We wandered around Las Vegas a bit, having missed our on ramp, but larger forces were at work, delaying us just a few minutes. We'd barely reached cruising speed when I spotted a young man with a guitar and a black cowboy hat standing by a guard rail. He'd just arrived and had we made the first ramp we'd have missed Omar and you'd have missed his story of coming to America.
Omar Evans, a native of Portland, Jamaica, arrived in the U.S. with his parents at age nineteen. They settled in Trenton, New Jersey, with his father finding work as a janitor and his mother working as a maid and later as an airline attendant.
Omar found a soccer scholarship at Mercer County Community College despite heart issues related to rheumatic fever as a child. He'd arise at 3:00 AM, work his paper route until 5:00 AM, then off to school, then on to his night job at Walmart. He speaks patois, the Jamaican dialect based on English, and I find him easily understandable, but he needed the ESL program - because English is the language of air traffic control, and he intends to become a commercial pilot.
But many hopes and dreams were smashed in 2008 and Omar's were among them. The scholarship evaporated, work cut back, and being a young man he packed his bag, left his mother a note, and took to the road. He's been in and out of New Jersey since then, sometimes stopping at his older half brother's house in Chicago, but mostly he's been a creature of the road, stopping a bit when he finds work, and closing in on his goal of seeing the lower forty eight states.
We went up out of Las Vegas, stopping to help a Hispanic couple who'd run their Prius out of gas in the Virgin River Canyon in Arizona, and we made the sweeping turn from I-15 to I-70 around 6:00 PM. I typically stop and car camp just off the ranch road at exit 108, but it was still beastly hot and something just felt a bit strange. We pulled off at exit 73 instead and I couldn't be more delighted at the little hidey hole we found just half a mile down the gravel road.
The air went cool and then downright chilly. We already had our sleeping bags and we'd stopped and picked up a cheap bag and foam thermal barrier for Omar, too. This site is at 6,500' and I was hoping for that mountain vault of stars thing, but we were utterly thwarted by crystal clear skies ...
... and a full moon that dramatically exceeded the capabilities of my little camera.
I was up just as the sky went from black to a hint of blue, packing most of the camp, then stirring the two sleepyheads and getting us on the road. If you've never driven this stretch you should plan a little time for the salt Wash, Ghost Rock, and Spotted Wolf Canyon scenic views.
Bits and pieces of Omar's road story came out as we camped last night and drove today. He's a good natured kid and nothing much gets to him, but there has been one sore point. He checks his blood pressure and pulse with a wrist meter but he can't do much about it now thanks to a police officer in northern California who confiscated his kit, despite his prescription. The rheumatic fever has left him with a heart problem that requires an injection at least every twenty one days and some times sooner if his condition warrants it. His destination this trip is back home to New Jersey to refill the prescription and get a little break from the road.
We're rolling through western Colorado, Beth singing along (badly) with the scratchy country tunes on the radio, me writing this, and Omar in the back seat, engrossed in my copy of The Dharma Bums. He's liking it, but this really feels like more of a Steinbeck moment, both for him and for our nation.