Travel Sis — Smokin'

Western New Mexico stretches out in gritty waves, a perpetual sea of sand inhabited by scorpions and sidewinders. Its voice is the wind, now moaning, now howling, now scraping its sandpaper claws against the metal sides of a motor home, or the soft skin of a woman on her way to Alaska. New Mexico shimmers with its own heat. It can turn a grandma into a crispy critter in less time than it takes her to walk the dogs and check the oil of her vehicle.

Nearing the Four Corners area—the confluence of New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona and Utah—the land is stripped bare. Other than highway 666 and the (very) occasional vehicle roaring along on its struggle to cross the desert, there’s not one thing under the sun but barren sand. It’s easy to see why no communications company in the world would waste a tower for cell phone coverage here. Even if someone could make a call out of this lifeless sandpit, there’s no guarantee she could last long enough to finish her conversation.

Travel Sis gripped the motor home’s steering wheel as she and her doglets neared Four Corners. “No signal” flashed on her cell phone screen. She chided herself for the anxiety that lumped like a stone in her stomach. Before she’d left Alabama, she’d spent thousands on repairs and updates to the vintage motor home so the big rig would take her safely across the continent. Still, thoughts nagged. What if something went awry in the middle of this oven of nothingness? She and her little companions would be at the mercy of whomever—or whatever—happened upon her.

She decided not to stop to take a picture of Shiprock Mountain.

Travel Sis’s rig did indeed carry her safely through the Four Corners desert, and on into Utah. It wasn’t until she entered Moab’s city limits that the engine started missing. Within a few blocks a loud knocking sounded in the motor. That was when the smell of smoke filled the cabin.

Pat the mechanic didn’t want to give Travel Sis the news. She was a nice lady. She didn’t deserve bad news. On the other hand, she and her little dogs were mighty lucky to have made it into the RV repair shop when they did.

Yes, the experienced mechanic told her, her rig was fixed and road ready. He leveled a long look at the petite traveler. “How far you going?”

“Alaska,” she said. “Will this rig get me there?”

Pat looked away, shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “If you’re careful.”

How can you be careful driving 10% grades on the Alaska Highway? How can you be careful on the rough, desolate road to Ft. Liard in Canada’s Northwest Territory? How can you be careful driving the frost heaves and boulders of the Cassiar Highway?

Travel Sis is grateful to have made it to Moab, Utah, before all hell broke loose under the hood of her rig. She’s grateful for Pat’s skill in getting her coach fixed and ready to go.

But, still ....

The lilt was gone from her voice when she called to tell us she’s heading home. “I’m disappointed,” she said, “but I’m not foolish.”

—to be continued—