Notes from the Road - Cottonwood #1 An Unexpected Delay

So here I am, several days into this trip—after zigzagging through Utah canyon country on photographic excursions that were a bit underwhelming. And the rest of the drive down into Arizona? Let’s just say it left me yearning for roads that don’t feel like the Dollywood Hot Rod Rollercoaster. But hey, the sun’s out now. (Of course it would wait to shine bright until the morning we left Hurricane—sky scrubbed clean, not a puffy white or somber gray cloud in sight. Naturally.)

Despite the jostling roads and missed photo ops, I feel blessed. Deeply blessed. I’ve got a handful of friends—true friends—scattered like desert wildflowers across the country. Most don’t live near me, but they’re in my life, and that matters. They tolerate me, listen to my ramblings, still care after all these years. That’s what this road trip is really about: Connection. Reconnection. Not just the highways and horse sightings and snapping pics of cloud shadows, but the people. The familiar ones who knew me back when—and stuck around.

Yes, I love the drive. I love the exploring, the photographing, the spontaneous chats with strangers. But this part? This here part is the cat’s pajamas, the bee’s knees, the butter on my popcorn, the perfectly ripe peach in the middle of July. You get the idea.

And speaking of unexpected peaches—yesterday, somewhere in the middle of desert-nowhere, I stopped for gas. Nothing around for miles. Just me, the sun, a hot corgi, and one tiny oasis of a gas station, on the Paiute reservation near Kaibab. After filling up, I went in to grab a bag of ice, tossed my keys and wallet into the car so I had two hands to beat the bag senseless, shut the door… and click. All four doors locked.

Great.

There I was, swearing softly at myself, phone locked inside too. Just about to ask the clerk to call AAA when out walks Isaac, the Assistant Manager. “Did you lock yourself out?” he asked. “Yes,” I groaned, ready to offer up anything for a wire coat hanger. “I can help you with that,” he said.

Turns out Isaac had “The Kit.” He called his wife to bring it down, and a few minutes later he was outside, gently wedging my window open and slipping in a long wire like he was fishing for trout. Took a while, but he didn’t give up. And boom—back on the road. I tried to pay him. He refused. I asked him if he’d accept a hug instead. The answer was a bashful, “aaw.” So listen: if you’re ever at the Kaibab Tyee gas station on Pipe Springs Road in Fredonia, Arizona—stop in and give Isaac another hug for me. He’s proof that decency isn’t extinct.

Which brings me to a conversation I was just having with my friend today. Road trips do this thing for me—they remind me that the world isn’t all doomscrolling and despair. At home, the news reads like a horror anthology, and it seems like every fifth truck has flags and fury flying from the back, usually up my ass even though I’m slowing down for a red light up ahead. But on the road? People show up. You see the good again. (You don’t talk politics.) Maybe I’m more open out here. I smile more. I meet people’s eyes. I say hello, answer questions, offer help, linger in the moment. I’m not in a rush. I have time to see the humanity in others—and they seem to see it in me.

It’s really that simple. And maybe… it’s enough.