Driving up from our valley home onto a bewildering network of roads, missing a turn or two, we finally
arrived in Barstow, where I recalled a story told to me by Hammond Gurthrie, cousin of Arlo who's the
son of Woody. He was given a card by "a senior member of the Hells Angels, which said,

"This is good for one ride to anywhere.'" Years later, stranded in Barstow, CA, a group of Angels
magically rolled in. Suddenly remembering the card tucked in his wallet, Gurthrie, with his "speed-
drenched brain," approached the Angels, who stared at him as if he were a bug approaching a boot.
He handed the card to one of them, who whereupon "sized me up for just a second, smiled as onl
y an Angel from Hell can, and said, 'Hop on little buddy and I'll take you anywhere in the country
you want to go.'"

Leaving Barstow, we drove through a desert of cactus, ramshackle sheds, strings of cattle strolling
toward tubs of water mapped in their ungulate brains, repeating life's cycle, diesel-powered, trucks
humming on pavement cracked with arcane signs blowing like sand over state lines, into Flagstaff.