In memoriam
Michael Nesmith Saved Us on Phantom Canyon Road
What were we doing ‘hangin’ round’ in Colorado, anyway?
When Michael Nesmith of The Monkees died, I immediately thought of Phantom Canyon Road in Colorado.
I was just 20 — a loudmouth Yankee from Jersey. My buddies and I were on a West Coast trip. It was the summer of ’89.
In a PG version of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, we lit out like blazing roman candles from South Jersey to get “out there, man.”
The West. Go, West! Like The Village People and The Pet Shop Boys!
My black Nissan 200SX was packed with camping supplies, sleeping bags, food, a Coleman stove, and music mixes to circumnavigate the globe. That damn roof rack had its own mind — as if trying to escape.
Perhaps the music vibrated the rack too much.
Of course, I was the Indy 500 driver, the control freak. My buddy Steve usually sat as the co-pilot because he needed leg room. Our buddy Alec chilled in the back, resting against the sleeping bags. Alec would usually speak over the tunes about some music trivia. No one can take on Alec with music trivia and win.
We all went to high school together. In the On the Road version, what role did I play? Perhaps “Jack.” But this version contained no meth, Mexican prostitutes, or gay sex.
Or any sex. Just lots of music and writing and laughs.
We were all young, unattached — in college. The road was calling. At one point, devilish marmots on Long’s Peak wanted to consume us.
Then, in July, it started snowing.
But I think of Michael Nesmith and The Monkees for a reason. That infamous road still haunts me — Phantom Canyon Road.
The Monkees were a part of a trio of artists we kept on repeat: Lou Reed’s New York had just come out. We also sang the hell out of Simon and Garfunkel. In fact, Alec and I performed “Sounds of Silence” for the no-talent show. I was Garfunkel on acoustic guitar and vocal and Alec was the talented one with the real vocals.
Can there be a stranger “trio” in music? I had my Rock’s Greatest Hits, Volumes 1 through 10, of course, but these three stand out.
What’s better than playing “America” but singing and “looking for America” while doing it?
At one point, with crazy-wing-it Walter Bowne trying a shortcut, we found ourselves on Phantom Canyon Road — about 30 miles, close to Cañon City. It’s also called Rt 67.
A sign read: Experienced Mountain Drivers Only.
I looked at Steve. He looked at me. Ahead — no paved road. It didn’t look that bad. Actually, it was gorgeous. I’m from South Jersey. Perhaps our tallest peaks are trash dumps — with no disrespect to our Garden State. I said, “Hey, that sounds like me!”
To be honest, on a previous road trip with my family, I had navigated the Big Horn Mountains in Wyoming, but did that give me experience?
I did what any impulsive 20 year old would do — I drove forward. And yelled, “Giddy up!”
I’m telling you, that was one crazy ride. Two cars could have passed each other if there was a mutual consent agreement (permissible contact).
There was also trouble with that rusty roof rack. It had been black and metallic — flimsy and cheap as all hell. It was a survivor from other trips with mom down to Florida in her beat-up Datsun in 1980 and 1983. Then, we only lost one sleeping bag. No sister or brother.
How did that rack stay attached? How did we stay alive with me as crazy Ahab?
The roof rack started edging down the front window. Steve climbed through the window, sat on the frame, and pulled hard on the defiant Thing. Was it bent on suicide? Steve is a big guy. He could do this. He got the Thing settled and reattached with rope — all without stopping.
I’m not sure why we just didn’t stop and fix the damn thing. We were in the middle of the road — all red and dusty and as hot as Davy Jones back in the 1960s. To get out may have been a caused a fall into the ravine — a few thousand feet down.
The sign really meant “experienced mountain drivers.” And not driving a Nissan 200SX.
We just shook and rocked and rolled and vibrated. What’s funny about this? Well, we survived — got to the campsite. All the while, we were singing The Monkees.
“What am I doing hangin’ round?”
That became the catchphrase. Whenever we got into trouble or the tent blew off a mountain, and I had to trek across the tundra to Walmart for a broom to use as a tent pole or those damned Mormons — no Marmots — were attacking us for Snickers bars, one of us would say, “You know, what are we doing hangin’ ‘round?”
When Michael Nesmith died, I thought of that song. And I smiled.
What am I doin’ hangin’ ‘round? I should be on that train and gone I should be ridin’ on that train to San Antone What am I doin’ hangin’ ‘round?
I have it on LP. It’s from Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd (1967). I think about all the times I smiled with The Monkees, growing up in the 70s with The Monkees on reruns.
The fun got me through some serious situations — like Phantom Canyon Road or getting off the highway in Kansas with a tornado warning.
I think of Steve hanging out, clinging for life, risking life for gear —
Nowadays, Steve reminds me of that crazy trip: rafting the Arkansas River, The Valley of the Gods, the Cliff Dwellings, the crazy truckers at rest stops in Kansas, and that crazy climb to Longs Peak, and straddling the Continental Divide.
I thank God I had a gasoline ass — with that high octane of adventurous nitrous oxide. But I took some risks — stupid risks, really.
But thank you Michael Nesmith. I know the story of The Monkees very well, and no, I don’t need hate comments, please, anti-Monkeites!
I know Nesmiths’s conflict with Don Kirshner and Nesmith wanting creative control, and hey — I get that. Call me Ahab! Coming back from Colorado, I wanted control of my Nissan 200SX. That was my baby. I worked hard for that car as a waiter.
Heading back, we drove 28 hours straight with music as our fuel that quelled any feuds, until finally, Steve drove through Missouri, and then I took the helm, and we finally docked in Hagerstown, Maryland for an overnight. Then it was just a quick jaunt up the jet stream to Jersey where I had to report back for duty at the Holiday Inn.
In fact, we were sitting at a Denny’s in Colorado Springs, Colorado. We were just “hanging ‘round.” I looked at my watch and laughed.
“Hey guys, what are we doing hanging around? I got to get back to work!”
Back at the Holiday Inn, I still had Colorado dust — red clay and red dust all over my shoes and in my nostrils.
I don’t know how we did it back then, but we did. And I think they call it youth. Oh, thank God for youth and music and great friends!
Can I get an amen, sisters, and brothers?
After all —
Well, it’s been a year or so, and I want to go back again And if I get the money, well, I’ll ride the same old train But I guess your chances come but once and boy I sure missed mine And still I can’t stop thinkin’ when I hear some whistle cryin’
Rest in peace, Michael Nesmith. Here’s what Rolling Stone wrote on December 10th, 2021.
Here’s a great Nesmith song, by the way, too: “The Girl I Knew Somewhere.”