Side Roads

A road food stop in Salt Lake City before continuing on the very long drive from Wyoming to Nevada, through the salt flats of Utah. This is the loneliest road I've ever been on, I thought, while driving along Interstate 70. I looked at my road atlas and saw that state highway 50, that runs parallel to the interstate, is named "The Loneliest Road." There were no other roads around. It reminded me of this, something I wrote years ago.


I remember, after the fire, needing to drive. My car was the only thing I had left. It was clean. It could take me away.


I drove once to Madrid, New Mexico, an artsy old mining town nearby. I'd always loved that drive between here and there. I drove that day just after the fire to Madrid, New Mexico. I had time. I was here.


It was a still day in February, no one was around but the road and me. As I drove toward Madrid I became keenly aware of the side roads I had never noticed before. Turning left, turning right, I went down those roads. I had time. I was here. I took the time. I took the side roads.


It was a still day in Madrid, New Mexico. No one was around. I wandered to a shop, up the creaky steps, old wooden door slamming shut. There was a potter there, he was surprised to see me, he was watching the store for a friend. I told my story to him as I told my story to many strangers at the time, trying to make it real. I told him about the fire. I told him about the side roads.


It was funny, he told me, that I should come in on that day in February where no one was around, telling my story to him.


He had an uncle who, as a boy, drove with his father from Seattle to LA once a year to visit his grandfather there. It was his favorite thing to do, that drive with his father. They would load up on snacks and dreams and go.


As they drove that drive from Seattle to LA they passed all the side roads. They loved to laugh and dream about what might be waiting down those roads. Someday they would go there. They swore that one day they would take those side roads. Not this time but next time. When they had time, when they had time.


It's years later this potter told me. He'd lost touch with his uncle, you know how things go. Funny thing though, he'd gotten a call on this day in February when no one was around, before I came in telling my tale. It was him, his uncle who called. He was somewhere in Oregon or California, it seemed. Somewhere along the way.


He had been diagnosed with AIDS and what he was doing was driving that old drive from Seattle to LA. And what he was doing was taking the side roads. He was calling and he was taking all the side roads. He was taking his time. He was taking the side roads.