"I do?"

He seems genuinely surprised.

A few things you need to know up front about Gary Johnson. There is nothing he will not answer, nothing he will not share. For six straight days, we spent virtually every waking hour together, which might have had something to do with the fact that there wasn't another reporter within ten miles of the guy. Or that when you're polling in the low digits and your campaign fund is less than Mitt Romney's breakfast tab and your entourage is Brinck and Matt, you tend to be more forthcoming. But in fact, Johnson is fundamentally incapable of bullshitting, which is one of the many, many things that make him so unusual for a presidential candidate. (When a reporter asked him, after he gushed about how great New Hampshire voters are, if he says the same thing in Michigan, he replied, "No, Michigan's the worst.") He finds presidential politicking of the sort we've grown accustomed to—slick, scripted, focus-grouped, how-does-the-hair-look—to be "absolutely phony."

Another thing you need to know: He was never supposed to be the fringe candidate, and his campaign is no lark. Before he officially declared, he visited thirty-eight states—on his own nickel—to get a sense of whether he'd be a viable candidate. He was the first GOP candidate to announce, in early April, and for about twenty seconds seemed like a contender. The wildly popular (still) two-term Republican governor from a state that is two-to-one Democrat. A guy who's confident that he knows how to manage the purse strings and balance a budget because he did it—eight years in a row—in New Mexico. His fiscal conservatism is unmatched by anyone in the race. And his socially liberal cred—the only pro-gay and pro-choice Republican candidate—is unmatched even by some Democrats. (Of course, while this could be an asset in the general election, it's a bitch of a liability in the GOP primary.) Even the backstory had a self-made charm: Born fifty-eight years ago in Minot, North Dakota, the son of a tire salesman turned teacher and a mom who worked for the Bureau of Indian Affairs, Johnson started a one-man handyman operation when he was 21, grew it into a construction company with a thousand employees, and sold it in 1999 for about $5 million. Oh, and he named it Big J (for Big Johnson). "It didn't have the same connotation at the time," he swears.

But still. Do not confuse his Zen-like quality for a lack of cojones. The guy has brass ones. He's a five-time Ironman triathlete. He paraglides and hot-gas balloons. (Not hot air, hot gas.) He biked across the Alps. And from the right angle, he looks like Harrison Ford.

So what on earth is so radioactive about Gary Johnson? And how did he become Nowhere Man in a field as chaotic and uninspired as this one?

The desk clerk at the Econo-Lodge in Lincoln, New Hampshire, wants to know how to spell Johnson.

Gary is beyond cordial. He spells it out. Doesn't even mention that he is Gary Johnson, presidential candidate. Just politely forks over two credit cards—one that belongs to the campaign (to pay for Matt and Brinck's accommodations) and one that is his own (since he is paying for as much as possible with his own money).

"Sorry, sir," says the clerk. The campaign credit card has been declined.

"Aw, shit," says Gary. And tells him to put everything on his own Visa. Then the clerk gives him a coupon for a free Econo-Lodge breakfast in the morning. "Well, that's very nice of you. I appreciate that."

The man is frugal beyond belief. "But I am not cheap." As his fiancée, Kate Prusack, a real-estate agent in Santa Fe, points out, "Yes, he shops at Costco, but he drives a Porsche." He built his own house in Taos but paid premium to put a hot tub in. And he tips well, a telltale difference between men who are careful with money and cheap bastards. He likes to think he spends his own money (he says he's worth about $6 million) the way he'd spend the country's money: Pay only for quality and don't waste a cent. Like, for instance, stop pissing away money on border patrols and erecting fences and walls across the Mexican border, and let immigrants earn work visas "and actually contribute to our economy." And while he's on the topic of wasteful spending, he says there'll be no pleasure trips to the Vineyard on Air Force One.

He has just enough time to check into his room and change into his evening attire—jeans and Nike Frees with bright orange shoelaces—before grabbing a quick bite ("I'll have the Nasty Nachos," he tells the waitress) and heading to the Porcupine Freedom Festival, an annual summit of over-the-top Libertarians who come by the thousands to camp out for a week and "exchange ideas." Not to mention joints. And Gary is attending this "civilly disobedient" event...why, exactly? "You'll see," says Gary. "It'll be an eye-opener."

That's one way of putting it. But what's most bizarro-world about Porcfest is that there's a presidential candidate in attendance and no one seems to know it. Gary doesn't ask to take the stage (or make his aides get him up there). He doesn't glad-hand. He just slips in and watches a Libertarian documentary (Matt's in it) from the back of the mud-floored tent/makeshift auditorium. But then word spreads through the crowd—and the aromatic air—that Gary Johnson is here. And they come to him. "Are you Gary Johnson? Awesome, dude." Some of them remember him from last year, when he also showed up without fanfare. "I think the last time we met, I didn't have eyeliner on," says one sexually ambiguous Libertarian. Another invites him to the Shabbat dinner tonight in someone's tent. He has a long jag with several young guys in Ron Paul T-shirts, who tell him that they like him a lot but will probably vote for Paul, even though he has not appeared at Porcfest. Gary tells them they should do what they feel is right. One of them suggests he could be Ron Paul's vice president. (Not likely. Gary flew to Houston to tell the Libertarian capo in person that he planned to run; the meeting ended when he announced his intentions.)

A local public-radio guy and a local blogger ask if he would mind being interviewed, and they retreat to a smelly back hallway near the men's room, where he answers questions about his campaign for the presidency while various revelers walk by with bongs and guns.

"A lot of people would say it's a courageous candidate," says the radio guy, "who would come to an event where people are walking around openly carrying weapons, there's gay disco, there's people smoking marijuana..."