Author Archives: deansgreatwahoo

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About deansgreatwahoo

After graduating in 1964 I headed to Hollywood to be a movie star, only to drop into the '60s. Lucky me! After hitch hiking around the country from '69 to '72, I graduated from Boise State University and settled into waiting tables for a living and pursuing other interests—teaching stained glass at BSU, writing for Boise Weekly and Idaho Magazine, publishing some Idaho and Biblical history, acting in a few local shows, and traveling at the drop of a map. For two years I produced a half-hour public access TV show available at www.greatwahoo.com. In 2011 I was featured in Scott Pasfield's book Gay In America. Through it all I've come up with some stories and am using this blog as an excuse to get them written down.

On The Road #13, Liberty Overpass Sleep

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A freeway overpass has its advantages when looking for a place to sleep on a rainy spring night in the hills of New York state. First, it is dry under there. And there is a nice flat space just under the bridge, comfortable to lay on and safely out of sight from the road.

It turns out the overpass just out of Liberty, New York, was the first and last such accommodation I have enjoyed the comforts of. All in all I was set for the night just as the night gathered and my tired body was welcoming sleep. I snuggled as best I could in my inadequate war surplus cotton sleeping bag covered with my wool coat for an extra layer against the chilly evening, my head supported by my wooden box of paints. I felt lovely sleep gathering and gave myself up to drifting …

Drifting …

Well, dear reader. A freeway overpass has its advantages when looking for a place to sleep. And it has one little drawback that picked this moment to introduce itself. It started as a distant whine.

An ambitious whine as it turned out. Eager to gain as much momentum as it could on the slight downhill approach to the heavy concrete bridge. The whine grew louder, pulled on by a rumble and roar, ever louder and more eager and frantic.

Then a thump. And another.

And then — WHAM ! — all the demons of discourse were set free. The bridge jumped and rattled. The ground shook. The noise was overwhelming and gained urgency as the shaking and rattling and cacophony of it reached into my bones with the unsettled reality of motion.

And then—thump. Thump. Thump thump. Immediately the rattling and shaking and urgency stopped, replaced by the BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR of a big diesel engine pulling eighteen rubber tires screaming on concrete, receding up the grade headed north.

Well. It was getting dark and the trucks got fewer and fewer. I was dry and tucked in. The sound of approaching trucks working to gain momentum and then smacking onto the bridge and rocking my world before leaving with the rumble of working pistons came to be something of a lullaby, reassuring my sleep that all was as it should be.

On The Road #13, Liberty New York

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After my harrowing experience sharing the finer points of oil painting with a big bad cop on a narrow country road’s dangerous decent of a cliff face, I finished walking to the top of the steep grade and continued toward Liberty, New York.

State Highway 52 brought me in on the east side of downtown Liberty, a fairly large spot on the map and more of a community than I really wanted to deal with. I was heading east anyway, toward a very little line going through the Catskill Mountains, so I turned to the right, picked up State Highway 55, and started walking toward less dense housing.

At the same time I was considering how soon it would be dark. It was too close to a town to sleep beside the road, where late night fun-seekers might notice a vulnerable individual. And there was the rain that had been dogging me all day. With no tent, I needed a dry place to unroll my sleeping bag.

The map did show a freeway overpass just east of Liberty and I had spent the day vaguely aiming for that structure, thinking there are bridges where freeways cross roads and it is dryer under a bridge than under the clouds.

overpassThis substantial structure of modern transportation treated me better than I had hoped. The freeway passed over Highway 55 and concrete slopes ran from the road up to the underside of the freeway bridge. I was glad see that at the top of these slopes were open spaces, about three feet high and some four feet deep, before the bridge abutments made walls supporting the freeway.

Nice little flat shelves with roofs.

They were ideal. Close enough under the bridge so the wind would not whip in rain. Deep enough so I’d be out of sight. And, while the cemented slopes were plenty steep, they were not impossible to scale.

I checked to see that no vehicles were going to witness a bum climbing around under the bridge and scurried up the left slope, under the north side of the bridge.

While the slope was covered with concrete the little shelf was not. After an initial disappointment that this ideal accommodation did not include nice soft padding and 1000 count Egyptian cotton sheets (it’s a joke — I was a hippie. How was I to know you can count threads in sheets?), I quickly settled onto the loose gravel and dirt.

Gravel and dirt that was softer than concrete and dry as moon dust.

It was going to be a great night for sleep.

On The Road #11, Hippies

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Two overgrown tracks of a forgotten road lead my way north, over a ridge in the foothills of the Pocono Mountains, and into the next watershed. My pant legs and shoes were wet with dew from the grass growing in the tracks and the brush crowding out the road. The forest floor was spongy with April thaw. But the air—Ah! The air!—was clear as coastal rain and filled with the scent of awakening forest, a clean mustiness from wood and leaves beginning to decay in the warming air.

It must have taken me several hours to walk those abandoned ruts through the woods but all I remember is the coolness and quiet, the light through the woods, and the delicious air.

Just as Ann had promised, I came upon a paved road. I turned right. Before long a substantial bridge was in sight. Several hundred yards before I reached the bridge a guy on a bicycle came up behind me.

Ann had said there were some hippies l might want to run into over here and, it seemed, one had run into me. A lanky quiet guy with the long hair and patchy clothes of the tribe, he stopped his bike and we chatted a bit. He said, yea, his bunch of hippies were staying at a place just back up the road and he was headed to town for some food. He figured it would be OK for me to crash the night, but everyone else was out of town and wouldn’t be back until late. So I sat on the handlebars of his bike and  he peddled us across the Delaware River to Narrowsburg, New York.narrowburg

On the way a car passed and stopped so the lady in the passenger seat could bark at us about riding on the wrong side of the road. I barked back that it was safer facing traffic and she rebarked about the law. That was the end of it. When we were on our way again the guy peddling the bike moved to the other side of the road and quietly said he found it best to not bark when barked at. Just listen and go along. He was right, of course. Those darned hippies and their logically peaceful ways.

That evening we chatted and I painted some little esoteric image on their wall. I was looking forward to meeting everyone but got tired and rolled my sleeping bag out on the floor of one of the bedrooms. It was hard but dry.

I was nudged awake with the sound of anxious voices coming through the door and soon knew the anxiety was over me. “But I don’t think he’s like that,” the guy from the bike was saying. He was being challenged with how careful they have to be. How many people are out to get them. How easy it is to screw up.

I heard the door to my room open and someone walk in. Not being one for confrontation I maintained my most angelic appearance of slumbering innocence. The door closed.

By the next morning there were only myself and the guy from the bike in the house.

And that was my night with the Merry Pranksters.

On The Road #10, Ann & Jerry part 4

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I enjoyed two delicious days at Ann and Jerry’s little cabin resort in the Pocono Mountains. Two days chatting and playing chess and doing odd jobs in the damp chill of April, 1969. Two days of enjoying Ann’s delicious (and HOT!) cooking! Two nights in a dry, soft, warm bed.

It was a heavenly break from walking the back roads of eastern Pennsylvania, but the chores of spring cleaning were done. It was time to move on.

Along with chats about pot and gays and alternate life styles, Ann and Jerry had shown an interest in my plans, such as they were. On a map I had noticed a little black line of a road through the Catskill Mountains and was generally drifting that way if nothing came up to divert me. They told me they had heard a bunch of hippies were staying just outside of Narrowsburg, New York. Narrowsburg was on the Delaware river, just across the boarder from Pennsylvania, and on my way. Ann suggested that if I wanted to run into them she knew a short cut going over the hills instead of following the river.

So, on the second day after I first ran into Ann getting her mail beside the river, they led me from their delicious breakfast table, away from the river, back past the cabin I had been sleeping in, and pointed out a set of overgrown tracks leading into the Pocono Mountains. Filled with brush and high grasses, the tracks were mostly visible by the clearing they made in the trees. My feet stepped into the wet foliage and I began a day’s walk over the ridge to the next drainage north, where I had been assured I’d run into a road leading to Narrowsburg.

There are few things more spongy and aromatic and quiet than the dewy broadleaf forests of the eastern United States in the early spring, just as the snow has melted and the grasses have greened and the woody plants are only beginning to unfurl their leaves.

On The Road #9, Ann & Jerry part 3

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A NOTE: This is the third story from an April stop along a river in eastern Pennsylvania. For the story just before this one, which explains Jerry’s behavior, see On The Road #8, Ann & Jerry part 2

I have been purposefully vague about Ann and Jerry’s identity and the location of their summer cabins in the Pocono Mountains. With this story you’ll understand why I am protecting these delightful folks, whom I cherish. If you should recognize them I’d love for you to get hold of me and tell me your experiences with them.

________________________

Jerry and I spent a second day fixing up their cabins, tightening screws and checking wires and clearing brush. But mostly I remember Jerry always eager to get out the chess set. After breakfast and after lunch. The minute a break was declared. To this day I doubt he cared that much about getting the cabins in order for their guests — he had a chess partner!

At one point we had put up the kings and rooks and pawns and I found myself in the garage. I don’t remember if I was looking for a tool or getting paint, but I do remember concentrating on something when in walked Jerry. As matter-of-factly as if we were discussing what color to paint the screen door he told me he’d always thought of having sex with a guy and he’d like to get it on with me.

That, my friends, caught me off guard. I was in my early twenties and had never been propositioned by a man in his seventies before. Much less a man who’s wife had been cooking me meals and with whom we’d all been sharing stories and the comforts of their home.

But mostly I reacted to his age. I couldn’t imagine sex with him, no matter how much I had come to like him. To be kind (I told myself it was to be kind. Actually it was from years of making it a default reaction to lie about my sexual intent. But that’s another story) I told him I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that because he was married.

“It’s because I’m too old, isn’t it?” Jerry asked.

I lied, no, it’s because he was married and I liked Ann and wouldn’t feel right about it. Some of which was true. But mostly it was a lie. I was reacting to his age.

And that, dear reader, is one of the regrets I carry from my hitch hiking days. Not being honest to Jerry. Why wouldn’t I have been? He was certainly honest and open with me.

And, of course, I’m curious what it would have been like to smile and have fun instead of defaulting to my usual excuse-finding escaping when the dicy and much desired reality of lust comes dancing about.

Letter from Pennsylvania

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From the time I left home in 1964 until I returned in the early 1970s, I wrote a weekly letter home to my folks. When I was on the road there were some gaps in these letters when paper was not available. My folks kept these letters. Here’s the one I wrote while staying with Ann and Jerry in one of their little cabins on a river in eastern Pennsylvania. This is on the stationary of their resort.

NOTE: I wasn’t much of a speller in those days, as you will witness. I’ve left the mistakes as they were handwritten, just for old times sake. Any current notes [are in brackets].

________________________

April 13, Sunday [1969]

Dear Mom & Dad—

It’s a beautiful, warm day here in the Penn. woods, after a week of sleeping out and walking. I happened upon Ann and Jerry yesterday morning after a cold night. So I raked leaves yesterday and just got though painting my second oil for them. The first was given to the owner of a fruit stand in N. J. that I passed & was given a carton of cottage cheeze for. Then I stayed with a postman and his family last Thurs. after a day of walking in the rain. I’m learning a great deal—mostly to not anticipate or live in the memories I guess. Anyway conciously that seems to be what I’m learning. One never knows what they are picking up “in their bones” I guess. Also I feel myself growing stronger physically, which is good. I don’t hichhike, but just walk along. Sometimes I’m offered a ride but most the way I’ve been walking. With a box of oils, & the sleeping bag Celesta gave me. Have the warm coat & sport coat you got me also, plus a few other clothes. My sholders have been sore but I’m sure they’ll get used to it. I enjoy the walking. First, I’m in no rush to get to Maine as its plenty cold even here. Too, it has an overall effect of slowing down my general pace, which I think is important to spiritual develope—

[next page. no apparent finishing of the word]

I’ll probably be moving on tomorrow. Today’s painting is blue & yellows & greens accross the top, with a palet knife to give the texture of waves, comming over a white lower ⅔ or so, which is sectioned off in diagonal squers (sp?) by dashed lines going one way and the alphabet and numbers running accros them. Two of the squairs have red filling. Its really not too bad. Its called “A warm smile comes, from the soul, …” I like working in oils.

Take care and I’ll be writing again soon.

Love,

Dean

On The Road #8, Ann & Jerry part 2

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Warmed by Ann’s delightful hot breakfast and basking in Ann and Jerry’s enthusiastic hospitality I gladly took to raking the winter’s deposits of leaves and branches that littered the grounds between their three or four small cabins. Everything was heavy with April’s rains but the fresh smell of the work made it a treat. The warmth of Ann’s pancakes was joined by the heat of physical activity. Jerry joined me, filled with instructions and what help he could manage. It was a delight.

That evening Jerry asked if I played chess and soon the board was between us. Jerry did love to play chess and both Jerry and Ann loved to chat. After a week on the road their home was so warm and their company so welcome, I reveled in it. And I got better at chess!

It turned out Jerry had spent some time in Idaho back in his youth, cowboying around Pocatello. He and Ann were from the era of the Great Depression and I was a young buck hitch hiking around the country in 1969, no doubt a hippie with a haircut.

“Well, yea,” Jerry said. “We knew all about marijuana when I was working in Idaho. It was a weed along the streams. All we knew was to keep the cows out of it or they’d fall down. Didn’t occur to us to try smoking it—and it’s probably a good thing we didn’t!” Ann joined us in a good laugh.

The Viet Nam war came up, of course. And the question of how I could be out living on the road, being of draft age and all. I told them I’d been deemed too immoral to fight in that war and told the story of checking the “homosexual tendencies” box during my pre-induction physical. Like pot, being homosexual was just another perfectly natural subject to these seasoned citizens of the Pennsylvania mountains.

That night I enjoyed the comforts of one of Ann and Jerry’s cabins. The bed, so warm and soft after a week sleeping beside the road, was heaven.

Having a desk and stationary from Ann and Jerry’s mountain retreat , I wrote a letter home. Next time I’ll share it with you.

On The Road #7, Ann & Jerry part 1

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The stars that had been high in the black sky had set in the west and finally the eastern horizon began to glow.

I nodded off again, there beside the rippling river swollen with spring runoff. My heavy wool coat, crisp with frost, was spread over my ancient cotton sleeping bag.

My eyes opened to the first ray of sunlight glistening in the hoarfrost that covered every blade of winter-weary stubble. The ray was squeaking its way through concentrations of fog lazing over the river. So comforting, that ray of light. So promising of warmth. So beautiful on the frost.

I fell back to sleep.

The sun was not very high in the sky when I stirred. Sleeping beside the road exposes one to whoever travels by, so it was time to get up.

It didn’t take long to gulp down a couple spoons full of cold beans, kept from freezing in my sleeping bag.

Shaking the frost off my coat and getting into it—getting my box of paints out of the bag, where they had shared my warmth with the can of beans—rolling up the sleeping bag and cinching the rope around it. None of it took long. Lackawaxen

The sun was shining, although softened with the lumpy fog. I stepped over the guardrail and headed east, glad for the movement. Movement that meant warming up.

The river had rushed and sparkled on my right for some half mile when I noticed a lady walking across the road in front of me. She stopped on my side of the road and opened a mailbox. Once she closed her mailbox she looked at this stranger walking the road, hesitated, and then stayed put.

When I was in earshot I gave a “Good morning” shout-out. “What a beautiful day!”

She asked what I was up to and we enjoyed a brief chat before she pointed out the little white house on the other side of the road and the few small buildings behind it.

“We rent these cabins during the summer. We love this place but must admit its gotten to be a bit much to keep up with now that we’re in our seventies. We could sure use some help raking up and getting ready for the guests. Would you like to stay in one of the cabins for a few nights?”

Ten minutes later I was enjoying hot pancakes that drooled warm butter and syrup. Sizzling bacon. Steaming coffee. And warm conversation.

Now, forty-four years later, my eyes well up remembering how good it was—the heat and the flavors and the enthusiasm.

And how I still cherish Ann and Jerry.

On The Road #6, great clock

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My travels through the forests of eastern Pennsylvania found me walking a quiet roadway beside a good sized river. Not the Hudson or Mississippi by any means, more like the rivers I had been raised around in Idaho—rippling along, certainly too wide, deep and swift to wade across but fine for high rubber boots and a fishing line.

The sky had cleared and I had enjoyed a rather warm, dry day on the road. As night fell I began looking and found a little flat point of land jutting toward the river. I stepped across the guardrail and rolled out my bag.

My sleeping bag was WWII surplus, a khaki canvas liner and shell stuffed with dense cotton batting. It was roomy, heavy, and rather miserable when damp, which had been a chronic condition that early spring of 1969.

Thanks to the sunny day my bag was finally dry. I snuggled in when it got dark, since there was nothing else to do, and—well—began to freeze. The clear skies dropped the temperature as soon as the sun disappeared. It just got colder.

The river rippled, the sound of water soothing but seeming to make it colder. It was dark as the dickens. And the stars were splendid. Stunning.

Finally I nodded off.

It was probably two hours later when the cold woke me. Gosh it was cold. But the stars had changed. The patterns I had seen directly overhead were now shifted to the right, having moved from the twelve o’clock position to the two o’clock position. The patterns that had been on my right were gone and the patterns I had noticed on my left were now higher in the sky, at ten o’clock.

I realized when those stars now at ten o’clock were at four o’clock it would mean the cold would soon end. When they hit the far horizon the light would be breaking.

I had enjoyed the stars before, of course. But that night they became the grandest clock of all, ticked off the cold. Promising the warm.

Astronomy changed for me that night. And I for it.