Marooned

The digital sign read, ACCIDENT AHEAD. ROAD CLOSED. FOLLOW DETOUR, and that’s what I did, or thought I was doing. I-25 between Las Cruces and Albuquerque is the personification of desolate nothingness. Becoming lost should have been impossible. The word impossible only applies to a task until someone accomplishes that task and, unfortunately, that someone was me. There were sparsely placed detour signs right up to where the road forked. Then it was driver’s choice. Waze was useless because there was no cell service. I chose the right fork, which was definitely wrong.

I continued to drive as the road became narrower and changed from black top to hard packed dirt. Yes, it was time to turn around, but there were two problems: 1) if my tires left the hard pack, they would sink into the soft dirt that lined both sides of the road; and 2) I had less than an eighth of a tank of gas. Logic dictated that if there was a road, there had to be a settlement along it somewhere up ahead, so I continued on. The setting sun outlined the silhouette of a town approximately two miles ahead. Five minutes later, my car sputtered to a stop, drained of fuel, in the middle of what must have been Main Street.

Fate likes a cruel joke from time to time. A faded sign dangling by one chain over the sheriff’s office proclaimed the name of the town was Hope. There were no people and probably hadn’t been for at least one hundred years. I walked into a nearby building that appeared to be held together by spider webs cascading down from what was left of the roof and along the walls. The building might have been the town’s general store, but now it was just creepy. I turned, went to step off the sidewalk and froze in mid stride. A rattlesnake slithered by. Clearly, this was no place to explore in the dark. I returned to my car, locked the doors, and promptly fell asleep in the back seat.

Dawn crested the horizon bright and clear, allowing me an unobstructed view of what was left of Hope. Strolling down the center of Main Street, ever vigilant for more reptilian inhabitants, I read a sign nailed over a doorway. This building was the former home of the Hope Gazette. The structure appeared sound enough, so I went inside to do some exploring. Most of the paper in the office was yellowed, brittle and unreadable, but the lead typeface on the press was legible. Headline: Hope, Born January 10, 1835, Died July 4, 1910. The article recounted the history of the town. It told of its founding, the trials and triumphs, and finally the inevitable slide into oblivion because of the railroad bring rerouted. The editor had dutifully chronicled all these events for one last issue. Then he delivered it to the last of the residents before they abandoned their town. It was a depressing tale both for the former residents and especially for me.

Hungry, thirsty, and feeling desperate, I scoured the remaining buildings. I searched for anything that could help me escape this forgotten part of America. What I found was a Penny-Farthing bicycle. The wheels were steel and although the leather seat had rotted away, everything was in perfect working order. Now all I had to do was learn how to ride the baffling contraption. It took multiple attempts and some skinned elbows, but by the end of the day, I had mastered the beast.

I departed at sunrise and made surprisingly good time. This time I took the correct fork in the road and was approximately five miles from the highway when I was stopped by a Border Patrol agent. He listened to my tale of trial and tribulation and when I finished he just shook his head and said, “I know about that town and its’ history. No one ever found the residents of Hope. Legend has it that the day they left, the area was engulfed by a massive dust storm that lasted for two days. They either became disoriented by the storm or, more than likely, buried by it. They should have never abandoned Hope.”