Alexander Medel, Contributing Photographer
There is no sight more gratifying to me than the open road, for the open road allows the body to wander and the mind to wonder. It offers an escape for the imagination and a way of life governed by freedom and fueled by curiosity.
My name is Alexander, and I am a sophomore in Timothy Dwight College studying political science. Naturally, my day is complete with writing papers, reading research articles and attending lectures. And as much as I am a Yale student, I consider myself a student of the world with the open road as my classroom.
This travel column, On the Road, recounts several of my adventures on asphalt and all the lessons I have learned from the people, places and things I have encountered on all roads, from those well-traveled to those not taken.
This is a lesson on how many things could go wrong. This is the story of how the worst day of our road trip turned out to be our best.
It was the summer just after my first year at Yale. My parents and I, being of the adventurous sort, had been struck with wanderlust for the first half of the year. In the winter, my parents wanted to fly to the Côte d’Azur. A few weeks later, they changed their minds and wanted to go to Spain instead. Then, shortly before the spring, they wanted to visit the Philippines. While they deliberated options, I just sat back and listened.
One day, they called me. They informed me that they wanted to take a road trip across the American Southwest. It was something they had been meaning to do since their youth. Every time an opportunity presented itself, however, something would arise: a summer school program, a busy work schedule or a family emergency. The summer ahead seemed to be the perfect time to take the trip.
I myself was itching to be on the road. I needed a break from the hustle and bustle of Yale life. So, as our family’s official road trip planner, I got to work. I researched dozens of places, mapped out a route, crafted day-to-day itineraries and took care of other logistical details. A week after our call, I presented my parents with a 40-page report on the trip.
Calling it the Southwest Circuit, the road trip would be a loop across the American Southwest and would take us from our home in the Bay Area, through Arizona and New Mexico and to our relatives in Texas and back. In the course of 11 days in June, we planned to cover roughly 4,000 miles of road. Our itinerary was ambitious, featuring national parks, historic towns, museums and restaurants. I fine-tuned the trip in the months that followed, while my parents took care of lodging and the car rental. Soon, June arrived, and with it, an adventure that would go on to define my summer.
It was 3:30 a.m., and we were on the road. The day’s objectives were thus: cross the California–Arizona state line at Needles by noon and arrive at our hotel in Flagstaff by dinnertime. We caught the sunrise in the Central Valley as we drove south on Interstate 5. Dawn turned into day, and the day only grew hotter as we moved south. At Bakersfield, we turned east. At Barstow, we jumped onto Interstate 40. At this point, we were on time and in good spirits. Everything was going according to plan — that is, until we got to Needles.
We just stopped at Needles for gas. While filling the car up, my father rolled his window all the way down. Just as we prepared to go, he discovered that the window would not roll back up. Despite our best efforts, it remained stuck.
Truth be told, the problem could have been much worse. We could have had our brakes fail while driving through a mountain pass. We could have had our engine overheat in the middle of a desolate desert road. A faulty window, compared to the aforementioned scenarios, seemed to be more of a slight bother than a trip-ending problem. However, it is often the small things that make a big impact, for better or for worse. Neglecting a negative sign while solving an equation can produce the wrong answer. Forgetting a character while writing code can create a faulty program. It became evident, rather quickly, that the window posed a greater problem than we thought.
To add insult to injury, the weather happened to be unkind. To say the day was hot is like saying that calculus is not easy — it is a complete understatement. Temperatures soared near 117 degrees in Needles that day. It was an afternoon hot enough to make air conditioning seem like the breath of God. The weather being so, the open window prevented us from using our car’s air conditioning. Whatever cold air was produced simply left through the window or was overcome by the warm desert air from the window and buffeted our faces while driving.
There was also another problem we had to consider: we would not be able to visit any places that day. After all, the driver’s seat window was fully rolled down. It would be imprudent to leave the car, given that it was our ride and that all our belongings were in it.
Looking for a solution, we crossed over into Arizona and took refuge from the heat at a McDonald’s in Fort Mojave. The car we had, a Nissan Altima, was an Enterprise rental. So, we began to call all the Enterprise branches in the region for a replacement. We called Lake Havasu. We called Kingman. We called Bullhead City. They all gave us the same response: they had no available sedans. One branch even told us that our best chances of procuring a replacement was to drive east to Phoenix or backtrack west to Los Angeles. My parents and I — stressed and somewhere between disappointed and despondent — began to run scenarios.
My father wanted to look for a nearby car shop to fix the window, which meant that the day would be devoted to repairs. My mother wanted to wait until the evening when the weather was cool and calmer then drive to Flagstaff and find a new car the next morning. I thought of finding some duct tape to seal the open window and, similar to my mother’s plan, drive to Flagstaff in hopes of exchanging cars.
As we discussed and debated ideas, a feeling began to develop in my stomach. I got the feeling you would get if you discovered a new page on a math test ten minutes before it was over or if your professor cold calls on you to answer a question you prayed not to get. I began to think of the worst: that we would not be able to find a car and that we would have to shorten, postpone or cancel the road trip altogether. Every passing minute seemed to bring us somewhat closer to that possibility turning into reality.
The situation also had a hint of déjà vu. The last time I drove through the Mojave on a road trip, my parents and I almost got stranded in the middle of nowhere due to problems with our car tires. Now, we were stuck in a rural desert city in southern Arizona with a faulty car, a lack of options and weather that made a fourth floor dorm room feel like a winter day in Anchorage.
After exhausting our list of ideas, my parents and I decided to try our luck at the nearest Enterprise branch at Bullhead City. As we drove there, the dry, desert wind blasted across our faces. I turned my head, trying to shield my face from its gusts, and found myself looking out of my window. Just then, we passed a building and saw a sign. It read, “Jesus Saves.”
It was 2:07 p.m. when we arrived at Bullhead City. We went into the Enterprise office to inquire about their sedan availability. At the same time, we explained our situation to the staff. They told us, as we learned earlier on the phone, that they had no sedans to spare and did not expect to have one for the entire day. However, they were, thankfully, very sympathetic to our plight. They decided then to offer us a car that recently came in, a Ford Explorer. Given the situation we were in, they decided to upgrade us from a sedan to an SUV without any additional costs. After going through some paperwork, we transferred our belongings to our new ride and settled in.
I cannot describe completely and fully the happiness — the pure elation — that I felt sitting in that car. I imagine it to be the same feeling you would get if a professor offers you an extension on a paper or if a friend gives you a cup of coffee on a cold, Yale morning. After getting ourselves acquainted with its features and controls, we left Bullhead City feeling grateful and hopeful. We drove off, heading eastward into the Black Mountains. After all, we had a road trip ahead.
From Bullhead City, we continued as planned and found ourselves in the town of Oatman. Oatman is famous for many things, from being a mining town reminiscent of the Old West to being a stop on Route 66. However, its great claim to fame is its residents, that is, its non-human residents. If you happen to drive through Oatman, you will discover freely roaming donkeys. Otherwise known as burros, they roamed through the town streets and would gather, at times surrounding cars trying to pass through. Just as we entered the town, we came across a group of burros. Roughly six in number, they decided to block the road and greet us before we entered the town. They went up to our car windows, looking at us with curious stares and lighthearted smiles. After exchanging pleasantries, we continued.
Oatman is, by all means, a small Western town. It had everything you would expect of such a community — wooden facades, creaking porches, dusty windows. There was an old mine and, next to it, a historic jail. It fit the bill to the tee. By the time we arrived, it was mid-afternoon. There were a few locals gathered around the bar as well as passing travelers walking around and taking photos of wandering burros. A few stores, mostly closed for the day, were strewn about the main street. After a wild beginning to an interesting first day on our road trip, we were famished. And, being in Oatman, there was no better place to satisfy our hunger than the Oatman Hotel.
Built in 1920, the hotel is home to a famous restaurant known for its buffalo burgers and its dollar-plastered walls. It was dark and cool when we entered. Besides the two other people finishing their belated lunch, it was empty. The waitress was quick to notice us. She kindly, sharply and quickly brought us to our seats.
As a Californian, I have had my fair share of burgers, from your regular fast food chain burger to the masterpiece that is an In-n-Out Double-Double. Yet here, in this quaint desert town tucked in the center of Arizona’s Black Mountains, is a joint whose burgers are more than deserving of their reputation. My father called Oatman’s buffalo burgers the best he has ever had. They truly were amazing, and I will leave it at that. I do so not because I am lazy to write nor because I misplaced my thesaurus. The buffalo burger is just one of those things you must experience for yourself, and any description that tries to fully encapsulate its composition or richness would simply do it an injustice.
The meal alone at the Oatman Hotel makes it a worthy stop for burger enthusiasts, but there is also much to be said for its atmosphere. The dining hall was certainly unique. Instead of seeing walls of wood and stone, I saw walls covered in money. The number of dollar bills stapled around the restaurant’s interior was enough to humble the United States Mint. It is a custom for diners to leave a banknote with a message of their choosing and to staple it onto the wall. As I ate my lunch, I could not help but entertain myself and read some. There was a couple who were going through Route 66 with Oatman as a stop. Nearby was a bill that told the story of a couple who visited the town shortly after tying the knot. The banknotes displayed a diversity in content, but also in origin. I spotted a European euro. A few inches away lay a Philippine piso. Following tradition, we inscribed our names and hometown on a bill before packing our leftovers and leaving the restaurant. We stayed for a while in town and walked along its historic buildings before continuing our journey.
After a beautiful drive through the hairpins of the Oatman Scenic Byway, we found ourselves in Kingman and back on Interstate 40, a route we would go on to follow for the next few days. Heading east, we had one stop left before getting to our hotel in Flagstaff. It was the town of Seligman, Arizona.
Perhaps one of the most famous towns on Route 66, Seligman was one of the inspirations for the town of Radiator Springs in the film “Cars.” As someone whose childhood was defined by “Cars” and due to my own interest in seeing parts of Route 66 on this road trip, we decided to stop at Seligman.
The sun began to set by the time we drove into town. If there was a community that would exemplify Route 66 in the modern era, then it would be Seligman. There were a handful of abandoned storefronts. Their windows were either cracked or clouded. Their paint was in some place between faded and gone. Just every few feet or so would be an aged neon sign. Having lost its luster, one of these signs would, in vain, advertise a motel, store or gas station that has long since gone out of business. And yet, despite all this, murals and museums were all around town bringing to mind its heritage. Helping them were cafes and gift shops resurrecting, in their own way, what was once the Mother Road and all its glory.
We stopped at one such establishment, the Roadrunner Cafe, just 15 minutes before it closed. We got the opportunity to buy some souvenirs and talk to its owners before leaving. After a brief walk through Seligman, we drove back onto the interstate and headed toward Flagstaff.
Sunset in the desert is one of the most beautiful sights you can ever encounter on the road. It was made more wonderful by the fact that I was in the company of great people. From our windows, my parents and I watched the desert plains around us turn into a soft golden yellow that was inviting to the eyes. The weather began getting cooler. Trailers began to reflect the setting sun. Cars started to turn on their headlights. By the time we made it past Williams, trees began to dot the landscape until they covered it entirely. After driving past a series of verdant pastures and farms, we made our way into the Coconino National Forest, its pine trees climbing across my car window. As they did so, the twilight glow peeked through their branches and floated on their leaves in a way that made me feel, even for just a moment, that all was right in the world.
It was 7:30 p.m. when we checked-in to the Courtyard Marriott at Flagstaff. As I settled into my room, the events of the afternoon remained in my mind. A few hours ago, I got to the point where I thought we would never get to Flagstaff. Yet, we did.
To other travelers, Flagstaff was a stop on the road, an item on their itinerary, a pin on a map. To us, Flagstaff was more than a place. It represented the end of a challenging day marked by resilience and, by its end, redemption. More than that, it represented the promise of a new day and of an adventure that lay beyond the threshold toward tomorrow. Flagstaff meant that we had a journey ahead of us and a fun one at that.
In our lives, we all have our own destinations — our own “Flagstaffs.” For many high school students, their idea of Flagstaff is getting accepted to the college of their dreams. For many of us college students, it is to attend graduate school or enter the professional world. For others, it may be the completion of a challenge, a promotion or personal fulfillment. Whoever you may be, wherever you may be, the road to your own Flagstaff will not be easy. There will be moments of joy and moments you would rather forget. There will be twists and turns, climbs and drops and, perhaps, even a faulty window. But, after today, I learned that with a mixture and medley of courage, persistence and hope, you will, as I have, get to Flagstaff.