The Great Connector

You were snoring so sweetly I didn’t have the heart to wake you up, Jennie said.

She had half her stuff packed and coffee brewing. She hadn’t slept well, and then she had a flat tire before we even left camp.

It was hot, and Jennie wasn’t feeling it. We took a right – up a quiet highway toward the wild burro preserve. We spotted an old stone building way out there, and sort of a road to get to it.

Push harder, said the bikes. The sand was fine and soft and deep and sucked on our shoes, and we pushed and dragged and begged our bikes to get through it all. But then it was okay riding for a few minutes and then we parked and walked around the structure.

Stone fireplace and rough stonework walls. Windows still lined with cracked, bleached wood and tiny rusty nails. The ceiling long gone, claimed by the land. Sand pushing its way in drifts against the walls, through the cracks. A crow caw-caw-cawing above – giving us the once-over.

Why would anyone travel through that whole desert and then find this raw cough of land with no hint of water and say, ‘yep Rachel. this is the spot. this is where we’ll make a good life. help me grab some rocks’.

Go a little bit more, I told them, far too late. California is right over there and then you can grow plants and get a drink. You’re almost there.

No wild burros.

We stopped and pulled out our sun umbrellas. Sat next to the road in our shade spots and made sandwiches.

Noon, we’d said to Mom. We’ll be done by noon and we’re worried about the heat. See if you can pick us up by noon.

A long, slow uphill. I liked it when Jennie went first. I could stare at her back tire and not focus on how long and slow the uphill was. Just round-and-round-and-round. Wondering if that tire would go flat again. Watching the sides floof out a tiny bit. Waiting to see if they’d floof out even more. Waiting to see if I needed to tell her to stop.

I liked it when the big rigs went by. The whooshing air behind them cooled my face just enough. There was no other breeze.

And no wild burros.

Finally, with a good whoop, we made the summit and started downhill. It was medium-long but with no traffic, we got to look around. Shades of brown. Light brown basins that used to hold water. Dark brown rock faces toward the tops of the hills. Black volcanic rock with a dusting of beige sand.

I heard a car honk behind me.

Mom was there. It was 11:55.

She went around us and pulled over. After sufficient hugs, we agreed that we needed to ride the remaining 8 miles to our finish line but we’d put our gear in the car first. Mom went ahead to wait for us. To take Victory Day photos. For our traditional VD-Collage on our vision boards. Because we still think that’s funny.

A mile from the finish line, Jennie pulled over. I thought she had a flat. I stopped.

Look, she said.

There was a wild mustang by the side of the road. Dead.

He’d been there for a while I guess, but not too long. His black mane and tail flowing away in the sand as though he were running. His teeth intact. His tawny fur still attached to his legs and the underside of his body.

My Mom pulled up in the car. Did you get a flat, she asked?

Come look at this, we said.

She turned off the car and came over for the viewing. His ribs and backbone bleached and reaching to the sky. One leg horribly twisted, a dark stain on his leathery leg above his hoof.

Car must’ve hit him.

Poor guy.

He was beautiful. And so wild. And so free.

And maybe that’s all we can wish for in life and in death.

Jennie and I rode to the stop sign. The ending point. The point that connected it all.

I had officially traversed the border of Mexico to just North of Crater Lake, Oregon by bicycle and foot. As of that stop sign.

This ride was The Great Connector.

We took some photos of us with the stop sign.

That’s not good enough, Jennie said. That could be any stop sign anywhere.

Yeah but I know where it is, and that’s the important part.

We looked down the road. We could see my Mom and the car, but she hadn’t turned around yet to come get us.

I bet the car died, I said.

That’s not funny, Jennie said.

I laughed. Yes it is. I bet it died.

We rode back to the car. It was dead. A Dead Car next to a Dead Horse.

The next two hours were filled with car after car stopping to help but no jumper cables. Why doesn’t anyone have jumper cables. Why don’t I have jumper cables, for that matter.

Mom climbing to the top of the hill and holding her phone high up in the air like a sword, but still no reception. Mom, busy making slips of paper with the phone number for AAA and all the information they needed to come rescue us and handing them out to everyone like they were coupons for free coffee. Me and Jennie sitting in the dirt in the slip of shade from the car. Truckers stopping to tell us to stay in the car and lock the doors since it’s so dangerous out in the desert. Us – laughing because it was already 95 degrees in the shade and we’d die for sure in the car.

I finally started hiking. A family stopped and drove me to the stop sign to try to get reception on their phone. The Dad flagged down every vehicle that passed and eventually got a guy who drove me back to Mom and Jennie and he flagged someone else down and that guy actually had a little box thing that jumped my car.

Resourceful desert folks.

On the way home, Vic wanted to meet us at the same McDonald’s. Tony the Prayer-Warrior was there, so we thanked him and told him we succeeded. Vic led the way to his house and we met his wife and drank our milkshakes. He gave us each a photo from his professional collection. The car kept running in the driveway. We were afraid to turn it off.

And then we drove home on fumes.

And all these people for days had come together to help us. All these kind souls who volunteered to help out some strangers. Gave us cold water. Took us fishing. Told us stories. Prayed for us. All these folks who restored our faith in Humanity. And in the Universe.

And we were Beautiful. And Wild. And Free.

33 miles