The man brushed his hands along the sides of his greasy coveralls. Finally, he leaned both hands on the counter to support himself and spoke. "Yes." "I'd like some gas." In silence we hurried outside to the pumps. I had expected an easier pace of life in Portage. What I found was something different. At the moment, this man was caught up as much as I was in a hurried, impatient life. We were two busy souls. Our attitudes would have made us worthy contenders in the morning rush on the L.A. freeway. He pumped gas from the old gas pump into my van. While the pump meter logged the increasing figures with a rusty whirr, I asked the man for directions to Logan, Utah. He pointed south with his free hand. "The road to Logan is on the other side of the hill. Out of Plymouth. Around Riverside." Not given to many words, he slowed down to piece together the information. "You'll see a road running off into the valley." He made a wiggling motion with his left hand toward the East. His greasy mechanic's hand looked like a black leech swimming in a spring creek. "Just follow that road." A Pepsi delivery man drove up. Now I didn't feel quite as isolated in a world that was unfamiliar and yet so strangely familiar. Portage. The place wasn't even on my map. The man cranked the old cash register and poked my money inside. I got back on I-15 South. When I reached Riverside a strong wind was covering the valley with a thick fog of gritty sand. I couldn't see into the valley, much less across it. < previous - next >