erhaps by nurturing both mystical and rational
inclinations, society could explore the realm beyond the surface world
of reason while keeping pace with the charismatic predators of the New
Age.

But in the darkness of a northern Michigan night, still angry and upset
from memories of Atmananda's experiments, I sensed that a New Age of
enchantment and wisdom had passed me by. Yet I also felt cleansed and
refreshed, like the air of a city after heavy rain. I stood up and
began gathering the fallen gear in a pile by the trailer. Suddenly, I
was staring into headlights which did not disappear. A man got out of
the pickup.

"What happened, son?"

As I recounted the bicycle incident, I tried to control the quiver in
my voice.

"Officer Brown," he said, showing me a badge. He dropped me, the dog,
and the rig off at a motel in nearby St. Ignes. He also left me his
number at the station, in case I needed help getting back on the road.

The following afternoon, the policeman pounded the wheel back into
shape, fixed the derailleur, replaced spokes, and bolted steel bars
over the aluminum which attached the trailer to the bicycle. When he
was done, he refused to take my money.

"What are you doing now?" I asked.

"Cleaning the frame."

"Thanks," I said, "but you don't have to do that."

"Whenever you do a job, son, do it right."

Later that day, invisible currents from California, along with the
weight of the baggage, continued to affect my progress west. As I rode
through the woods of the Upper Peninsula, I reflected on Noah's remark
that I had escaped from an abusive relationship. My story, I
concluded, was not so unusual after all. Invigorated, I coasted down a
long hill and squeezed the brakes intermittently.

15. The Enchanted Taco

Late one night, Atmananda met three hundred disciples in a parking lot
in the desert ninety miles east of San Diego. He led us for hours over
soft, cooling sand to a spot in a dry river bed. He had us form a
circle around him. As we scanned for scorpions before sitting down,
the desert floor lit up like a circular, gyrating constellation, until
one by one the flashlights went out and it grew difficult again to see.

"If you enter a higher level of consciousness," Atmananda began from
the center of the circle, "you will see the Warriors on the cliffs
across the gorge. They are subtle beings from another plane of
existence. They look a lot like American Indian