LOST SOULS

I kept seeing him in different aisles—stringy hair hanging limp from the baseball cap set low on his head, a small backpack fraying at each edge, and his clothes sullied with deep, permanent stains. First in the aisle with the beef jerky. Again in the aisle with the noodle soup and other instant meals prepared easily with only boiling water; food that can be cooked in a free microwave in a gas station, bus station, or other waypoint to nowhere. In the cafe, we raided the plastic forks and took wads of napkins. The mustard packs were gone. There I caught the momentary gaze of his pale blue eyes, perhaps wary—and weary—of scrutiny from authoritative figures urging him to keep moving. I continued shopping and saw him leave the store as I was checking out, disappearing through the automatic doors into the parking lot, where a light rain was beginning to dot the dusty cars.

It is sometimes difficult in western mountain towns to distinguish a homeless man or drifter from a local, especially the towns with a college and legal marijuana, where great efforts are made to look shabby. The unwashed could be a convict or freight-hopper, though more likely a through-hiker or trout bum, who from time to time are functionally homeless—though happily, and often by choice.

All of us out there searching for something, from a taste of the Old West on a preserved steam train to an experience with the modern world of drug-infused