Archive for the ‘Clint Eastwood’ Tag

Chief Dan George, Hitchhiker   9 comments

george

Chief Dan George

 

A few days ago, I was hitchhiking west on I-90 just outside Belgrade, Montana.  This eighteen-wheeler pulled over and I ran up to the cab and climbed in.  The guy driving the truck was Art and he was seventy-five years old.  He was hauling some equipment to Tacoma, Washington.

Art told me that he was driving through New Mexico a number of years ago.  He was somewhere near Gallup on I-40 when he saw this skinny guy walking down the highway.  Art pulled over to give him a ride.  The guy got in the cab and immediately Art recognized  him .  It was Chief Dan George who was in the film The Outlaw Josey Wales, starring Clint Eastwood.

Art asked Chief Dan George why he didn’t have his own pickup.  George said that those Hollywood guys don’t pay very well.  They stopped at a cafe and got something to eat.  George autographed something for Art.  Art gave George a ride for seventeen miles—he lived on a nearby reservation.

I remember watching The Outlaw Josey Wales—I have seen it a few times now.  I thought Chief Dan George did a good job of acting in the film.

Art dropped me off in Missoula.  I walked across Missoula, hitched another ride to Lolo and camped out near the river west of Lolo that night.

george and eastwood

Chief Dan George
The Outlaw Josey Wales
Clint Eastwood’s film High Plains Drifter (1973)

High Plains Drifter (short story)   7 comments

high-plains-drifter-blu-ray-movie-title-large

High Plains Drifter
By Timothy Michael Shey

The big Kenworth roared west through Wyoming.

“So how long’ve ya been on the road?” the truck driver asked.

“A day or two,” the young man replied.

“Where’d ya start out?”

“Western Nebraska. I was working on a ranch for a couple of days and got sick of it. I have a friend in California I want to see.”

“California?”

“Yeah.”

The truck driver was heavy-set and wore a short-cropped beard and baseball cap. The young man was slender and wore glasses. His only possessions: a backpack and sleeping bag.

“Ya got a long ways to go,” the truck driver said. “I’ll get ya to Salt Lake. Then I’m headin’ north.”

“Thanks for picking me up. It was cold standing out there.”

“No problem.”

The rugged, rolling terrain of Wyoming. The sagebrush. The dry air.

“So what’d ya do before the ranch?” the truck driver asked.

“I was in school in Manhattan.”

“New York?”

“No. Kansas.”

“Where ya from?”

“Garden City.”

“I see.”

The young man looked over the horizon to his right. There was silence for ten minutes except for the noise of the engine and the bounce of the tractor-trailer.

“So who’s this friend of yours in California?” the truck driver asked.

“She’s a poet.”

“She?” The truck driver smiled and looked at the young man.

“I’ve never met her before. I’ve read a couple of her books and we’ve exchanged a few letters, that’s all.”

“I see.”

“She has a daughter going to school in Santa Cruz that I thought I might like to visit, also.”

“I don’t know much about poetry. Is it like drivin’ a truck?” the truck driver asked jokingly.

“Exactly.” Exactly. Poetry is breath and fire and pain. Poetry is getting drunk or stacking hay on a ranch in western Nebraska. It is holding a beautiful woman in your arms; it is holding a baby in your lap. It is dropping out of high school because of the shallowness and stupidity. Exactly. Poetry is hitchhiking all the way to California to see a brilliant woman who loves the letters you write.

“So where’d ya stay last night? It got pretty cold out there.”

“A rancher picked me outside of Laramie. He drove me to Rock Springs where his parents live. They let me stay overnight. Wonderful people. Gave me supper and breakfast.”

“No kiddin’?”

“It was pretty incredible.”

“I’ll say. All a person hears about are people gettin’ robbed or killed on the road.”

“Yeah. Really.”

The big Kenworth was going 80 miles per hour, passing cars and trucks. The speed and the power, the stress of steel and bolt, piston and axle and 18 wheels. Going west. Going west.

“So where you going after Salt Lake City?” the young man asked.

“Headin’ north of Pocatello. Then I’ll head back to Denver with another load.”

Fire and breath and pain and heading north to Pocatello. Pocatello of your dreams. Pocatello of your nightmares. Six men die in gun battle with federal marshals at the Pocatello Corral. Southern Idaho desert. Dry heat, dry grass, dry blood on dry earth. Exactly. The breath of the moment, the heat of the battle—firefight in the Pocatello Corral. One federal marshal wounded. Dry sun on another horizon. This is not Kansas. This is not Nebraska. This is Pocatello. Pocatello of your nightmares.

“This sure is wide open country,” the young man said.

“It’s a wasteland. Desert.”

“I like wide open spaces.”

“Then ya won’t like California. Ever been to L.A. or Frisco?” the truck driver asked.

“No.”

“Where does your poet friend live?”

“Big Sur.”

“Never been there.”

California of your nightmares. Big Sur of your dreams. Fire out of Kansas. Wheatfields and golden landscapes and dry air and blue sky and. Words, ink on paper, meter and fire. The anvil and the hammer and the fireblood of a wounded heart. Laceration and pain. Fire. The wordsmith labors and sweats and bleeds and brings forth new life. Anvil and hammer. The hot steel is shaped. Blow after blow. Sparks fly in the hot and dry air of Kansas.

“So how old are ya?” the truck driver asked.

“Twenty-three.”

“So what do ya want to do with your life?”

“I want to be a bounty hunter or President of the United States.”

The truck driver smiled and chuckled. “Sounds good to me. Ever see High Plains Drifter with Clint Eastwood?”

“I am the High Plains Drifter.”

Flame out of Kansas. Riding west to the gold rush of your dreams. Desperate, unshaven, sunburned and hungry. Big Sur on your mind. Leather boots, leather skin, the stink of horse sweat. Shot six men in Pocatello just to watch them die. The bullet wounds of your heart, the anguish of the moment. Six men in Pocatello. Just to watch them die. You cinch the saddle down tight and ride west with the hot wind of Idaho at your back. You will ride west where the Pacific meets the edge of the Universe. There you will grow new muscle and ride a horse of a different color.

West. Flame out of Kansas. Exactly.

The big Kenworth rolled west through Wyoming and eternity.

Ethos
May 1995
Iowa State University

[Republished by Digihitch.com]

HIGH PLAINS DRIFTER/Written in Blood
Clint Eastwood’s film High Plains Drifter (1973)
Meeting a Former Editor from Warner Brothers
New Camaldoli
Excerpts from “The Poor in Ames”, Ethos Magazine

Meeting a Former Editor from Warner Brothers   Leave a comment

This story is a conversation between a hitchhiker and a former editor from Warner Brothers. The editor did some work on the film High Plains Drifter.

It was probably the spring of 1997. I hitchhiked north on U.S. 395 from southern California and got dropped off in Bishop. Bishop is a very beautiful place.

The mountains to the east were dry and brown, the mountains to the west (Sierra Nevadas) were rugged and snow-covered. There are a lot of irrigated ranches in that valley. I walked through Bishop for a couple of miles and then stopped north of town on U.S. 395. I waited for a short while and this vehicle pulled over to pick me up.

The guy who gave me a ride was probably in his late fifties or early sixties. He told me that he was coming from a ranch that he owned in Mexico; he was heading to Mammoth Lakes where he owned a grocery store. I told him that I was hitchhiking around the country for a short while; I had just quit my job at Harold Pike Construction Company in Ames, Iowa (Pike Construction hired me ten times in four years, I was grateful that they let me work for them so many times).

“So what did you do before you bought your ranch?” I asked.

“I worked for Warner Brothers as an editor,” he replied. “I worked at Warner Bothers for a number of years and got tired of being in the studio.”

“So what films did you work on?” I asked.

“One film I worked on was High Plains Drifter,” he said.

I looked at him and exclaimed, “No way! High Plains Drifter? That is one of my favorite westerns. You are not going to believe this, but in 1995 I had a short story published by Ethos magazine. The title of my short story is ‘High Plains Drifter.'”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

At the time, I had a few copies of my short story in a folder in my backpack. I would pass out my story to people if they were interested in reading it.

“When you drop me off, I will give you a copy of my short story,” I said.

“Sounds good.”

We drove north on U.S. 395. At Lake Crowley he turned off the road and dropped me off at this intersection. I dug out my folder that was in my backpack and gave him a copy of “High Plains Drifter.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“Thanks for the ride.”

He drove off and I started walking up U.S. 395. I walked for a short while. The sun was down and I needed to find a place to sleep. I jumped over this fence and walked out into this sagebrush maybe a quarter of a mile from Lake Crowley. I rolled out my sleeping bag and slept there. I think it got down in the upper 20s F that night.

About my meeting the guy who gave me a ride from Bishop to Lake Crowley: there are no accidents in the Kingdom of Heaven. Things happen for a reason.

The next day I hitchhiked north to Reno.

[The film High Plains Drifter, starring Clint Eastwood, was made at Mono Lake near Lee Vining, California in 1973. Lee Vining is on U.S. 395 between June Lake and Bridgeport.]

[Originally published by Digihitch.com]

High Plains Drifter (short story)
HIGH PLAINS DRIFTER/Written in Blood
Book Review:  High Plains Drifter
Clint Eastwood’s film High Plains Drifter (1973)
Sleeping at the Post Office in Bridgeport, California

high-plains-drifter-blu-ray-movie-title-large

Dream: High Plains Drifter   3 comments

Last night I had a very vivid dream. I was talking with some friends and then I walked over to this table and sat down. I think I was tired, so I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes to take a short nap.

I then heard someone walking towards me. I opened my eyes and saw these cowboy boots. I then looked up and saw Clint Eastwood. He was wearing a cowboy hat and had a bandana wrapped around his neck. Eastwood was in his forties; he looked like the cowboy in those spaghetti westerns or The Stranger in his film High Plains Drifter. He was smiling at me.

He was there to talk to me and prepare me for the lead role in a film he was directing. I think the film was based on my book High Plains Drifter: A Hitchhiking Journey Across America.

Then Gene Hackman walked up to me, shook my hand and smiled at me. Gene Hackman was dressed like he was in the film The Quick and the Dead. There was more to the dream, but it is gone from me now.

Clint Eastwood’s film High Plains Drifter (1973)
Meeting a Former Editor from Warner Brothers
Two Pleasant Surprises:  High Plains Drifter Revisited

High Plains Drifter typescript   3 comments

High Plains Drifter typescript

Chris McCandless Revisited
A Book Review for High Plains Drifter
High Plains Drifter:  A Hitchhiking Journey Across America

__________

Writings From The Road
By Tim Shey

Three Dollars in Whitehall, Montana
A Short Hitchhiking Trip
Locusts and Wild Honey
As a Thief in the Night
The Man Christ Jesus
New Testament Circumcision
Baal-perazim
Overcome With Great Sorrow
Enmity:  True Christians versus False Christians
Samson:  A One-Man Wrecking Crew
The Hidden Streets of Babylon
Zion is My Home
A Dream About General George S. Patton
Outside the Camp
Broken Bread and Poured-out Wine
A Pleasant Memory
Wearing a Rough Garment
Back in California
Two Dreams:  A Christian Cult and a Jezebel Spirit
A Pie in the Face and a Riot in a Church
When I Came to Destroy the City
Two Emails (Intercession)
A Fast-Moving Battlefield
He Beheld the City and Wept Over It
A Fire in My Bones
A Dream About Egypt
The Last Supper
Japan Earthquake
Glorified in His Saints
Special Forces
The Second Coming
What Can’t Kill You Will Only Make You Stronger
A Parable About Lukewarm, American Christianity
Obedience:  The Bondage Breaker
Physical Sight and Spiritual Sight
You Can’t Make This Stuff Up
This is Sodom! This is Sodom!
Praying in Tongues
Solomon Islands Earthquake
The Saint Louis Crossing Independent Methodist Church
A Disciple of Christ
Deja Vu
Brian’s Dream about the United States and Africa
Walls of Jericho Revisited
Behold, I Send Unto You Prophets
Upon This Rock I Will Build My Church
Yom Kippur
A Deeper Deliverance
Enoch:  The Seventh from Adam
The Lord Will Judge the Lukewarm Church in America
___

Eighteen Years in a Cuban Prison
A Vision about George Washington and America
Destroyed Them That Believed Not
War and Peace
Escaping the Gestapo
Upon Mount Zion Shall Be Deliverance
Battlefield
The U.S. Senate
My First Time in Jail for Hitchhiking
Freed from the Prison of Sin
The American Flag:  A Christian Symbol
Two Dreams:  General George Patton and Clint Eastwood
God’s Protection in Battle
A Prophetess from Minnesota
Escape from a Death Camp
The Kingdom of Heaven

(66 chapters)

A Red-Letter Day

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