Story – The Desert Ride

In 2019, I took a solo trip through the American Southwest. I’d flown into Phoenix, rented a car, and planned to drive across Arizona, dipping into New Mexico and back, just to see the desert landscapes I’d only ever read about.

One afternoon, I left a small town called Holbrook with the intention of reaching Albuquerque before nightfall. It was about a four-hour drive on the interstate, but halfway through I decided to get off the highway. The idea of cutting across a back road, maybe catching a sunset over the desert, sounded romantic. Besides, the GPS showed a straight line through.

The road I turned onto was paved at first, wide and flat, but after about twenty minutes the asphalt gave way to gravel. Dust kicked up behind my car and blurred the rearview mirror. At first I didn’t mind — the scenery was breathtaking: long stretches of red sand, mesas in the distance, the occasional tumbleweed. But then the fuel gauge caught my eye. I was already under half a tank, and the next gas station wasn’t anywhere on my map.

Still, I pressed on.

After another half hour, the road narrowed, winding between low ridges. That’s when I noticed a white van parked on the shoulder ahead. Its hood was up, steam or smoke curling into the air. As I slowed, a man stepped out. He waved both arms and called for help.

I rolled the window down just a crack. His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t had water in a while. He said he’d broken down and needed a ride to the nearest town. Something about him made me uneasy, though. He was sweating, but not like someone stranded in the desert should be — more like he was agitated. His eyes kept darting behind me, scanning the road.

I told him I was low on gas and couldn’t risk it. He stepped closer to my window, his hand resting on the edge of the door. That’s when I saw movement — the passenger side of the van. Another man, crouched low, like he was waiting.

A jolt of fear shot through me. I slammed the car into drive and hit the gas. The man shouted, pounding his palm on my window, but I swerved past and sped down the gravel road. In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse: the second man had stepped out now, watching me leave. Neither of them tried to chase me, but the image of both standing in that endless desert stuck with me.

The problem was, I didn’t know where the road led anymore. My phone had no signal, the sun was sliding toward the horizon, and my fuel gauge was dipping closer to empty. My mind kept replaying what would’ve happened if I’d stopped. Two men, a remote desert, no one around for miles.

I drove another hour before finally hitting pavement again. By the time I found a gas station on the edge of a Navajo reservation, it was nearly dark. The attendant asked where I’d come from, and when I mentioned the gravel road, his face tightened. He told me in a flat voice that people sometimes staged breakdowns out there. “You did the right thing,” he said. “You never stop for anyone on those back roads.”

That night I booked a motel in Albuquerque, but I hardly slept. Every time headlights passed my window, I jolted awake, convinced the white van had followed me.

I still love road trips, but I stick to the highways now. The open desert is beautiful, but it hides more than just mesas and sunsets. And when I think back to that moment — two men, one waving me down, the other crouched low — I’m grateful instinct told me to hit the gas.