Part 2: The Meth-Fueled Road Trip to Hell – When I Called 911 on Myself
By. Christopher McManus
The Beginning – A Dangerous Gamble
It was a few days before Christmas, and I was running low.
Low on money.
Low on drugs.
Low on options.
I needed to re-up, and I knew exactly where to go—Colorado.
I convinced myself this was just another run. A simple drive down, grab what I needed, and get back before anyone noticed.
But I also knew I was running on fumes.
I had barely slept. I was already fried from everything I had been using. So, I made a choice that would change everything.
“Just take a little meth, keep yourself awake.”
And with that, I was gone.
The Road Trip from Hell
It was snowing like crazy. My mom begged me not to go, but I brushed her off.
I hit the highway, pushing forward, my body on fire with chemicals and exhaustion.
By the time I reached Spearfish, South Dakota, my car skidded across the on-ramp. The wheels hit the curb hard, and I almost slid off the damn bridge.
That should have been a sign to turn around.
But I didn’t.
I pushed through, arriving in Colorado after 24 hours awake. I was tweaking, but I had made it.
Then came the delays.
My guy couldn’t meet me. Tomorrow, he said. Then tomorrow again.
At this point, I was running on 48 hours without sleep. My brain was starting to slip.
I couldn’t sit still. So I went to my old stomping grounds in Leadville, Colorado. A town sitting at 11,000 feet above sea level, covered in snow.
That’s where I holed up in a parking lot—alone, freezing, tweaking.
By the time my guy finally showed up, I had been awake for three straight days.
It didn’t matter. I grabbed my supply, fueled up my body again, and took off.
Time to get home.
Hallucinations, Paranoia, and a Call to 911
By the time I hit North Dakota, my mind was breaking down.
It started with voices.
I turned on my GPS, but instead of English, it was speaking Russian.
Then came the visions.
I passed a water tower and swore the light on it looked like a man on a stick, burning.
Then I saw them.
Bodies. Everywhere.
I pulled over, shaking, and tried to talk to a random guy in a truck. But as I spoke, the ground was littered with corpses.
I panicked.
I tore off down the highway, flooring it, desperate to get away.
I didn’t know what was real anymore.
So, I did the one thing that made sense in my twisted, sleep-deprived mind.
I called 911.
With a pound of weed and three ounces of mushrooms in my trunk.
I told them:
“There are bodies everywhere. The interstates are shut down. Something is wrong!”
They told me to pull over and wait for an officer.
I did.
The cops arrived, looked around, and saw nothing. No bodies. No shutdown roads.
Just a tweaked-out guy losing his mind.
They asked me questions. I tried to act normal.
They told me to follow them to the gas station to get me back on track.
I agreed.
I buckled my seatbelt, put my car in drive, and followed them.
Or so I thought.
Suddenly, there was a knock on my window.
I turned, confused.
It was the cop.
“I thought you were gonna follow us.”
“I am.”
“You’re going 2 miles per hour.“
I had no idea.
Somehow, I made it to the gas station, refueled, and thought I was in the clear.
But the night was far from over.
The Crash and the Freezing Cold
I don’t know how, but I ended up back at the same damn spot.
The paranoia was worse now. I was convinced people were after me.
So I did the only thing I could think of.
I took off through a field.
I blew through fences, ripping through barbed wire like I was in the Dukes of Hazzard.
But I wasn’t in a stunt movie.
I was in a Cadillac STS, in the middle of a snow-covered cattle field.
And then—I got stuck.
My fuel was gone.
My car was buried.
And I was out in the middle of nowhere, talking to people who weren’t there.
I sat in my car, looking over at my son and my friend.
“You guys need to wake up. Stop sleeping in the snow and get in the car.”
Except…
They weren’t there.
I passed out.
When I woke up, my feet were near frostbite.
I stepped out of my car and looked around.
I was in some farmer’s cattle drain.
I had nowhere to go.
The Moment It All Ended
I grabbed my bag and stumbled to the main road.
I waved down several cars. No one stopped.
Finally, a man pulled over.
“I need a tow,” I told him.
He agreed. We walked to my car, but the second he saw it, his whole tone changed.
“I need to get the homeowner’s permission.”
I knew what that meant.
The cops were coming.
I climbed into the homeowner’s truck just as the sirens appeared.
I panicked and hid my bag behind the truck seat.
They gave me a sobriety test.
I failed. Miserably.
They searched my car but only found my pipe—still warm from the hits I had taken earlier.
They arrested me and took me to jail.
At first, I thought I was lucky.
Then the detectives walked in.
“We found your bag.”
I shook my head. “That’s not mine.”
They shrugged.
“Well, guess we’ll have to charge the old man who helped you.”
I looked down. I had a choice.
Let an innocent man take the fall.
Or own it.
I sighed.
“It’s mine.”
And that was it.
I was done.
The Aftermath – A Wake-Up Call I Ignored
Sitting in that jail cell, I thought my life was over.
I always thought getting caught with mushrooms was a death sentence.
But the cops didn’t even care.
They only asked about the weed.
That’s when it hit me—I was ruining my life for nothing.
I had a choice.
Keep running from my problems.
Or face them head-on.
I made my decision.
I was gonna keep running.
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