I met Tyson driving North on Highway 97. I had crossed the California-Oregon border a little earlier. The road had passed a lake which had small dark clouds hovering close to its surface. I hadn’t seen anything like this before, and when I stopped to have a closer look, I realized that the clouds were composed of flies.
Tyson was waiting on the side of the highway next to a gas station. He was holding a cardboard sign that said “Alaska”. I stopped and had to shout to get his attention, as he was still looking in the direction I had come from. “Need a lift?”
He looked like a diminutive Santa who had let himself go during the summer. He seemed to be around 70, short, fat, white beard, pants kept up with suspenders. He didn’t have a sleigh but a handcart that held his belongings. Together, we lifted the cart through the rear door of my car, and he climbed into the passenger seat.
He was worried he may smell. “Haven’t had a shower in a few days,” he confessed. “I’ve been waiting for two days to get a lift and had to sleep in the woods behind the gas station.”
He told me he was on his way from Bozeman in Montana. He wanted to go to Alaska because he didn’t like life in the big city. He had just retired and had almost no money, but thought that he was owed a lot of social security, which he was going to collect in Alaska.
He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in decades, he told me. I hadn’t asked. He repeated this a few times throughout our drive North.
We talked about Merle Haggard, whom we both liked, and about motor cylces. Tyler claimed to have one in storage in Montana. At some point he fell asleep for twenty minutes. I thought about how nice it was to drive through an endless-seeming forest.
When he woke up, he said, “The Pacific Crest Trail is down this way,” pointing into the trees to our left.
“Have you ever hiked it?”
“No, but I read this book by a lady who did. Wild, it’s called.”
“They made a movie, right?”
“Reese Witherspoon is in it. She’s beautiful.”
I didn’t disagree. We fell silent for a while.
Some time later, we arrived in La Pine. It was the first town after a long time of driving through the forest. “I feel like a coffee,” Tyson said. We stopped at a gas station where the coffee was only $1.50 and we both got one. Tyson was looking at the liquor bottles on display behind the cashier.
“I like it here… you know, I think my brother in law lives here,” he said.
I played along. “Do you know how to reach him?” I said. “I could drive you to his place and you can see if he’s home.”
“I don’t know. I need a phone book to look him up.”
“I can take you to the library. They probably have a local phone book,” I suggested. I had seen a sign outside the gas station.
He agreed. I drove him to the library and I asked if he wanted me to wait while he looked up his relative. “You know what? I like it here. I think I’ll stay for some time,” he said.
“It’s Tyson like Mike Tyson?” I asked.
Instead of answering, he took a boxing stance. I punched his shoulder lightly. Then we unloaded his wagon, I gave him some money, and we shook hands. As I drove off, he was standing outside the library. It seemed like he was trying to decide what to do next.
