I headed on down to Phoenix, and headed back in the evening. It was very cold. The snow on the mountains in the backdrop continued down to the flatlands, resting on top of the Bob Ross sagebrush and piled high against the roadway. I drove the complex monotony of the highway well into the night, evenly spaced telephone poles keeping time for the music in my head. Then it occurred to me that one of the poles had seemed different. There was a weird bush or scarecrow or something a ways back, and with the carefree spirit that once dominated my actions, I turned around to investigate.
Sure enough, a few miles back there was a forlorn figure. An old man with no coat and bare feet was almost frozen solid, attached to a pole like a tongue to an icebox. I opened the passenger door and hollered for the guy to get in. He moved in small painful gestures and took an inordinate amount of time to pry his frozen limbs into the car.
We sped off, heater cranked up full blast and he shook. He shuddered like nothing I’ve ever felt before; it was like the wheels were going to shake off the car. I had nothing to offer him but a cold beer, which he declined, and the heat from the vents, which he accepted with silent grace.
After a time he was able to speak. He thanked me and introduced himself as Gene Van Winkle, a miner up the mountains who liked the drink and was frequently ripped, hence his nickname, Rip Van Winkle. I asked him how he came to be attached to a telephone pole with no shoes a hundred miles from anywhere and he told me his story.
Rip had been married for all eternity. She was a good woman; looked after him, took care of all his needs and was patient with his ways. She passed away just after Thanksgiving. Being lonely he decided to head into the city for a little companionship. He loaded a few provisions in his truck and made his way down the hill to Phoenix. There he was making new acquaintances in a tavern when he was invited to a woman’s room. He went. No sooner that the door closed behind him than he was struck from behind, robbed of his wallet and keys, his coat and his boots, and most regrettably, his wedding ring. He knew he didn’t like city people and had reservations about going off the hill, but loneliness got the better of him and ultimately clouded his judgment. So we rode along for a long while, telling me stories a miner tells until we came to the crossroads where I continue on the 93 and he goes up the hill on 89. Only he had no way to go up the hill. I gave him all my reasons why I couldn’t go up the hill and he gave me all his reasons why I couldn’t leave him there. I had a schedule to keep in someone else’s car, which was low on gas. It was colder now than when I found him and there was no shelter here or chance for another ride. He won and we went up the hill to a little town called Yarnell where he lived in his trailer.
He opened the door and turned up the heat. We talked a little more, but he was exhausted and I was tired. He went to his room and I slept with one eye open under a pile of Indian blankets on the living room floor. In the morning he made himself coffee and we looked at pictures of the wife. He showed me his outbuildings that contained his prospecting equipment, picks and pans and such. He pulled out a neat piece of petrified rock he had cut and polished and kindly gave it me. I said had to leave, being very late already. “No no, you must take me around to the neighbors so I can tell them the story of how you saved my life.” We filled my gas tank from a 55-gallon drum fitted with a hand crank and spent the better part of the morning going through rock trails. First to one trailer, then another, where Rip would tell his tale and how he was froz’d to the pole and all. The neighbors were all suspicious of a strange car pulling on to their land and even looked at Rip with a bit of trepidation until he told them who I am. Once it was plain I wasn’t a revenuer they warmed like the late morning sun.
Soon we said our goodbyes. He must’ve in his seventies and I thought I should make my way back to see him sometime. I was rolling down the hill with my petrified pet rock sitting next to me, thinking about his life, needing both isolation and companions, but not too much of either. Even though I liked the idea, I knew I’d never make my way back. This was a secret place, hidden from time; where outcasts and fugitives burrow between the mountain rocks, where I‘d returned an thawed out old man one cold cold night.
