Road Less Taken

“I'm headed to Spokane. That on your way?”

“I can take you two-thirds of the way. To Odessa. There are people there.”

That was good enough for me. I crawled into the passenger seat of the bare, early-model van and tossed my duffle onto the middle row of seats.

“Thanks, man. You’re the first ride I’ve seen all morning.”

“Yeah,” the driver said. “They call this the other-other-other Washington for a reason.”

The highway, which spans 130 miles, pierces eastern Washington state’s Big Bend country. It's flat, straight, sparse and wide open. It cuts through acres upon acres of wheat fields, and moon-like craters carved by ancient floods. Less than 15,000 people live within the vast swath. Interstate 90, the traveling route of choice for those in a hurry, parallels the route to the south.

We were not even a mile down the road when he said, “We got some boring miles to go before you see beautiful Spokane and my radio only plays static. Let's talk. What put you on this road and in my van?”

“In my van…’’ That struck me as creepy.

“What’s in Spokane?”

“School. I’m enrolling at Gonzaga.”

He let out a low whistle. “Expensive school. You couldn’t afford a bus ticket?”

“I have $47 to my name. I got a full athletic scholarship. Baseball. My arm is the only way I could afford any college.”

“You look like an athlete. What are you, 6’2, 6’3? And you’ve got courage. You don’t see many people other than locals up here. Most of us wouldn’t stop for a stranger. Whoever does is probably a sicko.”

He snorted as I scanned the van, as dirty inside as it was outside.

There was a big wooden box at the very back. Clothes, canteens and tools were strewn about. I then turned to assess him. His head was square like a concrete block and so big that his baseball cap was as inconsequential as a beanie. His hands were rough and expansive like mitts. Working hands. He looked to be in his mid-40s. He was pudgy but still muscled. He wore a smirk, what my mother called “an idiot face."

I kept my backpack at my feet – not because it held a weapon but because he might think it did.

“Do you live out here?” I asked.

“All of my life. I’m a farmer, part of a commune, you might say. I’ve been away for a spell, but I can’t quite get past this place.”

II

The engine hummed and the fields passed by. Hypnotizing.

We finally exchanged names. “I’m Cade.” He said, "Joshua.” I asked if he had ever been to college. He snorted. “I was home-schooled. College wasn’t an option.”

He asked if I was eager for college. I admitted that was eager to be away from my parents. They were always pushing me to impress and achieve.

“Gonzaga might be too much for me. I’m not much of a studier, but I can hit a fastball. I want to do well enough to get drafted by a major-league club by my sophomore year.”

I launched into droning self-pity, casting my family’s attention and expectations as a nightmare. I found myself confiding to this guy, as if he was a therapist who might or might not kill me.

“You play ball?” I asked.

He snorted again.

“Ball? Never had the time. My parents are very strict," he said. “I know about expectations, too.”

We whizzed past acres of beige wheat fields and the state’s smallest town of 44. Suddenly, manicured green fields and towering poplars rose in the distance as if it were Oz.

“I grew up there. In paradise,” Joshua said, “I’ll show you.”

He turned the van up a rise. Within 10 minutes we were looking at a verdant vista. “Home,” he sighed.

There were sprawling fields and orderly stacks of hay bales, a dairy barn, a plastic swimming pool, metal shops and verdant gardens. Men, women and children were in plaid. Males wore black work pants and suspenders. Women wore ankle-length dresses and scarves. They all moved with calm purpose.

“Have you ever met Hutterites? Of course, you haven’t. We’re like the Amish, but we’re practical enough to use machinery to get stuff done. Almost 100 of us live down there. From birth, it is about work and faith and as little outside influence as possible.”

He told me his people shun conveniences like television. If he was to find a mate, she’d have to be living in another colony and be willing to move there.

“I was allowed to be foolish but never selfish. All of us work hard from a young age. I never minded the work. The lack of future is the issue.”

“And I thought I was suffocated,” I said.

He replied through gritted teeth, “We're not perfect. We work hard. We don't hurt anyone. We take care of ourselves. What's wrong with that?”

III

We drove down to the highway. A sign read, “Odessa 15 miles.” His mood changed; he seemed eager.

 “Ever been on a treasure hunt?”

“Not since I was 8,” I said.

“Aren’t all hitchhikers risk-takers.”

“Seriously, I have to get to Spokane.”

“We’ll be done in 30 minutes.”

“Done what?”

He drove us north from the highway and into the Scablands, a vast terrain of hardscrabble rocks that NASA used to prepare unmanned vehicles for Mars. Cataclysmic floods caused rock formations and crevasses that spread like gnarled fingers over hundreds of miles. The midday summer heat, the desolation, and Joshua’s anxiety were making me sweat.

“People around here hate us, anyway. They call us ‘Hoots’ and they love it when one of us strays. I just got out of prison.

“I got two years for helping to rob an Indian casino. I was just the driver. Nobody was hurt. Cops only recovered some of the loot. I’m one of the rare fallen Hutterites. I brought shame on my commune. It would be best if I left, and I will once you help me get the cash.

“Why me?”

“I need another strong back. And you're here. The cash is hidden in one the coulees. Retrieving it is a two-man job. Once we get it, I’ll drive you to Spokane – with cash in your pocket.”

“Sorry, but I’m not screwing up my future over stolen money. I won’t say anything. I just wanted a ride. I’m OK with being poor. You can stop right here and let me walk.”

He stopped the van and pulled a pistol out of the console and laid it on his lap.

“What the hell? I barked. Give me the gun and I’ll help.”

He immediately handed it over, sniffling. He wasn’t a killer, just desperate.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You know how you must stand out? I must fit in. We’re different but the same. This money is my ticket to a new life. We’ll split the $70,000.”

I just wanted to get down the road. “Let’s get this over with,” I said, slipping his gun under the seat.

IV

We hiked crossed a 15-yard bedrock bridge that spanned a crater about 30 feet deep and 40 yards in diameter. We stopped at a crooked tree. Below it, we found a rectangular stone, long and flat like a coffin lid.

“Time for some Hutterite ingenuity," he said, setting a lever system that enabled me to use an iron bar to prop the heavy slab ajar - enough for him to wedge a series of increasingly bigger boulders into the opening. When convinced it was stable, he tackled the void.

He must have dreamt about this moment because he wasted no time shoving his arm right into the darkness. Within minutes he pulled out the canvas bag. He let out a scream that bounced off the canyon walls.

I thought he was celebrating, but it was anguish. A rattlesnake had ahold of his left forearm. Joshua writhed and flailed. I scrambled closer. “Lie down,” I ordered. Once he did, I smashed the reptile with a jagged stone, killing it.

“Odessa. Clinic.” He gasped.

The van wasn’t far, but we had to navigate the bridge, which was wide enough for one person at a time. I pulled him up. “Hold on to me,” I commanded. I kept my feet wide and my base low - like a surfer - as we shuffled across the bridge as one. We leaned on each other as we inched forward.

Once we made it across, I hooked one of his arms around my neck. That enabled us to move faster. His eyes were foggy. His shirt was soaked.

“Money” he whimpered.

“No time. It's your money or your life, idiot,” I said.

I wrestled him into his van, laid him down and sped to Odessa. He was unconscious as we arrived, 45 minutes since the bite.

Three hours later, I walked into his recovery room. He was weak, but the doctor said he was going to be fine, thanks mainly to prompt treatment. I gave him his car keys and leaned close when we were alone.

“I went back there while they were working on you,” I whispered.

“Your dough is in your van. I tossed that gun into the pit. I took $2,000 as my fee.”

He smiled wanly. “Go hit homers. It’s great you’re not waiting too long like I did. We all have our own road to travel, I guess."

I tapped his chest. I cared about him.

“Thanks for the ride.”