WHEN YOU GET TO NEEDLES...
by Russ Austin
 "When you get to Needles, look up a man named Ronnie Hickman. Tell him I sent you" said the green beret-clad man named Lee. Accounts varied as to whether Lee had in fact ever really been a member of the Army's Special Forces, but he was just steely-eyed and reclusive enough for me to buy the image. Lee was not to be screwed with.
I rode from Lee's ramshackle squatter's homestead in Sacramento Springs, and proceeded to Needles, California, on the last leg of what had been a nearly waterless and fairly brutal 120 miles' ride across the Mojave Desert. This was not the first time that the name of Ronnie Hickman had been uttered by some grizzled desert rat who I'd chanced to encounter.
A day later I arrived in Needles, California. Ronnie Hickman wasn't hard to find, as every living soul in Needles seemed to know where Ronnie's place was.
"Head out River Road. Look for the horses. Can't miss it."
I rode out to Ronnie's place and was greeted by a handsome, tall black man."Put your bedroll out on the ground right there, and your horses in the corral. I'll wake you up early," he said.
Aware of the unspoken agreement that I'd be moving on in the morning, but with complete gratitude for even this limited extension of hospitality, I complied.
Morning comes early in Needles. At least during anything approaching the summer months. By 5:30 A.M. temperatures are nearing 100 degrees and brother, you ain't sleepin' !
By morning, it was different Ronnie Hickman who'd come to greet me. "Kinda hot this morning, let's go into town and get some coffee. Better for your horses if you wait til the cool of the evening to travel."
This little exchange was repeated morning after morning for a good two weeks.
"Leaving today?," he'd ask. "Yep, gotta get down the road, I reckon," I'd say. It became an inside joke, and began an unlikely friendship with a man who became second only to my father in my estimation.
Ride whatever they got up there, brother!
Ronnie Hickman
November 21, 1939 - March 7, 2005
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