During our travels in 1979, Neville Jacob and I picked up a hitchhiking companion in the Mojave Desert. Barstow was a desert tortoise we found in a precarious position on the blacktop of Highway 58. As we were both naively unaware of wildlife laws in California, we admitted Barstow into our adventuring partnership and christened him after the nearest municipality. We both became quite fond of Barstow, and had this odd notion that he was fond of us too. Of course, it never occurred to us at the time that Barstow may have had his own family and pals to do tortoise mischief with. Our journey became his journey.

Barstow was with us for our explorations of San Francisco. He visited Fisherman’s Wharf, and the cannery, and Lefty O’Doul’s. He joined us as we hopped the freight train in the Oakland railyard, crossing back through the Sierra Nevadas and on past Lake Tahoe and over the Great Salt Lake. When we visited historic places, museums, or hostels we always signed in under Barstow’s name on their guest logs. Barstow was our full partner in adventure.

Barstow was with us when we met up with our buddy Floyd in Utah and visited the BYU campus where Floyd was attending. And Barstow joined us as we trudged up Mount Timpanogos to see the heart of the mountain . And then Barstow continued on with us as we hitchhiked east over the Great Divide and to our cozy Rockies campsite.

It was there, on the eastern foot of the Rockies, where Barstow abandoned our partnership. Late at night, when all good campers are sound asleep, he escaped and we never saw him again. His severed rope tether travelled downhill from our campsite, eastward toward the great plains of Colorado.

Neville penned this poem at Barstow’s parting.

Alas, our journeys concluded minus our dear companion. Neville travelled back to England and his studies. I travelled back to Arizona missing both of my intrepid travelling companions. Barstow missed out on a life of leisure occupying Neville’s luscious gardens in Hampshire. I have noticed how well Neville has treated his friendly neighborhood robin out in Neville’s lovely garden, and how tenderly Neville cared for his daughter’s cockatoo ‘Monty’, I have no doubt Barstow would have had a great life as a international bachelor resident. Neville’s family would have treated him as a king, much as they did me when I visited.

In my hopes and imagination, Barstow is out there travelling still. Surely, to find his way home he would have to transverse the Great Divide and get back to the west side of the Rockies in order to make his way back home to the Mojave Desert. That indeed would be a great journey alone and unaided. But he is a sturdy and hardy tortoise, and I truly believe he is out there somewhere still on the road. Or perhaps he found his way back to California, now reciting tales of his harrowing adventures to all young tortoises willing to listen.

Using the app ChatGPT I created this image of Barstow as he might be if aged 45 years. The formula for aging was tweaked to account for a rough life on the road.

If, in your travels you happen to meet Barstow, I would ask you one favor. No, I’m not asking for any disturbance of his journey home. If he has made it this long and that far, he deserves to be left to travel in peace. No, I would not wish his journey altered. If you see that he is in a scrape, I’m sure he would accept a helping hand, but please don’t alter his path. He will find his way wherever he may be traveling.

No, the favor I ask is if you would just let Barstow know that Neville and I are planning on another trip across America. And please extend our invitation to him that if he would like to join us, we’ll keep our eyes out for him along that same starting place as last time. Northbound, on old Route 89, near Watson Lake, traveling toward Ash Fork. Where all good journeys begin.

Cheers, nca