Dear Kate,
I must tell you a story. I hope you’ve got a cup of coffee to sip and a muffin to nibble while you read this one—it’s a doozy. Note: all of the names I use are made up.
From a coffee shop in Austin, planning my 30-day road trip seemed simple, trivial. An adventure. A chance to take back control of my life, to go where I wanted when I wanted.
Well: not exactly.
First, I planned to camp at the Chisos Basin, a well-equipped campground at Big Bend National Park with restrooms, parking spots, and barbecue grills. But a few days before leaving Austin, my reservation was canceled due to plague and pestilence. I found an alternative on Hipcamp, thirty minutes outside of Big Bend. I could still hike in the park. “It’ll be fine,” I thought.
Driving out to the campsite—six hours from Austin and sixty miles from the nearest grocery store, gas station, or restaurant—I began to sweat. There was nothing. Just dirt. White dirt. Not even dirt really, but a fine white sand, the residue left by active bentonite mines. There were no trees. There was no cell-phone service. There were no park rangers, maps, or guides. There was just me.
I drove unpaved roads, following tracks left by mining trucks. I arrived at a wooden sign that said “Welcome!” The campsite looked like everything else: dirt.
It was 4:00 pm, and the temperature crept from 90 degrees toward 100. It took me an hour to pitch the tent, poles poking in every direction. Wind caught the rainfly. I held the tent’s corners with my feet to hammer them into the sand, one at a time. (Maybe now is a good time to mention I have never been camping before?)
But I did it. I made my home.
I sat inside. White sand covered my legs, my hair, and my eyelashes. The wind blew more sand into the tent, so I zipped up its windows and doors. The tent baked. My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten lunch. I forgot to pack a chair to sit in. I had a hammock, but no trees to string it from.
I just need to make it to sunset, I thought. Then it will be cool, and I can make a fire. I can cook dinner and sing myself a campfire song. I will transform into John Wayne.
By 7:30 pm, I was starving. I was also soaked in sweat. I stepped out of the tent into a gust of chilly wind, sand whipping. I popped the trunk of my car to rummage for a granola bar, some Cheez Its, and a bottle of water. So much for a cowboy dinner. When I closed the trunk, I looked over at my tent. Or, where my tent should have been. It was gone. The wind had pulled up the stakes.
Damnit!
I chased after the tent and caught it, hauling it back toward the car. Now billowing like a sail, the tent’s poles bent against the wind. I tried to shuffle rocks onto its corners with my feet, tried to force the stakes back into the ground. The night winds picked up over the plains. The sun was almost gone.
I give up, I thought. I’ll just shove the tent in the car and sleep in the front seat.
While I fumbled with the trunk, the owner of the property came out from a rickety house. His dogs barked in the distance. He was an older man wearing a bright pink T-shirt and thick glasses.
“Where ya headed?” he said. “I watched you set that tent up. Looked like it was a lot of work. I came to see why you took it down.”
I’m sure he was a very nice man. He had great reviews on Hipcamp. But at 8:00 pm, in an empty desert, with no cell service, and an empty stomach, I became acutely aware of my own fragility.
What the hell was I doing?
I used to live in the most powerful city on earth. I used to wear four-inch heels. I used to command a salary. I used to be in control. Now I was alone and small. If I died, no one would hear it. What was I doing here? Why was I covered in dirt? What did this man want with me?
“I’m headed back to town,” I said. I slammed the door and drove off.
The next morning, I woke up in an Airbnb in Alpine. It probably would have been fine, I thought. You were a chicken. A big baby. What a miserable feeling.
I planned this road trip to remember how to be capable. To cast off the memories of sitting alone in New York. To bury the weeks of pacing an Airbnb in Austin, listless, any ambition squashed by uncertainty. On the road, there would be no more waiting. There would be no more doom scrolling. There would be action. There would be movement. There would be control.
But two days into the trip, there I was: a chicken, a baby, making coffee in someone else’s house.
The next stop was Fort Davis. I wouldn’t chicken out again.
Only 1,029 people live in Fort Davis. The Continental Army established the community in 1854 when it built a military outpost to protect the roads between San Antonio and El Paso. A historical placard marks the jailhouse in the town square. There is no cell-phone service.
I made it to Fort Davis just in time for lunch: fried chicken strips and onion rings served with ketchup, black-pepper gravy, and a Dr. Pepper. The grease stuck to my fingers even after three squirts of hand sanitizer.
After lunch, I got in the car to drive to my campsite. According to the app, the campsite I booked had big trees, an expansive view, and a wooden platform to set up a tent on. It was remote. It was far from the red glow of Fox News, far from lines at the food bank, far from refrigerated trucks parked at morgues. It looked like paradise. It looked like escape.
As I drove on Highway 118, mountains rose and the air began to smell like pine. The temperature dropped to 65 degrees. The app’s directions read: “Turn off the highway, follow the dirt road until it ends, and then turn left onto the side-road for the final ascent.” A note from the property’s host added “Warning: four-wheel drive is required.” That’s fine, I thought. My car had made it on plenty of dirt roads so far. This would be fine. I could do it. I had to do it.
I put my 2007 Ford Edge in park at the base of the mountain. I got out, and looked at the final stretch, a half mile dirt road at a sharp, sharp incline. It was rocky. It was steep. I didn’t have any experience with off-road driving. But I’d come this far. It was late afternoon, and the sun was starting to set. I had to make it to the top.
I shifted into drive and hit the gas to get up the hill, gas, gas, and a bit more gas, gaining momentum, gaining speed, gaining altitude, climbing like a roller coaster, my back pressed against the seat, the nose of the car right in front of the windshield, going up, up, up.
Then a skid.
The sound of grinding.
The smell of rubber.
It’s alright, I thought. Just a bit stuck.
I hit reverse and slid backward, suddenly out of control, the brake pressed against the floorboard but the car slipping, slipping, slipping. I tried drive again, turning the wheel to miss the ruts I’d just created. More skids. More grinding. I switched back to reverse, and slipped again.
Was this working? What was happening?
I hit the parking brake. I got out of the car to look at the road.
What I saw made me want to puke. My car’s back right wheel rested on the edge of a cliff. It sat inches from a drop-off, inches from the side of the road, inches from a long way down. My hands shook. One more minute in reverse and...
That was it. No more. I locked the car. I wasn’t getting back in. I checked my phone. No signal.
You’re an idiot, I thought. There are people dying brutal deaths across the country—deaths from fire, virus, inequality, prejudice, political violence—deaths of importance and weight. But you, with all of your privilege, you decided to drive off a cliff in the middle of nowhere just for fun.
I started to walk down the dirt road. A rock got stuck in my shoe. I let it stay there and jab me with each step.
You.
Deserve.
It.
Because.
You’re.
An.
Idiot.
The crunch of my sneakers made the only sound for miles. What was my plan? There were no cars around. I couldn’t hitchhike. How far would I have to walk to get cell-phone service? Once I had service, then what? I could call AAA, but could a tow truck even get up that road? The sun was setting.
I walked a mile or two down the road and saw signs of life. An RV and a teardrop camper sat parked near a metal shed. Two dogs slept within a chain-link fence.
Maybe these people would have a phone I could borrow? I slowly approached. The dogs lifted their heads. A step toward the RV set off a cacophony of barking and snorting. It occurred to me for the second time in two days that if I died no one would know.
A head poked out. “Hello? Is someone there?” She looked to be about 40 years old with long, dark brown hair. She used a hand to shade her eyes from the setting sun.
I pictured myself through this woman’s eyes. I stood in her yard as a blonde 25-year-old, hair yanked into a ponytail, wearing Adidas sneakers and Old Navy leggings, covered in dirt, with shaky hands and wild eyes. What an idiot, she must have thought.
“Yes, hi, my name is Ali,” I said. “I’m from Austin, and I’m here on a camping trip and I got my car stuck on the hill up toward the mountain. I’m just wondering if I could borrow your phone to call AAA and see if they could—”
“Oh no, honey,” she said. “AAA doesn’t come out here. Why don’t you come inside? I think I know someone that can help. Let me just call my friend Joe.”
I stood in the doorway, wringing my hands. Should I put on a mask? Should I take off my shoes? What is the Emily Post etiquette for 2020?
“Come on, come on all the way in, come sit down here,” the woman said, patting a recliner. “My name is Susan. Can I get you something to drink? Are you alright? Just a bit scared is all, huh?”
She picked up her phone, held close to a cell-service repeater, and made a call.
“Hi Joe,” she said. “I have a little favor to ask of you. Could you come by in your truck? Okay. Great. Thanks. See you in 20 minutes.” That was it. She hung up.
“So what happened?” she asked. “What brought you all the way out here?”
I started to tell her, started to tell her about New York, started to tell her about watching pigeons fight on the windowsill for hours, started to tell her about crying in the shower, started to tell her about losing friends, losing comfort, losing safety, losing hope, and it came out in a rush, a sweaty, anxious mishmash of emotion, sentences eating each other, the story culminating in my fight with the tent in Big Bend.
“That’s when I decided to drive up the mountain,” I said.
There was a knock at the door.
“C’mon in,” my host said.
Another woman with short, highlighted blonde hair opened the door. “Hey girlfriend,” she said. “I came by because I thought I heard a car driving—” Then she saw me sitting on the recliner.
“Oh my. Who is this? I’m Tawny. I’m Susan’s neighbor,” she said.
Repeats: “My name is Ali. I’m from Austin. I got my car stuck on the mountain.”
“Oh my. Did you call Joe?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Well, wow. Oh my. I’m glad you’re alright,” Tawny said. “Should we make a pitcher of margaritas while we wait for Joe? Would anyone like margaritas? Honey, if you’re still stuck later tonight you can come over to my house for dinner. I have a guest room too. Don’t worry at all, honey, you’re safe and we’re glad you’re here. Why don’t we just make some margaritas?”
Then came another knock at the door. It was Tawny’s husband.
“What’s taking so long in here?” he said. “Tawny, I’ve been out in the truck.”
Then he saw me. “Hello there,” he said, giving a little wave. “Nice to meet you.”
Repeats: “My name is Ali. I’m from Austin. I got my car stuck on the mountain.”
“Oh boy. Did you call Joe yet?”
“Yes, we did.”
Ten minutes later, the sound of a sputtering engine filled the RV. The largest truck I have ever seen pulled up to the door. At the sound, Susan stood and disappeared into the RV’s back bedroom.
“Would you excuse me? Just need to put on a bra real quick.” She laughed. “It’s one of the benefits of having long hair.”
Joe rapped on the RV door. “Hello in there,” he said.
I answered. “Hi.”
Confusion.
Repeats: “My name is Ali. I’m from Austin. I got my car stuck on the mountain.” My new refrain. “Susan is inside, she’s just putting on—”
“Putting on a bra?” he asked.
Susan howled with laughter from the back bedroom.
“I was going to say sweater.”
“Hi Joe, thank you for coming,” Susan said, coming to the front door. “Y’all ready to go get this car? It’s just up the road a little ways.”
Joe saluted and hopped back in the truck. He took off in a cloud of dirt, rumbling up the road.
We followed Joe. I rode with Susan in her truck, another monster vehicle nicknamed “Big Bertha.” When we arrived, Joe was ripping the cord on a chainsaw. A cloud of black smoke swirled.
“Keeps the mosquitoes away,” he said, waving the saw and its smoke.
A few cedar saplings surrounded the front right tire of my car. Joe touched the edge of the chainsaw to them, sweeping them away. With the trees clear, he tossed the chainsaw back in the truck.
“Alright,” he said. “Could you hand over them keys?”
Well. I bought this car a month ago. I paid cash. I had the cheapest insurance plan I could find. This car was my only ride home. It accounted for a significant chunk of my savings. But I had no choice. I had to trust Joe.
I handed him the keys and turned around. I couldn’t watch.
A few minutes later he yelled down at the group, “Alright, all done!” My car sat at the top of the mountain, parked in front of the campsite. “You’re all set!” he yelled.
“Awesome,” “Thanks Joe,” “Good job!” The ladies cheered.
But I didn’t want to go up that road again—even on foot.
“Joe. Um. Could you, could you bring the car back down here?” I stammered. “Would you mind just bringing it down? Back to the road?”
The ladies looked confused.
All at once: “Honey, you should finish what you started.” “You should go up there and do what you set out to do.” “Look, the car did fine climbing the hill, you just got stuck because you were nervous.” “You could have done it.” “You’ll be fine!” “Where are the margaritas?”
Were they right? Was I chickening out again?
But as I looked at the group of people that had assembled to help me—people who offered a helping hand for absolutely no reason other than the kindness in their hearts—I was struck by the futility of my initial goal. I was never going to “test my metal” in the wilderness and return a victor. No one achieves anything on their own. No one succeeds alone. No one “pulls themselves up by their bootstraps” all by themselves. Self-reliance is a myth, and a toxic one.
Instead of reaffirming my ability to control my life, to take action, to bend the world to my will, I reaffirmed what has always been true: You can’t control shit.
Tents fly off. Tires get stuck. Fires burn. Diseases ravage. Hiding in the woods doesn’t fix it. We have to keep going.
All we can do is turn to each other, lost and alone, and dig for the strength to ask for help. We have to trust each other. Culturally, politically, socially, I’m sure I was completely opposite my rescuers. But it didn’t matter. They didn’t ask to review my Twitter feed or voting record before offering to help. They just offered. Real strength isn’t control—it’s trust.
When the car came down the mountain, I thanked Joe and handed him a wad of $20s I stashed in the glove compartment for emergencies. “It’s no problem ma’am,” he said as he drove off, chainsaw bouncing in the truck bed.
Susan gave me a little hug, and told me to drive safely. “It was nice to meet you,” she said. “I have a daughter about your age. I hope someone nice will help her if she is ever in trouble too.”
As I drove out of Fort Davis, I turned west on I-10 and eventually made it to safety at your in-laws’ house in El Paso. Over the weekend they took me to dinner, made me breakfast, squeezed me in hugs, and plied me with fresh cups of coffee. They also showed me your husband’s childhood rock collection. And his insect collection. Very impressive!
Again, they gave with no expectation. They gave out of love.
Some folks may think of West Texas as an empty desert, a smattering of small towns full of backward hicks.
But what if it’s the rest of us that have had it backward all along?
XOXOX,
Ali
My favorite one so far <3
Love it.