1969, at the age of 20, I had
come to a point where I needed to make
some major decisions about the direction
my life was taking. I left Pocatello,
Idaho, and went on the road hitchhiking.
I traveled up north and then south to
San Francisco, where I attended concerts
at the Fillmore and explored the ferment
that was Berkeley at the time.
After a week
or so I headed back north. One evening
at around nine o’clock I stood on a
corner trying to get a ride out of
Woodlawn, California. I went into a
service station to get some chewing gum
and when I came back out there was a
big, tall, long-haired hippie like
myself standing on the same corner also
hitching north. We introduced ourselves.
His name was Michael Bishop and he was
from Seattle. We continued on north
together through the rainy night and
became friends. In Portland we parted
company, Michael heading home to Seattle
and I to Moscow, Idaho.
A few weeks
later I traveled to Seattle to visit
him. He was living in a large communal
house with about six other people,
mostly musicians—a great scene at the
time. One night, as I was going to bed
on the floor in the basement of this
house, Michael handed me a big blue book
without saying a word. I started reading
the table of contents and knew
immediately it was true and right.
As soon as I
returned to Pocatello I ordered a copy
from a bookstore and have been reading
ever since. I lost track of Michael in
the early ’70s. I sure wish I could
locate him now.