If I were to write a story about life in our times, Booner would likely be – like a new-age Jack Kerouac – the hero and protagonist of the story.  Wayne, who was always full of life, ready for adventure, game for new challenges, and super-keen to meet new people, would fill the pages with colorful tales.  It is safe to say that he became my muse over the 40 years that I knew him.

Riding into our life at eighteen on his motorcycle (apparently without a license!), Booner positively strutted into Room 149 in Six Squadron at RMC in Kingston – he was tall, skinny, and had a brush-cut which had tan lines that revealed that this was his usual hair-cut.  He took one look at me (who had no such tan-lines) and immediately challenged, “My name is Wayne.  What does your father do?”  Unused to such a brusque introduction, I countered, “My name is Peter.  You first, what does your father do?”  Booner furrowed his teenaged brow and gave me an intense, piercing glance, “My father is a pig farmer,” he proclaimed.  And I rejoined, “Well that’s just fine, my Dad writes dictionaries!” Not entirely satisfied with this exchange, Booner continued the examination, “Ok, what is your favorite music band?”  I immediately responded, “The Beatles of course!”, to which he proudly stomped and laughed, “Mine is Dylan!!”  And I concluded, “Thank goodness – we can relax now, the Beatles love Dylan!”

And so we started.  It was soon apparent that Booner felt a burning need to teach me all the Dylan song-lyrics that he knew – so he sang me to sleep each night for the rest of the recruit camp.  Against all odds, we became joined at the hip.

Often beleaguered by the many rules at the college, it was Booner’s yearning for adventure and the road that allowed him to blow off steam through his regular escapes on his bike when he would escape, explode, and rebel outside of the college confines.

During the summers, we would all be sent off to various parts of Canada to carry out military training to become officers. After our training one year, Booner and I decided to strike out during our free time on a “Woodie Guthrie” hitchhiking trip from Victoria, B.C. down to San Francisco and back.  There were adventures and challenges every day for 12 days – I will relate two of the key personality-building adventures in the following paragraphs.

Once into the U.S., our eyes were opened to the myriad of radical ideas and lifestyles that make up the west coast of America. Booner was in heaven – high adventure, strange peeps!

As we hitchhiked through Washington State and then Oregon, we came to a slow period during which none of the cars seemed to want to stop for a couple of short-haired, stubble-bearded adventurers.  One evening, we were about to retire to the nearest farmer’s field and sleep under the stars when a light-blue ’57 Chevy Bel Air pulled over to the shoulder and stopped.  The driver’s door swung open and (no word of a lie) clouds of thick smoke billowed out into the Oregon evening air!  The head of a rather dashing, bearded chap wearing a straw Stetson with an enormous feather (á la Ronnie Hawkins) popped up above the roof of the car. “Howdy there boys, I’m Rainbow Hawk and this here lovely lady is Little Wing – you look like you need a place to camp out for the night.  We would love for you to accompany us to our home on top of that there mountain yonder.  It’s called the Rainbow Haven!”  It was 1978 and times were much more innocent (besides, Booner was a pretty good body guard!).  We threw our gunny sacks into the trunk, jumped into the smokey back seat, and began to listen to the story of the Rainbow Gathering and its industrious, hippie community. 

We were shown to a bedroom where we threw our sleeping bags on the mattresses, flopped down on the beds, and immediately fell into a deep sleep. 

 The next morning, Rainbow Hawk and Little Wing, joined by several other Rainbow children, fixed us up a great country breakfast, accompanied by their guitar-playing friend who had “Sweet Home Alabama” down perfectly!

After breakfast, we all sat around the living room and Rainbow Hawk showed us the photo-history of the Rainbow Gathering.  They had 12 albums of photos which proved that they had organized and executed a “gathering” for over 40,000 folks a year from around the world for the last twelve years!  There were big Smokies (police officers) with sunglasses smiling at the flower children passing the “speaking stick” at the centre of the circle.  It was amazing. As we gazed through the photos, they served us the most delicious brownies we had ever eaten (like I said, we were pretty innocent!).

The outcome was that Booner, who had come from a decidedly right-wing background, gained a new and deep respect for all walks of life now that he saw their incredible organization and impressive capabilities.

The next morning we left our new friends and headed south down Highway1 towards California. We were picked up by a fearsome, weight-liftin’, dog fightin’, nickel-plated 45-calibre pistol-totin’ red neck, who gave us lunch and pretty well covered the opposite part of the human spectrum from which we had just come.  After him we had several short rides and then two older guys picked us up and let us stay at their cabin in the Oregon hills by a beautiful lake.  There was one beer in the fridge and a bag of carrots.  It seemed like a feast to us!

The next afternoon, we were dropped off at a gas station where we replenished our rations.  As we were about to retake the road, a shiny, flat-bed, 1967 Ford Ranchero truck came screeching in for gas.  We said hi and found out that the wild-eyed driver’s name was Troy and he was driving his wife and baby under the beautiful night sky, from the south of Oregon, where we were, through the Northern California mountains, all the way down to Sacramento.  This was a key ride that we felt we had to take, notwithstanding Troy’s wild appearance, eyes, and attitudes.

Troy said that we could surely hop on the back but cautioned that the mountains were full of corners and it was cool up there.  We would have to secure ourselves to the top of the flatbed cargo box.  Luckily, there were clips along the side of the cargo box – so Booner and I got on top of the box, got into our sleeping bags (up to our necks) and then intertwined our belts on the outside of the sleeping bags and through the clips on the cargo box.  Perfect! Our gunny sacks were good pillows and we were snug as bugs in a rug!

Only one bad thing – just before we started.  I saw Troy’s forearms and they were riddled with needle tracks.  He was likely higher than a kite…. 

Off we drove into the night.

I remember being overwhelmed with joy by the beauty of the starry night above us and excited by what felt like Mach 2 turns around the mountain roads.  I gave out a whoop or two just because I could!  I looked over at my travelling partner.  I had to focus a bit … but I saw that my big, buddy Booner was sobbing.  I yelled to him, “What on earth could make you so sad on such a glorious night?”  He yelled back, just as we lurched sideways after yet another wrenching Mach 2 turn, “I only paid $5 for the belt buckle!”

Well… it took me a little while to process this factoid that Booner felt compelled to share.  Before we knew it, the two of us were singing Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues” at the top of our lungs. I believe we sang it 27 times in a row before we arrived in the Sacramento suburbs!  Mortality was a serious consideration during that mad, car trip.  And Booner had just grappled with it as we sped southward!

I witnessed Booner mature and grow into a fine man that summer – it was wonderful. The lessons we learned on that hitch-hiking trip would serve us well as we embarked on the full lives that lay out before us!