Hitching to the South Rim / The Flying Car

Whats up everyone. I'm still not dead. If you are finding yourself with nothing to do on this fine afternoon you should give this little short story a go. Merry Christmas everyone. 

Yo solo tengo veinte-tres años, but during this short amount of time I have been able to collect many stories in a variety of cultures. I’m not quite sure what ignited the flame, but the last five years of my life I have had a burning desire to experience the world. I don't know what qualifies one as a “world-traveler,” and frankly I don’t really care. I cannot recall one trip in my life that I would classify as glamorous. Instead I make do with what I’ve got and try to enjoy every moment presented to me.

This story takes place in an exciting chapter in my life: post-college. After graduating, there were endless opportunities, so I did what any normal 21-year-old with an English degree would do — I found myself a job at a local liquor store. Working full-time slangin’ alcohol and living out of a semi-converted U-Haul truck with my best friend kept the responsibilities to a minimum and the disposable cash-for-travel flowing.

Truck Life Bby

——

I’m sure this adventure was birthed like many others – sitting on my make-do plywood bed and day-dreaming with a map in my hands. I realized, in that moment, “Why the hell haven’t I been to the Grand Canyon yet?!” And just like that, I found myself on the side of the road with backpack crammed with secondhand gear. With my thumb out, it was time to hitch a ride to the big-hole-in-the-ground.

By this time in my life I had already hitch-hiked thousands of miles: (including, but not limited to, a life-changing birthday trip to Seward, Alaska.) However, I had yet to hit to the road solo. My confidence and the spirit of adventure were flowing at full force.

Fast forward several hundred miles and I found myself exactly were I was warned not to be. The sun was setting and the heat of the day was receding fast. I was without a ride in (the infamous) “Tuba City.” Tuba is a small, low-income city situated in the Navaho Reservation in northern Arizona. Before setting off on my trip I had never heard of this place, but some trustworthy folk who had given me a ride earlier in the day had dropped me off and left me with a little advice: "Avoid this lawless res-town after dark."

As the sun was setting, I found myself with a difficult decision — either I had to find a spot to sleep in the city for the night where I was warned not to be, or I had to hitch into the night uncertain of where I would end up. Fueled by fear, I waited – thumb out.

There is something unusually zen and calming about hitchhiking solo. In the desert of the Western U.S., long hours would pass and solitude would consume you while waiting at the liberty of cars traversing the barren landscape. Most times this was a very calm and reflective time for me, but other times I was terrified of being robbed (or worse!)

Just like any other human being, I was consumed by my thoughts – hoping that every car would be my savior in passing. That's when it happened. Out of nowhere, the rattiest, early 90s model Chevy Blazer puttered up to me and stopped. I am not being sarcastic when I say this car had seen better days. Missing both bumpers and rolling up on the most balled tires I have ever seen, the vehicle looked liked someone had taken out their anger on its rusty panels with a Louisville slugger.

The owner reached over the passenger seat and opened the door.

“Where you goin’?”

The words slurred together, coming out in a beautiful, stifled slaw of drunkeness. Seconds felt like hours when I had to decide whether I wanted to die there, on the side of the road or a bit further down in the passenger seat of the Chevy beside this young,drunken Navaho fellow.

“The South Rim,” I decided.

I climbed into the passenger seat and put my backpack between me and the car's fire-wall, noticing that the vehicle was lacking a dashboard.

Before I could shut my door we were off – speeding down the road. I found it truly impressive that the dude was able to keep the American-made and Navaho-rebuilt death-trap on the road while carrying a semi-coherent conversation with himself, and also not spill a single drop of his Mickeys 40.

Happy that I was moving away from Tuba and closer to my goal, I settled into my obviously transplanted, seatbelt-less, bucket seat. My nerves were in tremors. I thought, "he probably does this all the time, just be cool..."

After about 10 minutes of awkward silence – only interrupted by the occasional grinding of the Chevy's gears – he popped the question.

“Y'mind if I take a short cut?”

I swallowed hard and before I could respond he jerked the wheel to the left and started racing down an unmarked dirt road.

I need to take a minute to give my driver some credit.

This guys was handling our post-apocalyptic wagon like it was an extension of his drunken body. We zipped past potholes and burnt down mobile homes as we chased the setting sun across the desert.

Somehow I once again found my cool — it was short lived.

“You like jumps?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“You mean for the car?”

“Yeah theres a jump coming up its pretty cool.”

I stared hard at the side of the mans face hoping he wasn’t serious. He took one last swig of his cheap malt-liquor and casually tossed the bottle behind us into the back seat.

Frantically I scanned my side of the car for something to hold on to. I have never been a huge fan of seatbelts, but in this particular moment I would have given anything to be strapped down. He threw the transmission back down into third gear and a smile stretched across his face.

Pause —

I have been face-to-face with angry Grizzlies; held under Class Four rapids; skied off of huge cliffs; had shark encounters; been the first on the scene of a fatal motorcycle crash; shoot, I have literally been run over by a car; but nothing compares to flying through the air with a drunken driver at sunset in the Arizona desert.

Play –

The hair stood up on the back of my neck, and my heart dropped down into my stomach as all four wheels came off the ground. When we were reunited with planet earth, it was with a huge crash as the suspension of the truck bottomed out. The car fish-tailed a bit and we continued down the road.

“Nice.”

At that point, my vocabulary was rendered down to one, single, four-letter word.

The rest of the ride continued in a similar manner until we reconnected with highway 89 – just North of Cameron. The car slowed to a stop.

“Follow that drainage ditch for about a half mile and it will drop off into a small canyon you can camp in.”

“Thanks.”

I gathered my gear and climbed out of the car. The next day I would find myself hiking into the mile deep Grand Canyon. No worries.

Don't Worry Mom - I Made It