As distracted as I was, I have to say that the drive from Texas to California delivered much more than the monotony of the previous 18 hours. The landscape shifted dramatically, as if the travel itself was trying to pull me out of my own mind. Fields gave way to deserts which eventually gave way to rugged mountains. Despite the heaviness I carried, there were moments when the beauty of the scenery managed to pierce my thoughts. For a moment, for these moments, I was able to think of something else, even if just for a minute. My fear and uncertainty never disappeared, but for these brief stretches of time, the beauty of the world around me gave me something else to focus on. Looking back, there were many glimmers of hope amidst the unknown.
The 3rd day of our trip proved the most eventful. After spending a night in Carlsbad, New Mexico, we packed up to hit the road. But my spontaneous nature had other plans. When I realized we were only a couple of miles from Carlsbad Caverns I turned to Tarik and said “We need to make a pit stop!” Unbeknownst to me, Tarik had some work meetings he needed to attend and insisted we didn’t have time for detours. So naturally I replied with “You don’t have time for detours. I’ll catch up with you later, at some point, further down the road. Bye!” Without protest, Tarik set off to start his drive while I made my way to Carlsbad Caverns. The idea of driving right passed a place as extraordinary as this felt impossible. I couldn’t imagine ignoring the chance to explore the park, even if it meant shaking up our plans. Afterall, I was already feeling shaken and when you feel like mortality is being thrown in your face, you take every opportunity you get to truly live.
I spent an hour at Carlsbad. Not long enough to go into the caverns (not long enough period), but just long enough to find moments of stillness at the overlooks. It was enough time to marvel at the beauty of the world, even amidst the pain and suffering – both the kind we witness for others and the kind we carry ourselves.
When I left the caverns, I continued heading west through the Guadalupe Valley. It’s 100 degrees and as I wind through the arid valley I hear a pop. Instantly, the car begins bouncing, accompanied by the flop of loose rubber. I quickly pulled off to the side of the road, my heart sinking. The Guadalupe Valley is stunning, but it’s not exactly brimming with convenience stores or auto shops. I already knew what had happened before I even stepped out of the car. As my continued good luck would have it, I had managed to land myself in yet another mess and since I’d insisted on going solo on this little adventure, this one was all mine to handle. But I’ve changed a flat tire before. I can do it again.
I open the driver’s side door and a wave of hot, suffocating air hits me like a sauna. I walk to the back of the car and confirm my suspicion: the tire was shredded, a gash running through it like a jagged wound, leaving a gaping piece of rubber hanging off the hub cap. There was no patching this up. My only option at this point was to get the spare, which was inconveniently buried beneath every random item we hadn’t managed to fit in the moving truck. I started unloading what could only have looked like a roadside garage sale gone horribly wrong. Boxes of Christmas ornaments, plastic skeletons and Halloween lights, comforters, and bags of clothes spilled out onto the cement shoulder. The absurdity of the situation would have been comical if it weren’t for the blistering heat and my rising anxiety.
Just as I was hauling out another random box, I noticed an 18-wheeler slowing behind me. My stomach clenched. It was broad daylight, but if you’re a woman who’s ever had an unsettling encounter at a gas station, parking lot or just about anywhere, you’ll understand the primal fear that grips you when a strange, very large man approaches.
My mind raced with the worst-case scenarios as the driver climbed down from his cab. The first thought that crossed my mind? I’ve just emptied the perfect trunk for him to throw me into.
He stopped several meters away, as though he could sense my wariness. His voice, soft and measured, broke the silence. “How are you doing? I’m guessing you’ve been better.” I responded “You have no idea”. It was the way he kept his distance, his tone gentle, and his demeanor non-threatening that began to ease the tension in my chest. It was as though he knew how his presence might feel to a stranded woman on a desolate highway and wanted to make sure he didn’t add to my stress. He offered to help me change the tire and while every fiber of my being wanted to handle this myself, I knew I needed the help. Little did I know, this was only one of many times in the coming months that I’d have to begrudgingly ask for help. One of the bolts on the tire had been stripped and though I surprised myself by even having a spare in the trunk – and let’s be honest, it’s really Tarik who made sure there was a spare – I had no tools capable of tackling this situation. This savior of a man, with his long gray beard segmented neatly by tiny hair ties, retrieved a toolbox from his truck. Without hesitation, he got to work, kneeling on the hot asphalt as if it was just another routine stop.
The whole scene felt surreal. Here was this rugged-looking truck driver, working methodically and efficiently, while I hovered nearby, snapping a picture and feeling both grateful and awkwardly useless. Meanwhile, the occasional gust of wind wreaked havoc with my makeshift roadside storage pile, sending stray Halloween skeletons clattering across the ground.
“You weren’t kidding about needing a bit of help” he chuckled, tugging at the stubborn bolt with a tool that he’d jerry-rigged from a wrench and a pipe. Within minutes he’d loosened the stripped bolt, swapped out the shredded tire, and secured the spare. As he packed up his tools, he explained apologetically that he didn’t have an extra bolt to replace the stripped one but reassured me that 4 out of 5 would hold long enough to get me to El Paso where I could get a replacement for a few dollars. Honestly, the way my life was going at the time, 4 out of 5 felt pretty good.
Then, dusting off his hands and throwing his toolbox back in his truck he insisted on following me to El Paso – just in case anything else went wrong. El Paso is over 90 miles from Carlsbad Caverns. I couldn’t believe this man, a complete stranger, was going to spend the next hour and a half shadowing me through the desert. I thanked him profusely, though words felt insufficient to express the gratitude I felt in that moment. Even in the most desolate of places, kindness has a way of finding you – and reminding you that, despite everything, you’re not entirely alone.
The next hour and half went by fairly quickly. I tried to enjoy the drive and I trusted what he said about 4 out 5 bolts holding the spare, yet I couldn’t help but roll through various scenarios in my head; the tire flying off into the desert, bolts loosening and me running off the edge of the road, quite like what happened on my 17th birthday when I rolled and totaled my parent’s new Jetta. I turn up some music, keep an eye on the 18-wheeler behind me, and make my way to El Paso. As I near the outskirts of El Paso and signs of civilization come into view, the truck driver stays true to his word. He signals me toward an auto parts store, giving a gentle honk of his horn and wave – a gesture of care and goodwill. That day, a stranger reminded me how powerful a simple act of kindness can be.
After finding a bolt that fit my spare, I was back on the road. By now, Tarik was on the other side of El Paso, so catching up to him felt within reach. That optimistic thought lasted exactly as long as it took for me to pull out of the auto parts store – where I was greeted by swirling blue lights and the unmistakable wail of a siren.
Have you ever had one of those days where bad luck feels like it’s on a roll, lining up disasters like dominoes? I let myself wallow in self-pity for a fleeting moment before snapping out of it. Time to handle this next mess I’ve gotten myself into. Now, I’m not claiming sainthood here – I think that 5-10 over the speed limit is a perfectly respectable speed – But I hadn’t been back on the road long enough to even consider speeding, so I genuinely had no clue what this was about. It’s always fascinating how cops approach your car – slow, steady, and deliberate, like they’re auditioning for a crime drama. You couldn’t pay me enough to do that job. The officer, who looked about my age, asked for my license and registration. The license; easy. The registration? Buried somewhere in the black hole that is my glovebox, I think. After what felt like an eternity of digging, I finally unearthed it. He thanked me, told me to hang tight, and headed back to his car. It’s funny how the absence of a criminal record does absolutely nothing to calm the nerves in these moments. As he walked back, a sinking realization hit me: my registration sticker. It’s current, sure, but it’s not exactly displayed on the license plate where it belongs. Oh, right. That.
I braced for the inevitable ticket and resigned myself to losing more time. I still had hours of driving ahead and no patience for unwanted detours. But instead, the officer let me off with a warning. I thanked him, exhaled the tension, and got back on the road.