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 and history. 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.
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The road to Phoenix was dusty. To be fair, this was true for almost every road my parents and I have been on thus far in our travels. It just happened to be particularly noticeable this time around. Dust hovered in the air, giving Picacho Peak the roughened brown of vintage leather and the sky the diluted blue of faded denim. It swelled in the afternoon air like the notes of a Morricone score, adding a sense of slothfulness to an already lazy afternoon. The morning, in contrast, was filled with energy.
My day began 40 miles south in Tucson. Even in the early morning, it was already 94 degrees. As someone whose childhood was spent in the Mediterranean climes of the Bay Area, I was easily disturbed, as I have been for the past few days, by the extreme heat. I cannot stand it and admire those who do.
Our first stop for the day was Saguaro National Park where we found ourselves, once again, on an auto trail. Instead of wading through the smooth dunes of White Sands National Park as did the day before, however, we found ourselves up close with the saguaro cactus — but not too close.
Lending its name to the national park, the saguaro cactus has become as synonymous with the Southwest as the bulldog to Yale despite the fact it only occurs naturally in Arizona. Seeing them up close was a pleasant start to the day. We left the park once we completed the auto trail and headed to the Pima Air and Space Museum, a sprawling complex of hundreds of military and commercial aircraft.
The museum’s main hangar looked cold but felt warm. Under bright white lights aloft and above the clean concrete floor below were airplanes suspended from the ceiling as if they were in flight. Docents, many being veterans or former pilots, were talking to school children who were visiting the museum that morning. They raced around, their eyes glowing with amazement at every sight of a nose, fuselage, propeller or jet engine. Being a history buff, I acted the same way to the point that my mother was not able to tell me apart from those kids. As I raced from one aircraft to the next, I caught, from the corner of my eye, my father standing in front of a helicopter.
Museums can be personal, and this one was no exception. I found my way to my father’s side and saw what he was looking at: a Bell UH-1. He did not have to explain why he was still or silent, nor did I have to ask. My father had two uncles who fought in the Vietnam War, one of them being a helicopter pilot. While ferrying soldiers into a battlefield one day, taking great care that they disembarked safely, he was shot down and died. We stood there for a while, my father’s eyes moving about the craft as if it were searching for a feeling between seriousness and sadness he could not place. Giving him some time, I left the hangar to see the rest of the museum’s collection which, given its size, lay outside.
If the heat did not blind me, it was the dust sailing through the air. A haze was suspended above the museum yard, punctuated only by the occasional A-10 Thunderbolt roaring through the sky from the nearby Air Force base. Meanwhile, particles of dust subtly tempered the vibrant paint that, with all their might, continued to give the parked aircraft a nice luster. There were many airplanes that caught my attention: vintage jet fighters, Cold War bombers and retired airliners. There were even retired Air Force Ones, my personal favorites, that still sported their iconic livery of white, silver and light blue.
To end our experience at Pima, my parents and I spent the remainder of our time at the 390th Memorial Museum, an independent museum run by veterans and dedicated to the 390th Bomb Group. We toured the exhibits and caught a glimpse of its preserved B-17 Flying Fortress. We also had the good fortune of listening to a talk delivered by one of its former crew members, who was well over the age of 100, before leaving.
There was only one stop left in Tucson before we began our drive north toward Phoenix, Mission San Xavier del Bac. The mission was founded in the late 1690s. The church that stands today, however, was built roughly a century later on what is now the land of the Tohono Oʼodham Nation. Called the “White Dove of the Desert,” its coat of soft, brilliant and pristine white truly resembled that of a dove. It easily stood out from the dry and dreary earth that surrounded it. Its facade was striking, featuring a blend of Baroque and Moorish styles, and featured an intricate set of carvings that rose above its main portal. Its architectural beauty has made it one of Tucson’s iconic sights.
Upon entering the church, I was struck immediately by an interior that was rich in color and ornate in detail. The pews were a rich brown. The nave’s white walls featured painted ornamentation and figures of saints. The altar was alight with a glow similar to that of a fierce flame. Its wooden carvings and panels featured an array of red, gold and green that was, despite its age, vibrant to the visitor’s eye. After spending some time admiring its interior, we left the mission, grabbed lunch and hit the road for Phoenix. Shortly after passing Picacho Peak, we made it to our last stop of the day, Casa Grande Ruins National Monument.
Thousands of years ago, the ancestral Sonoran Desert people built an impressive system of canals to irrigate their farming communities along the banks of the rivers of southern Arizona. As farming grew, trade boomed and communities prospered. One of these communities in the Gila River Valley would become the location of a structure known today as the Great House. The ruins of the Great House, whose purpose remains a mystery to this day, stand at four stories tall and are roughly 700 years old. They are protected and preserved by the national monument.
I have always had a special connection with ruins, and it is not just because I love history. Shortly after the 1906 San Francisco earthquake shook the Bay Area, my high school, whose main building was damaged, decided to take parts of its broken facade and place them on a special grove on campus. I have seen these ruins everyday of my life for four years and have spent many an afternoon sitting on them in quiet contemplation, appreciating them and learning from them.
My father, deciding to take a nap in the visitor center from a busy day driving, left my mother and I to walk around the ruins of the Great House. Covered under a ramada that was larger than I expected, the ruins were earthy in tone and cracked in composition. The ruins were quiet and empty save for a family of pigeons who have since taken up residence in an obscure corner of the structure. Their coos were soft, and their flutters were tender. Otherwise, all was still.
Content with our walk around the ruins, my mother and I returned to the visitor center and watched a short film about the Great House’s history before meeting up with my father and resuming our journey to Phoenix. We made it to the city shortly before dinnertime and settled into our hotel downtown.
The night’s arrival brought about the end of our penultimate day on our trek across the Southwest. It was one of those bittersweet moments where you wished the journey was longer but also could not wait to return to the comforts of home. As I swung from those bitter and sweet feelings, I looked out my window into the cityscape below. It was at this moment that I realized that things were no longer dusty. The streets were clean. The sky was brilliant. The air was smooth.
For a moment, I missed it. For a moment, I envied it. For a split second, I wanted to be a particle of dust — to float across the sky without a care in the world, to travel with no heading, to settle and rise without urgency or need. I wanted to ride the wind and relish in the warmth of the sun. But for now, the most I could give myself was a good night’s rest. And that was enough for me.