Wanderlust fueled the theme for the nonfiction category of this year’s writing contest. Unable to leave town (or our desks), we solicited stories from the road, unsure how far from Route 66 entrants would veer. Far, as it happens. This year’s numerous submissions included stories from journeys all over the world, satisfying our vicarious need for travel and introducing us to people, places and pilgrimages that ventured above and beyond the open road.
While choosing this year’s winners proved particularly challenging, all shared stories that captured the spirit of the challenge by rendering familiar and unfamiliar places vividly, and narrating personal odysseys with introspection, humor and emotion.
—Julia Goldberg
This year’s nonfiction judge, Julia Goldberg, is a former SFR editor, author of Inside Story: Everyone’s Guide to Reporting and Writing Creative Nonfiction and teaches creative nonfiction at Santa Fe Community College. SFR will feature this year’s fiction winners, judged by acclaimed author Jamie Figueroa, in the Dec. 4 issue of the Reporter
Anson Stevens-Bollen
First Place
On the Road to New Mexico
By Kimberly Maestas
It’s been a decade since I survived the road to New Mexico. I was 30 and had lived most of my years around Chicago. Everything I knew about the West came from the computer game I loved in grade school—The Oregon Trail. The journey starts with a visit to the General Store. So, the morning of my big move, Mom and I went to Target.
“There are stores in New Mexico, right?” Mom asked.
“I hope so,” I said, adding another jar of peanut butter to my cart. It was overflowing with bread, medications, and paper goods.
As we checked out, the cashier asked whether I was preparing for the Apocalypse. I told her where I was going, and she nodded solemnly. On the drive back, all I could see were safety nets I’d taken for granted—gas stations on every corner, 24-hour pharmacies, the Apple store…
I barely glanced at Mom, and she blurted out the What Ifs.
“What if you run out of gas in the middle of the desert?”
“What if you have no cell service?”
“What if a snake comes up the toilet?”
I was racking my brain for answers, when she hit me with another one.
“What if he’s not THE guy?” she asked.
My boyfriend Beau and I had been dating for three years when he found a job in New Mexico. He transformed himself into a suburban cowboy. With his hat on his head and his wallet in his pocket, he had everything he needed. There was nothing he left in Illinois he didn’t think he could replace. I sometimes worried that included me. But I believed if I joined him in New Mexico those doubts would go away.
As soon as the light turned green, a car honked at us.
“Is he the right guy?” Mom asked again.
“He better be,” I said.
We were both silent the rest of the way home.
Beau was waiting for me back at the house. He’d flown back to drive with me in my car. Mom and I slowly inventoried my modern day wagon. I’d already sent United Van Lines ahead with everything else I owned. Mom and I hugged. Knowing it was time to let go, we both held on tighter.
Beau drove, and I opened my map. I traced my finger over the route on I-40 W through southern Illinois, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, and into New Mexico. Route 66. I couldn’t wait to explore every stop along the way, but Beau wanted to get to our destination as quickly as possible. Disappointed, I put the map away. We made it to a small town in Oklahoma and checked into a motel for the night.
Beau fell asleep right away, but I couldn’t sleep. Excitement and nerves were dancing on my bladder. I got up several times to pee. Each time I checked the toilet for snakes. This is ridiculous, I thought. I’m not far enough West yet.
As the sun rose, we were back on the road. I looked out the window. No other cars. No strip malls. Nothing but open road. We passed a gas station, but it was closed. I looked on my phone for the next one, but I had no service.
“We have nearly a full tank,” I said, taking a deep breath. I tried to calm myself so I wouldn’t need to pee.
Beau just kind of grunted.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“I don’t want to be in a relationship,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
His tone was the same he used to order a hamburger at the drive-through: “No, thank you. I don’t want fries with that, or a relationship, or you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You’re sorry?” I asked. The volume of my voice startled us both.
Rage tore through my insides like I’d swallowed barbed wire. I bombarded Beau with questions, and his poor excuses fed my anger until I could barely see straight. I started begging him to change his mind. Profound sadness engulfed me. Intense shame followed. I repeated this cycle until I was too tired to do anything. And then there was the silence. The terrible awkward silence. How could I get myself in this situation? I thought. I had never felt so powerless, vulnerable, and alone.
The yellow paint on the Big Texan Steakhouse glowed like a beacon of hope. Just next to it there was a gas station. Finally. Near the pump, I saw a stick and jumped, thinking it was a snake. As I filled the tank, I thought about going home. But I’d ended my job and lease in Illinois and was expected to fulfill a new lease and job in New Mexico. I’ll just go for a few weeks and figure things out, I thought.
At the New Mexico border, I read the sign—“Welcome to The Land of Enchantment.” A part of an old fence was barely holding itself up. Everything was brown and looked dead, including some scary looking shrubs. I opened the window, and the car filled with a sharp, bitter aroma. I swerved to miss what was probably a tumbleweed. How can anything survive out here alone? I thought. How will I survive here alone?
Everything we passed was foreign to me. I saw several oxen and later learned they were just cows. Whenever I got used to any kind of land, it morphed—flat land growing into hills, hills into mesas. In Tucumcari, there was a mountain painted with a big letter T. It looked down at me, sizing me up. It wanted to know what I was doing there, and I no longer knew. More mountains with more questions loomed in the distance. My ears popped. Even my body was rejecting this place.
The distance between towns got shorter and shorter, until we finally arrived in Albuquerque. Traffic and car horns never sounded so good. I had only minutes to enjoy the familiarity before we arrived at the airport where Beau had left his car. He couldn’t get out fast enough, and he wouldn’t tell me when I’d see him again. I watched him rush to his car and forced myself not to run after him. He drove away, and I sat frozen. My phone rang, making me jolt. I was certain it was him, calling to say this was all a big mistake. But it was Mom. I let the phone ring. I’m not sure how long I sat there and cried. Eventually, I wiped my eyes and continued north to the apartment we’d leased in Los Alamos.
The road signs to Santa Fe may have said, “Keep going for about 60 miles, and you’ll return to civilization. Trust me.” It was hard to trust anything had been built in this secluded landscape. I passed the remnants of an outdoor marketplace that had clearly been abandoned many years ago. Just beyond that, a woman was fixing a flat tire on her truck. I wondered what I would do if anything went wrong with my car. Would AAA ever find me out here? But that woman had sparked something in me. I wanted to learn how to change my own tire. I wanted to learn how to fix things and make things. I spent the rest of the drive thinking of everything I wanted to do and become.
The road kept its promise, and I arrived in Santa Fe. Over the next 30 miles, my ears gently indicated I was rising higher in elevation. I was starting to get used to it. The sky got bigger and bluer, and the clouds were close enough to touch. My spirits rose too. Maybe I can survive here, I thought. The mountains were closer now. They were scattered with lush, green trees. Maybe I can thrive here, I thought.
The road curved, and I caught a glimpse of the Rio Grande. A doe and her fawn were taking a drink. I was reminded of playing The Oregon Trail. I pictured fording this river. Like in the game, I assessed my losses. I’d lost a couple oxen, a few pounds of food, and one suburban cowboy. There was nothing I’d lost that I couldn’t live without.
As I neared my final destination, the sun slowly lowered like a bright pink curtain. The road sign announced, “Welcome to Los Alamos—Where discoveries are made.” I pulled off and got out. The mountains looked down at me, and I hung my head. How will I tell anyone what I’ve done? I thought. I followed the wrong guy. I broke down. I even begged. But the mountains just stood with me. Solid. Comforting. They’d been here for eons. They’d seen it all. “You’re stronger than you know,” they said. As the darkness rolled in on that uncertain night, they continued to stand by my side. And when I got back on the road again, they watched over me until I made it safely to my new home.
A former librarian from the Greater Chicago Area, Kimberly Maestas has a passion for stories and storytelling. She moved to New Mexico on the first day of Spring 2015, and since then has been sharing stories about her adventures out West. She has performed at events such as the Albuquerque Folk Festival, Taos Storytelling Festival, and the National Timpanogos Story Festival in Utah. She has also shared personal stories at The Moth StorySLAMS and published a short collection called Under the Branches.
Anson Stevens-Bollen
Second Place
The Path Less Traveled
by Kevin McCullough
Riding into a full-blown gale off the North Atlantic, I kept my head down, hands locked on to the handlebars extra tight and wondered why the hell I was doing this. Pedaling against the wind, with cars splashing me on my right, I hugged a narrow line of brush that separated me from the rugged Irish coastline on my left. The wind-blown rain was drenching me with airborne waves of water and blew so hard that it took a herculean effort to make just one rotation with the pedals.
Although I felt like throwing my bike off the cliff that day, I didn’t give up. However, I did recognize that some days are just not right for riding a bicycle and better spent at a pub. I turned around, went back to “Dingle” town where I had been that morning, and nursed my battered psyche with a small bag of crisps called “Taytos,” some oxtail soup, and a pint of Guinness in a local pub.
Only two weeks earlier, I had been reassembling my bike at the Shannon airport in Ireland after a long night-flight from Boston. I was about to begin a five-week, 800-mile bicycle road trip and should have felt excited with anticipation, but instead I felt profoundly sad. My girlfriend Vicki and I had said goodbye only one day earlier with the understanding that we would not continue our relationship when I returned. Unexpectedly, I heard some odd, distinct metallic sounds coming from the other side of an airport partition. Much to my astonishment, on the other side, I saw a lovely young woman doing the same thing as me, assembling her bicycle. I couldn’t believe it. I silently thanked a very benevolent god for this incredible stroke of luck.
Broken heart or not, I sure was excited to say hello to this fellow biker. Barely containing my boyish enthusiasm, I gave my best, “Hi there, I’m Kevin, I’m putting my bike together too.” She barely looked up and said, “Hi, I’m Vicki.” What? Did she say Vicki? Like my girlfriend in Boston? Yes, we began the trip together, this other Vicki and me, but only a few days later, we parted ways when she literally took the high road, and I took the low road. Even so, it was a good sign for future encounters.
A couple of weeks and about 150 miles later, I met an old-timer named Ted who would change the course of my trip. I had already cycled the whole Ring of Kerry loop and crossed a mountain range with the curious name of MacGillycuddy’s Reeks. Ted joined me on a bench in the public square of Killarney and started chatting me up next to my heavily loaded bicycle.
“Where are you off to ta-day Yank?” he said. He reminded me of the Walter Huston character Howard in the old movie Treasure of the Sierra Madre. He was sporting the traditional Irish cap and tilted his head sideways while speaking. He had to be at least 80 years old, and his red, wind-worn face was covered with gray, half-shaved stubble.
“I’m going to Kenmare, do you know the way?” I asked. I already knew how to get there thanks to something old-school, called a map, but asked anyway because locals almost always know the best shortcuts and backroads. Ted heard me, but instead of answering, he began telling me about the barrage balloons in London during “The Blitz” in World War II.
“Ay, everywhere around the city, cables rising into the sky. And at the top, blimps, dirigibles, balloons, whatever they were called. They protected the city from low-flying Nazi bombers. Ah…they still got us, they did. It was just horrendous. But grand it was, too, and I had a good craic I did.”
Squinting his eyes almost shut to see my map, he said, “Bollocks, I can’t see a thing. Are ya lisnen’ lad? Take the path less traveled.” Go straight here but then left before the sign to Kenmare, not far from Teddy’s Pub. You’ll be takin’ the Windy Gap Road and straightaway you’ll be ascending and descending on your way to Kenmare. It’ll do ya good to stop for a pint or two on your way. Iron ya know, full of iron, it is, the Guinness.” At Teddy’s, in a private booth called a snug, while I was savoring my beer, I had a profound, sweet and delicious feeling of freedom.
Not freedom in a constitutional sense, but instead, the real deal. Freedom as an almost tangible quality you can hold in your hands or taste in your mouth. I think of the Grinch’s heart growing to three times its original size when he decides to help the Whos in Whoville. Or maybe Thelma and Louise willingly driving their car off the cliff with big smiles on their faces. I felt that freedom frequently on this road trip, and although it sounds a bit cliché, it changed my life. I decided to follow Ted’s advice and took the shortcut. Ahhh, the goose flesh, I’m feelin’ it now.
With a spectacular view of Lough (lake) Leane and the hills beyond, it became a highlight of my trip. Whether deliberate or not, Ted had neglected to tell me that his short cut was a dirt road with a stream crossing and a steep mountain pass. I was enthralled with its solitude and rugged beauty. Now we call it mountain biking, but then it was riding and not riding a road bike in the wilderness. I know I wasn’t the first mountain biker, but I knew I was onto something good. Unfortunately, a bit later on this remote trail, I encountered some adversity.
It was accompanied by the familiar exhaustion that greeted me after a long day on the road. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something leap in the foggy mist that hovered over the bog and I remembered a story I heard earlier about the legend of the black bog cat. Just then a pair of crow-like birds (Jackdaws) flew up to a fence line that suddenly paralleled both sides of the trail. Odd, I thought, I hadn’t even noticed those fences before.
Coming over a rise on the trail in the flickering twilight, I anticipated seeing my destination, since according to Ted, I would be at Kenmare before dark. Instead, however, the fences on my left and right met at a very tall, imposing gate that was most certainly blocking the way ahead. My salvation or damnation, I thought. As I approached, I was convinced it was the latter. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I approached the gate and met my “dark familiar,” as they say in the old country.
My “dark familiar” was that inner voice I used to hear more often in my younger days during moments of doubt or crisis. It said things like: “Why did you ever think you could do this? You are so stupid, what a loser.” Would I have to turn around and spend hours back tracking in the dark to connect with the main road again? There was no way I could get my bike over or through the fences or gate, and as I got closer, I felt smaller and smaller with an overwhelming sense of failure. I was thinking of turning around when I saw a sign that said: “KEEP THIS GATE CLOSED.”
No locks, chains, or private property sign, and instead a small latch with a thumb push handle. Oh, and a little drawing of a bike and a person. I had to think for a moment through my fog of doom, but I realized it meant “close the gate after passing through.” Salvation, not damnation! I was relieved but elated too, and my dark familiar suddenly vanished into thin air. I felt that tugging, heaving feeling in my gut that happens when you hold back from crying. I opened the gate, walked my bike through and felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders. A short way ahead I could see Kenmare in the distance!
Looking back on it now, 37 years later, that gate and in a larger sense the bicycle road trip was a real turning point in my life. It was a metaphoric gateway of sorts, and represented a rite of passage for the young, uncertain guy I was. I learned to trust my instincts and discovered that when one door seems closed it may really be open, almost like the famous saying. Did I ever meet with my dark familiar again? Of course. Was I always confident from then on? Of course not. But something clicked after that trip. Like on my bicycle, some gears in my mind that weren’t quite lined up properly, suddenly synchronized and allowed me to move forward in a higher gear.
Kevin McCullough taught 4th, 5th, and 6th grades with Santa Fe Public Schools for 24 years, retiring in 2022. He currently works as a part-time librarian who loves the outdoors, cycling, writing, and spending time with his wife and child.
Anson Stevens-Bollen
Third Place
Ode to Roy
by Cynthia Mitchell
Summer 2019, Heckman Pass, British Columbia. The steep narrow dirt road dropped off sharply to the right, exposing the valley of Tweedsmuir Provincial Park 2,000 feet below—a lush green expanse ribboned by streams and dotted by pocket lakes. With no guard rails, I stood back from the edge lest the steady winds rushing down the road-cut cliff carry me off to the valley below. If I were a bald eagle, I would spread my wings to an elegant eight-foot span and glide along the valley floor. I would flex my huge, curved talons to grab a fish from a stream, pump my wings three times and lift, flying to the spire of a 150-foot Engelmann spruce. I would raise the fish to my beak and devour my catch, tearing and shredding in majestic ease.
I leaned against the passenger door of my cream-colored 1995 VW campervan, “Roy,” and shivered. A week earlier, I had made my way to the remote Bella Coola Valley via a one and a half hour ferry ride from mainland Vancouver to Vancouver Island’s southern port Nanaimo, then a 200-mile meandering drive up the eastern coast of the island to northern Port Hardy exploring and camping along the way, and with my van stowed in the ferry belly, a 12-hour ride further north to the remote coastal community Bella Coola along BC’s central coast through the Inside Passage. I marveled at hanging glaciers, towering mountains, cascading waterfalls, the mainland coast edged by dozens of small islands like fingerling potatoes in a sea of ocean. From Bella Coola, I drove inland to Rip Rap Camp, where I set up in a large meadow, nestled among majestic snow-capped mountains, Roy’s nose facing due east, catching the morning rays over the 8,000-foot-high Mount Nusatsum.
Standing on the campground’s observation platform overlooking the fast-flowing glacial churn of the massive Bella Coola River, I caught glimpses of salmon that seemed a yard long—silvers, reds, grays, and corals flashing to the surface and then submerging again. I hiked all around the valley, heeding signs warning of grizzly bears. I meditated, practiced yoga, ate healthy foods, read and wrote, and slept deeply. After a week or more of this peace and calm, I thought, why not take the long way home over Heckman Pass?
Roy and I made it halfway up in a white-knuckle crawl. Then, without warning or fanfare, Roy rolled to a stop, not even letting out a last gasp. A chill ran down my spine as I stood there. There was no cell service, no cars. I had really done it this time.
Post-divorce, sons grown and gone, I got a wild hair to purchase a 1995 van off eBay in Spring 2015 from a guy named Clint who lived in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I pretty much jumped at the first van I could find that didn’t look like a rust bucket. That turned out to be this van already named Roy—part of a friends’ group of “old men” campers. Roy was adorned with a small nondescript decorative steel owl, wings folded, across the top of the windshield. When it came time to seal the deal, Clint and I had the following telephone conversation:
Clint: “We didn’t discuss what to do about the owl.”
Me: “Un-huh.”
Clint: “The owl should stay with Roy, but I’m really attached to the owl.”
Me: “Un-huh.”
Clint: “I’m really attached to the owl, but the owl should stay with Roy.”
Me: “Un-huh.”
Clint: “I know, I know! Larry [local artist friend] can make you your own owl!”
Me: “Alright!!!!”
Delivered to my home in Reno, Nevada, the new metal owl mounted above the windshield had a one-foot, sharp-tipped wingspan unfurled, legs thrust forward in full raptor mode. I named the owl, who was definitely female, Liz.
My van was my alternate boyfriend, a bit old and slow and even cranky at times, but otherwise easygoing and willing to amble me along. Roy became my escape from a life that was suffocating me: scenery, people, places, things, all utterly predictable. That summer I pointed Roy generally north and took off. A year later, I moved to the almost-in-Canada coastal town of Bellingham, Washington. Along the way, Roy was my backcountry buddy, and I was his sugar mama, dealing with endless repairs and maintenance. I went through more mechanical problems and breakdowns than I cared to remember. Every time it happened, I tried not to panic, question my sanity, or worry about my safety
Quitting on me in remote interior British Columbia was the last straw. After hours of feeble starts and stops, I disconnected the house battery running the small refrigerator, guessing it was drawing off the engine battery. The trick worked. Too scared to stop, I drove straight home through the night. I bargained that in getting out of this mess, I would park the van and sell it in the spring. I was emboldened with a willfulness that went beyond adventure to a level of risk that had gone too far.
Then COVID hit, and I was alone in my home pacing like a caged tiger. The last Sunday of March 2020, after resting all fall and winter in the garage, I took Roy on one last fling to Silver Lake State Park about 50 miles away. Driving home, the narrow road was hemmed in by Douglas Fir, Western Red Cedars, and Western Hemlocks. A steady band of moss marked the asphalt edge on either side. As the road turned, I breathed a sigh of relief knowing that I would soon be in cell service. Without warning or fanfare, my van slowly rolled to a stop. “Shit Roy!” I yelled, pounding the steering wheel with my open palms. I tried to restart my van, grinding the engine over and over. Each time, I heard a gritty gurgle from under the hood. I was just making matters worse.
I hopped out and gasped at what looked like a crime scene. Roy had spilled his guts of red-brown transmission fluid. There were puddles under the front end, rivulets down the road. I figured this was it with Roy, and it was all my fault.
I had just enough bars to call Triple-A. When the dispatcher answered, I started sobbing, afraid that I’d be told I was too remote for a tow.
“No, we can send a truck out for your van,” she said, “but due to COVID, you can’t ride in the cab and will have to get a family member to pick you up.”
“I don’t have any family!” I wailed. Babbling, hyperventilating, I had a full-bore meltdown. My emotional dam had burst— Triple-A was now my crisis hotline.
After a string of “OKs”, the dispatcher said, “I’ll call headquarters and see if something can’t be worked out.”
“You promise me you’ll call back,” I cried.
“Yes, I promise,” she replied, and hung up.
I did have family—two sons who had moved to the East Coast for medical school. With Roy, I had moved further away. A move which, at the time, made sense.
It wasn’t long before she called back to say that I could ride in Roy on the flatbed.
I mumbled, “Alright, and thank you,” through more tears.
When the truck arrived, I asked the driver about the safety of this arrangement, feeling somewhat leery. He sported a butt crack and a cigarette hanging on his lower lip and told me with a flare, “I haven’t lost one yet!” Loaded on the flatbed, I climbed up, gripped Roy’s steering wheel, and did my best to chase away thoughts of, OMG, I sure hope today’s not this guy’s lucky day. Riding high, I gulped air as the van rocked back and forth on turns. I felt conspicuous and self-conscious and wanted out of this parade! I snapped out of my self-loathing when the driver missed the turn to the mechanic’s shop. Honking Roy’s horn, he stopped and I hopped out and walked back the half block to the turn.
My van spent April through September in the VW-Mercedes dealership’s shop, where after a big runaround, and an even bigger wad of money, Roy remained broken. I ended up selling Roy for a song to a mechanic who I bet eventually found an original transmission that fit my old van.
After losing Roy, it was time to move on. I needed to be closer to my sons. They had left the East Coast and were now in reach. I would go inland and leave the salty sea and old second growth forests. I would leave behind my van dreams, too. I had outgrown adventuring in remote country in an unreliable vehicle. Over time, I was even okay thinking of Roy on a drive about, camping in the wild woods or on a sunset beach, someone else having the time of their life.
Cynthia Mitchell is a not-so-retired energy economist that moved to Santa Fe four years ago. She draws on five decades fighting climate change to write about the science and emotion of our environmental catastrophe. Her upcoming memoir, Finding Home in the Climate Crisis, chronicles the one time Cynthia left the battlefield — and her life — behind: After coaxing a near-death VW camper to the Pacific Northwest, she took up residence in a tumbledown shack free of electricity, heat, and running water. Only there, back in touch with nature, did Cynthia realize she’d only begun to fight.
www.cynthiakmitchell.com
