a chorus of laughter. I was crossing Sixth Street when I recalled Will's high regard for Frank but that he frequently touched his stitched face when the other side of Frank's personality came to mind.  That's when it dawned on me that Will experienced the Stockholm Effect, first hand.

Suddenly, Frank barged-out into the street, waved the cleaver and yelled, "Raymond owes me six hundred bucks! Unless you're gonna do something about it, get your sorry ass out of town before I take it out of your hide!"