What Would You Think if I Sang Out of Tune?

Spots and I are in Dunsmuir.

Spots had always wanted to see the town, famous to him for its annual hobo conventions. He had heard a great deal about the area's beauty and, looking around, I can see why. I didn't realize it until now, but I had been to Dunsmuir before.

Dunsmuir is a town just outside Mt. Shasta which some high school friends and I had passed by on a memorable road trip. Among the things I remember about the area are the picturesque views, the friendliness of the people, and the great tasting water.

My friends and I had taken a detour near a surrounding mountain to find a rare carnivorous plant that grows in the area (hey, I never claimed to be part of the popular crowd in high school) and when we got to the top, we decided to collect some water from the stream. It remains to this day the best water I've ever tasted.

So I find it particularly reaffirming when I see that downtown Dunsmuir features a large mural advertising the city with, Dunsmuir, Home to the Best Water on the Planet. The town is not home to the best library on the planet, however, so we head down to the train station in order to find a wifi connection for my computer. Spots seems glad he has a ride when he spots a police car patrolling the yard.

We grab a bench and Spots calls home. He has called home a few times since I picked him up, which relieves me. I know his mother must be worried about him because I know how much my mother worries about me doing this project and I call her every day. I couldn't call her for three days in Nevada because I didn't have cell reception, and when I finally did get reception, my cell mailbox was full. While I try to check my email, Spots tries to find out if his uncle still lives in Yreka, a town not too far north of Dunsmuir.

When we both finish our electronic duties, we take a second to embrace the spectacular view of the forested mountain in front of us.

"I'm really glad I got to see this," Spots exclaims with a smile.

I offer to take Spots through to Portland, where he can stay with his friends, but the plan is to stop in Yreka for the night. Spots mentions how much he likes to read, so I offer to pass on to him all the books I've read so far on this journey. In exchange, he hands me a copy of Rolling Nowhere, a book I had been interested in for awhile. It is written by a journalist named Ted Conover, who decided to ride the rails back in the 1980s and document the experience.

The bookmark left in the book has a picture of a distraught young man and the words I lost ME to Meth. Spots has been off meth for over a month now, but it can't be easy recovering with his lifestyle.

Spots has lived a rough life. Though only nineteen, he has dealt with abuse, addiction and homelessness. His circle of friends is in the same boat.

"All my friends are dying or in jail," he says, shaking his head.

He tells me of one friend (whose name I can't recall, but it was something along the lines of "John the Crackhead") who was particularly ill-fated.

"John was always strung out. He would say things like, 'I'm not going to eat or drink ever again. From now on, I will live off of drugs alone.' One time, he went insane and started yelling at me because he was convinced our friend was hiding in his backpack."

Spots pauses to reflect.

"He got in a fight recently and got pistol whipped. His jaw got wired shut... so he's doing better now."