“Living on the road my friend
Is gonna keep you free and clean
Now you wear your skin like iron
Your breath as hard as kerosene
You weren’t your mama’s only boy
But her favorite one, it seems
She began to cry when you said goodbye
And sank into your dreams.
Pancho was a bandit, boys
His horse was fast as polished steel
He wore his gun outside his pants
For all the honest world to feel
Pancho met his match, you know
On the deserts down in mexico
Nobody heard his dying words
Ah, but that’s the way it goes.”
–Townes Van Zandt, “Pancho and Lefty”
After quick showers to wash off the sweaty humidity, we hit the road in the morning. Back onto the concrete tentacles of the interstate system, moving west, always west. As we zip by the exit for New Orleans, the impacts of the pandemic really start to bring our moods down. We had been planning this trip–or theoretical versions thereof–for years. We had dreamt of all the amazing food we would eat; the roadside restaurants with home cooking and regional delicacies. Apple pies, authentic tacos, steaks as a big as my head, and (mmmmm) cajun! Alas, now, all of that was off the table (not just figuratively) as was just about anything involving the indoors or people. Normally the latter would suit me just fine, but, as noted in my previous post, there is an element of the road–America–that is missed when you can’t get out and explore those small wayside towns and interact with their inhabitants. So many missed spontaneous interactions, baked goods, and funky roadside attractions. We were devoted to following all quarantine guidance for the entire trip; for our own good and that of others. However, it certainly left a food-sized emptiness in our experience. How can one claim to have seen Texas without ever having stopped at a roadhouse for a steak?
With our mouths drooling over untasted Cajun, we continued across the featureless bayous of Louisiana. The only notable terrain was the endless bridge across the Atchafalaya swamp; gators baked in the sun as our tires burned asphalt. Our loose plan had been to head down to Big Bend National Park, because when else would we be down here again, so far from anything? We were fairly confident in this plan, given that it had been open for overnight stays for the last few weeks. However, it was at this point that the pandemic started to close in, like a dark shadow over our shoulders that we were trying to outrun. It felt a bit like the ‘nothingness’ in Michael Ende’s ‘The Neverending Story’ (although the movie is an all-time classic, I can’t recommend the actual book enough–one of the greatest presents my grandma ever gave me), which is probably the best analogy for the pandemic that I can think of. The only reason it was spreading was due to apathy, disbelief, and egoism of the typical American. Just as the nothingness slowly took over Fantasia, COVID was spreading across the continent due to lack of anyone caring about the well-being of others. Here we were, running away from the surges in FL where people were refusing to wear masks, because it interfered with their personal liberties and were still going to bars and restaurants like there weren’t 1000s of people dying every day. ‘Give me liberty or give me death!’ I really wonder if people these days have any understanding of the context of the quotes they usurp. Watching people around the country go about their daily lives without masks, it was hard to have empathy when those same people wound up on ventilators begging others to take COVID seriously.
Thus, what we thought we were outrunning, we wound up running right into as we crossed into Texas. Houston was in crisis mode and running out of ICU beds. We stopped to eat our (home made) sandwiches at a roadside rest area just outside of Houston, sweating in the oppressive heat of the mid-Afternoon. As a last check, we called the National Park to see about camping and were told that the park would be closing indefinitely first thing in the morning; a worker contracted coronavirus the day before and everything was being shuttered. The best laid plans of mice and men…
Just keep on keepin’ on. Westward ho’. One benefit of a road trip during the pandemic was observing the sort of de facto green revolution taking place. As we bulleted through cities like Houston and San Antonio we noticed the amazing lack of any traffic. Work from home has eliminated the entire concept of rush hour. It is certainly amazing to witness and think about how the quality of life in the USA could increase just by the elimination of hours a day spent in rush hour traffic. Not to mention the climate benefits and improvements to air quality. Of course, it was easy to praise these developments as we hypocritically chugged along in our brontosaurus of an automobile that ironically was running off the remains of actual brontosauri (ok, more accurately the food that fed brontosauri–I guess as scientists we should try to keep this blog factual). Still, it did bring hope that maybe we can wean ourselves off fossil fuels eventually, though as we passed the smokestacks of the Houston oil refineries, it was obvious that there is too much money involved to ever make it a reality. We will burn this world to the ground before reducing the profits of any corporation.
By early evening we passed San Antonio and the country opened up, we were screaming now across the rolling plains of West Texas where the speed limit tops 80MPH. We had no firm destination in mind as we pounded the pavement through the barren hills, arroyos, gullies, and the increasing topography. In the far distance Mexico beckoned, something in me was saying just take a left and disappear into Mexico. Waking up day after day staring through the heat shimmering off the plains, I could certainly see the draw of heading south to the seashores of ole’ Mexico. A bad country song was being written in my head, which predicted my future life as a runaway cowboy gringo. That genre has been beaten to death, though. Since I do love irony, it struck me as sadly ironic that American songs of moving South are about taking advantage of the less fortunate and being lazy, while I can only imagine Mexican songs about el Norte are likely about working hard. Everything is a one way trip for gringos.
As dusk approached, the purple and pinks of the setting sun were becoming increasingly blocked out by ominous clouds–and we were driving right towards their increasing darkness. We began to see myriad lightning strikes across the horizon ahead and decided to check the local radio. Quickly (out here with a 100 miles between towns, there was only one station) we found an old cowpoke with a strong Texas drawl chattering nervously about the weather. He read the NOAA weather report verbatim, which stated that a large, powerful, and energetic thundercell was ‘barreling’ east–straight down I-10–at the same time that we were barreling west on that selfsame I-10. Apparently, we were on a collision course. Once again, I had a daydream of ‘The Neverending Story’ where Atreyu is heading straight into the heart of the nothing and the storm rages all around him. The radio host, despite his down-home, sing-songy voice, was clearly nervous. He was warning everyone to get off the highway and take cover; there were reports of hail and the strong possibility of tornadoes.
But where are we supposed to go? We are 50 miles from any towns and there hasn’t even been an exit from the highway for another 50 miles. Just sand and cacti as far as the eye can see. No covers, no bridges, no exit. Amid our lack of sleep, the adrenaline flows as the rain starts to fall; large periodic drops at first, then the torrent begins. The visibility declines, the night is black–just the periodic flash of lightning crashing around us, which thunders so loud it feels like it is reverberating in my skull. Do we stop and sit in the open, alone, with no cell phone reception? Or do we keep flying down the highway to the next exit–about 35miles away now?
As the wind starts to pick up, blowing the car between lanes, we decide on the latter. The bulk of the storm has not yet reached Sonora where the station is broadcasting from and is the next exit on I-10. We have a sliver of a chance to beat it there and take cover. And so the race begins. I hit 90+ heading straight west, the storm hits 40+ heading straight east. Our radio friend reaches out through the night like a beacon, continually updating us on the position of the storm, relating all exits on I-10 (none on this side of Sonora) and where to take shelter. There is something strangely calming about his voice echoing over the pounding rain. He is concerned for us, and everyone else out here in the ‘nowhere’ on I-10. As long as he keeps talking to us, it seems like everything will be ok. There is something personal about his voice, his concern, that you just don’t get on the east coast or nearly anywhere anymore. There is nothing corporate about him. Just a local guy, playing local music, concerned for those out there in the night. It is this type of ‘feeling’ that seems like it is missing from life these days. I can’t help thinking how I would love to meet this guy and take him out for a beer–Coors Banquet seems appropriate–and a shot of rotgut whisky at the local saloon. What kind of stories would he tell? What could I learn about the history of this place? Then again, what would we really talk about, though? What could we possibly have in common? I love to feign my working class fishing heritage, but what is left of that in me? I’m just another corporate/government middle class desk sitter. If I walked into a saloon out here, the record would come to a screeching halt and the patrons would boot me out the door. But, the power of daydreams are strong.
I am soon broken from my reverie (I’m not even sure I was watching the road, given that there was nothing to see but the monsoon on the windshield and the blackness of the country) by the most distinct, vivid, sharp, jagged, life affirming lightning that I have ever seen. It zigged and zagged across the sky and I could see each little hairy wisp sprouting off each zag before it disappeared into blackness. It hit the earth with an explosion about 20ft from the edge of the road like a slow motion scene from a western–that tension releasing signal which marks the start of the penultimate shootout. Now, the lighting is everywhere like nothing I have ever seen. Although I have been in a few white squalls in my days on the ocean–an experience that is beyond words–I have never experienced a storm with such energy and ferocity as this one. My foot was glued to the pedal, but I can feel that quaky lightness in my leg signalling the first stages of panic. The lightning crashing to the ground creates small windows of light, illuminating miniature scenes that were strangely calm and still, yet utterly destructive. The cacti and scrubby pines just awaiting their fiery fate like believers awaiting the rapture. Shadows darted across the landscape. Here and there a tree was alight, seemingly pointing at us, like a foreboding sign in a fairy tale telling us to get out while we still can.
A few minutes later, an ominous glow can be seen through the rain. We suddenly come across flashing lights and there on the side of the road is a huge blaze. A lightning strike has started a fire and the flames are raging, despite the endless, flooding rain. First responders just stare with a ‘what are we supposed to do’ kind of empty glaze in their eyes as the scene glows eerily in the night and we fly by. The radio host has now reached a new crescendo and is more finicky, verging on panic. He is practically yelling out the NOAA weather warnings, including golf ball size hail, 70+MPH winds, and tornado warnings. This is your last chance, get off the highway now! As our pulses begin to pound, we see the sign for the next exit and gas station–3miles to go. Against all odds, we make it to the edge of Sonora and pull into a huge gas station and pull under the cover of the pumps, safe from hail, just as all hell breaks loose. Cars are pulling in from all over, a sudden metropolis spawned in the desert emptiness. We all huddle under cover as hail drops from the sky and the wind blows everything not tied down across the lighted parking lot off into the distant blackness of the desert. Lightning crashes, the thunder rolls, and we breathe a sigh of relief as the radio host narrates the events of the storm from down the street. Soon the power goes out and darkness consumes the strange scene with only the lightning to light up the 50+ people huddling in their cars. The storm builds and stalls over Sonora, but luckily no tornadoes form. Our cowpoke narrator describes the litany of reports of wildfires surrounding town, but panic subsides and around 1am things settle down. Cars begin to pull out and continue their journey off into the dark night. The parking lot looks like a disaster–trash cans are toppled and windshield squeegees are splayed about.
As the adrenaline wears off, we realize just how weary and tired we are and how much at a loss we are on what to do next. Eventually, Kristen curls up like a contortionist among the food and takes a couple hours nap on the bed. I read and doze in the front seat envisioning our experience as a Cormac McCarthy novel fast-forwarded 100 years. Later, I read a short travel story about a truck driver that keeps a copy of the ‘border trilogy’ in his cab and envisioned himself as a modern day cowboy. He was doing a better job than me, but we were both delusional and candy glossing the past. I’m reminded of the epilogue to ‘Cities of the Plain’ (perhaps the greatest 20 pages of American writing ever) in which an 80 year John, a cowboy past his prime, curls up for a nap at an abandoned gas station. Delusional from the heat of the Texas day, he dreams of his life and becomes confused as to whether his dreams are reality. In my semi-delusional, sleep-deprived state watching the comings and goings of this gas station parking lot at 3am, I completely understand his dilemma–is this my real life? In the story, a woman eventually comes to his rescue, which makes me wonder if that would ever happen these days. People seem so inwardly focused, would we ever even notice a homeless person on the side of the road? And, if we did, would we do anything to help them? Unsettling thoughts to finish an unsettling day.
And so ended the first 1500 miles, nearly 1/3rd, of our trip. Nothing but highways and frustration. More than once we have given each other that contemplative and questioning look of ‘why are we even doing this?’ However, at least in part, it is for just these types of new experiences. To just get out, to make our own stories. It is for that cowpoke radio host. To experience these slowly disappearing pieces of americana; to gain a connection to something long lost. That sort of torpid sleepiness of existence from a time before computers and cell phones, which seems perfectly encapsulated by a man with a drawl coming on the radio to warn you that all shit was about to break loose. As crazy as it may seem to 97% of us, that voice from the void was our only source of intel, there was no cell signal out there; no connection to data except the man on the radio worried for our safety. Without him we would have been sitting in a hail storm with a cracked windshield on the barren hills east of Sonora. This ‘old-fashioned’ form of communicating felt somehow personal. We will never meet him, but I’ll never forget his voice and he has now become intertwined in our story. There is something weirdly compelling and personal about the whole experience that is hard to explain. Something about relying on others, not just our phones, that feels real, lively. I’m sure it will sound put-on, insincere when read here, but these are the types of experiences that make traveling interesting, worth it. They may not be fun, exotic, or ‘insta-worthy’. They are, however, exciting in their own way and make you appreciate the daily journey.
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