I-10 West

“God made his home in the southwest.”  -John Neal

Traveling through the desert is humbling. Vast, in every direction. And you, one blip, one little white dot, traveling on a line. You’re piercing the wind in your little Toyota on Highway 10. Your eyes find the peaks that the Native tribes stared at for centuries. They were just as mysterious then as they are now. Anywhere this stunning will leave you feeling like we, as a species, are not the main attraction—in fact, we may not even be the opening act. All that surrounds you, in this place, will outlive you and has outlived every human being on earth.

The license plate on my rental car read KANSAS. The name means south wind, and originates from the Sioux family that lived along a river in the area. They believed the wind to be a messenger of prayers. When I got to Quartzite, AZ, I pulled into a gas station, stepped out of the car, and the wind blew against my face like a hairdryer. As I filled my tank up, I watched people come in and out of the convenience store.

Inside, as I waited, I toyed with the souvenirs. There were keychains with every name from Henry to Sarah, to Margarette, to Margret. Sedona snow globes, Arizona sunrise shot glasses. I grabbed a figurine of a Navajo man on horseback with his head raised firmly to the horizon. I tucked it safely into my backpack and turned back onto the I-10 ramp.

We rose before dawn, washed in the river, and greeted the sunrise. The glow turned our bodies orange as they glistened in the light. I mounted my horse and headed into the wilderness. I rode my horse through the valley, along a thin path. When I came to the ridge, I dismounted my horse and lifted my head to the vastness. I felt an energy beneath me, soaking into my feet, traveling up through my legs, and reaching my chest. A warm gust met my face as the spirit exited my mouth and evaporated into song. 

As I drove through the valley, I decided to roll down the windows, smell the air, and feel the heat. The wind thundered. To be in an unfamiliar place, yet completely at home—this feeling consumed me; it stirred my soul, and it swirled around for a moment, before springing up through my mouth in the form of a song. I couldn’t tell you how long I sang for. The song had no rhyme; it mirrored the wind, it mirrored the elements that consumed me. It wasn’t me anymore, it was we, and we moved forward valiantly. I decided to record my voice just in case anything interesting happened.

I mounted my horse, and we rode through the passage. She knew the way better than I did. I wasn’t ready to return home, but I knew she would be getting thirsty soon, as would I. Did she know where to find water?

My song mellowed down, and I felt at peace as I made my way through the valley. Small shrubs decorated the median between I-10 West and East. Short, off-grey segments on the road, passing over dry streams below. I would need to stop for gas again soon. My tank was already at less than a fourth, and I wouldn’t reach the next town for another hour at least. If I couldn’t find gas soon, I could be in trouble.

As my horse staggered, I knew we needed to turn back. I gave him the last of my water. I began to recall a series of streams beyond the hill ahead. I would either turn back now, or press forward, just a little farther. I decided to trust my instincts.

I began to regret my decision to skip the gas at the last stop; it was too late now. “Toyota Corollas were supposed to be fuel efficient,” I thought.

My horse slipped down a bank, and I tried to hold her steady. She knew where she was going.

I began to consider my options. There was no cell phone service, no mechanic for miles. I pictured the breakdown, the engine breathing its last breath, and my foot pressing down on a dead gas pedal. I pictured my thumb out and the merciless heat that I would have to endure for hours as I waited for a gold-hearted trucker to take pity on me.

At the bottom of the hill, she halted. I got off and began looking around for small cracks in the ground, patches of green, anything.

I had accepted my hitchhiking fate, had accepted the delays; maybe this would be a great story someday. The story of the time I was stranded in the desert.

I found nothing in the green patches; I knew I had doomed us. My memory was faulty, and I was foolish. I had decided to trust a fool. I would be remembered as the foolish one; the stories would bring shame to my family. I turned back to her, and she was gone.

No, it wouldn’t be a great story. It would be embarrassing. No gas, no air-conditioning. If I ran out of water, there might not be a story.

I felt fear; she was gone. She had left me. She did not trust me. I should have turned back. I followed my instincts beyond the hill, and I led us into hell.

As I approached a hill, I prayed that whatever lay beyond this turn would save me. On the other side of the turn was more highway, but I could see a brown and blue road sign in the distance. As I approached, I could see that the brown sign read Joshua Tree National Park, and immediately below, a Texaco emblem on a blue, reflective sign.

I wandered around the base of the hill, searching for her. The sun was high, at its most intense. I wiped the sweat off my brow. Beyond a bush, I could see what looked like a woman, letting her long brown hair down.

As I pulled into the gas station, the pedal went silent. I was drifting, but I steered my little Corolla in the direction of the pump ahead. The car came to a slow, pitiful halt directly in front of pump three.

This long brown hair was my horse’s tail, swaying back and forth as she dipped her head into the stream. She had saved us.

At the pump, I decided to listen to the recording again. The hot wind nearly blew my phone out of my hands. I tried to find the recording, but I couldn't find anything. I must not have even clicked record. I could not remember any of the song that I had sung, not even a moment of it. It was unlike anything I had sung before. Whatever it was, it stayed there.