Just Deserts
It dawned on me not too long ago that I’ve never explained the meaning behind my website’s title. That probably should have been the very first thing I did on here, but life has a funny way of teaching you lessons right now that you needed fifteen minutes ago. Alas, that’s how this thing goes, but believe me when I tell you that it’s never too late to start again.
So here I go.
I am currently 29 years old and still in the midst of a great struggle to discover where exactly I should take my life, which is something I once thought you invariably got around to by the time you were 18, 19, maybe 20.
Not the case.
Then again, I’m a hell of a procrastinator, and a bit of a late bloomer. I just received my Bachelor’s degree in Communications last December; a decade long struggle for something I’m told is worth very little. It was perhaps the greatest achievement thus far in my life and I mean that wholeheartedly. If I could only put into words the monumental change in my lifestyle, my mentality, and my own self-worth that I underwent in order to acquire that stupid piece of paper, and with honors, I’d be the next god damn Tony Robbins.
But that’s not really my path. At least I don’t think it is. I don’t honestly know. I just know I like to write and that I have at least an iota of natural ability at it, and so when I chanced upon a letter by the legendary writer, Hunter S. Thompson, written to a friend in the midst of the very same existential struggle as the one I am presently facing, I couldn’t help but take note.
The letter is full of great quotes and fantastic insights. It really is worth a read for anyone seeking a way forward, or for anyone at all for that matter, but the real meat of the thing for me was in the following quote:
“Let’s assume that you think you have a choice of eight paths to follow (all pre-defined paths, of course). And let’s assume that you can’t see any real purpose in any of the eight. THEN --- and here is the essence of all that I’ve said --- you MUST FIND A NINTH PATH.”
And there you have it, and here I am, seeking out my ninth path.
Now, where were we?
Ah, I remember….
We were somewhere around Barstow, near the edge of the desert, when the fatigue took hold. We decided it would be best to book a hotel somewhere an hour or two away and then make our way to the Grand Canyon when the sun rose once again. Gabby pulled up Hotel Tonight on her phone and was baffled to find a room at Harrah’s in Laughlin, Nevada for $18.
“What’s the catch?” I worried.
“Can’t find one.”
“Extra fees,” I declared.
“Nope.”
“So, bed bugs,” I assumed.
“I mean, the reviews are all good.”
“Book it?” I wondered aloud.
So we booked it.
After a long while of driving beneath the unhindered California stars, the GPS led me off of I-40 and onto a positively mortifying desert highway. It was old and rocky and it seemed to be leading me to absolutely nowhere at all. No road signs, no fellow drivers, no big glowing casinos in the distance. Just blackness and endless desert. Oh and a gigantic bat.
Much to our relief, a tremendous Harrah’s eventually rose out of the darkness like a midnight mirage.
The sign on its façade had a few bulbs out and it blinked every so often, but it was still there, buzzing and flickering to let us know we had found our overnight oasis.
The inside of the place was what you might imagine: dusty and outdated, full of retirees and cigarette smoke, inundated with the sounds of slot machines and boisterous blackjackers. Our hallway smelled like Virginia Slims and our bed was a bit starchy, but the room actually cost us $18 and for that reason I couldn’t dream of complaining. It was all well worth it for the odd experience alone. Hey, is there anything more American than a casino in the desert?
The following morning we took off in search of the greatest road trip destination the world has ever known: The Grand Canyon. On our way out I kept noticing all of these jugs of water lined up on the roadside. I’d heard stories about Americans living on the Mexican border who would leave water out for desert-crossing border jumpers seeking a better life in the States. I figured these water jugs must have a similar purpose, but the only problem was we were way too far from Mexico for these jugs to be for immigrants. I eventually Googled something like “water jugs side of road Nevada” and somehow found this.
Pretty cool, right?
The rest of the ride out wasn’t all that interesting, which gave me time to think about our destination.
The Grand Canyon was the setting of a classic Brady Bunch episode:
And a personal favorite Rugrats episode:
Therefore, and I’m not here to debate this, it is the most iconic natural landmark in all of America, and for good reason. It is spectacular.
We were slighted by the Universe once more with a frigid, windy day but we still had a great time hiking the south rim and daring ourselves to go walk out as far as we could onto the edges of cliffs to snap some cool shots and face death itself.
It’s amazing what you start to think up when you’re standing on the edge of a sheer cliff. Like somehow you’re going to be caught by an unearthly gust of wind, or trip on a sinister stray bootlace, or slip on an unaccounted for banana peel, and fall to your unspeakable demise on the red rocks below. It’s pretty silly, but when the possibility is really there, it’s hard to keep your mind away from the absolute worst-case scenario.
Fortunately, nobody took a dive. We just wandered around the mighty canyon’s rim for a good while until we came across a bus stop that took us back to the visitor’s center. Once there, we checked the other bus lines and considered our options for a bit, but there was rain in the air and the cold wind was still whipping. After sharing a wearied look with one another, we both decided to just return to the van and lie down for a while.
I must admit, it’s not too easy maintaining your vigor and lust for adventure by day 21. Not after all those miles and all those hours and all those decadent meals and local beers. Don’t get me wrong, we truly enjoyed our time with the Grand Canyon, but it is possible to become a bit wonder-fatigued. I think we’re both starting to understand the unique restorative powers of sleeping in one’s own bed, reading a serene little book and petting one’s own cat.
No time for that now, though, friends. After our little breather in the back of Fishtank, it was time to hit the pavement once again. I pulled out my phone, opened up the Maps app, and entered Santa Fe, New Mexico.
