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Part 1
Four guys are in the middle of a Wyoming oil field, about to run out of gas. This sounds like the setup to a mediocre joke, and it is, but it is also the situation I find myself in after I mixed poor planning with a pinch of hubris.
To recap: The Recycler is driving. The fuel light is on, and The Sojourner tells us on most vehicles, this means there are 3 gallons of gas left -- around 60 miles' worth. The nearest town where we think we can get gas was Moneta, around 80 miles away.
As it turns out, neither of these things was true. The fuel light, as we discovered later, meant we had only a single gallon of gas left. And Moneta had no gas station.
We remain cruising without cruise control at 65 mph, suppressing panic. I am looking up the phone number of Triple A, but having no success due to bad Internet coverage. As I am doing so, we enter into another diminutive Wyoming town. Hope surges into us as we see a large sign proudly declaring GAS -- FOOD -- LODGING ahead. The Recycler brakes, ready to pull in. We examine the building behind the sign.
I notice that, curiously, the windows of this particular establishment have been boarded up. I look closer and notice a real estate sign, signifying that the property is for sale. Tumbleweeds roll by in cliché fashion. Frustration rises as we realize this place has been closed for a very long time. It was nothing more than a mirage in the desert, a false prophet, a bait into nothing. Worse, our detour has caused The Recycler to brake, and hence, cost us fuel. We grit our teeth and set back out onto the road, our souls a bit more jaded than before. Talking has become infrequent.
A new hope emerges like a Skywalker on Tattooine: There is a place, according to Google Maps, called Gas Hills, and it is within 5 miles of us. We relax. If we make it to Gas Hills...
We make it to Gas Hills. It is a simple dirt road leading to what appears to be a tiny trailer park. There is a building or something at the end of the dirt road, but none of us care. There is no gas, which is the only thing we care about.
Of course, it is reasonable to name a place Gas Hills if it is in the middle of an oil field, but it did not seem so to us at the time. If we had become seduced by that name, if we had been overcome by the promise of that sweet gasoline nectar, if we had let our guard down even just a drop, we would have gone off the main highway, even more out of our way, lost even more momentum slowing down and stopping, lost even more gas for no reason, lost even more hope realizing our mistake, had our souls become even more jaded, and probably would have resorted to eating each other alive in a frenzy of panic and desparation. One thing in that last sentence isn't true.
If the aforementioned boarded-up gas station had been a false prophet, then Gas Hills was the Antichrist himself, alight in Satanic power. Luckily, we do not succumb to the siren's call. We plug our ears and forge on, stoically despairing. I estimate we have less than 10 miles in the tank, and the nearest gas is over 70 miles away. I do not say anything out loud. Silence blossoms.
Now there is serendipity, and there is miracle. The place called Bright Spot falls squarely into the latter category.
We did not take any pictures of Bright Spot. We did not get any souvenirs. There is no evidence of its existence but in our memories. Bright Spot, to us, is a Shangri-La, an Atlantis, an El Dorado. It is mythic, and I kind of like it that way. Perhaps Bright Spot was a group dream. Perhaps it was a hallucination, brought about by stress. Perhaps we should have bought a lottery ticket, and pushed our luck even further. The specifics do not matter. What matters is this: When you look at Bright Spot, you gaze into the face of God.
My phone labels Bright Spot with the words GAS -- FOOD -- LODGING, and my jaded soul immediately narrows its eyes in suspicion. Another siren's call, luring us to lose more fuel, I think. Still, I let the other three know about the existence of another potential false prophet. They are as wary as I am.
Now in some versions of the story, we roll into Bright Spot just as the last drop of fuel in our tank is being converted into axle-turning and exhaust fumes. In another version, we have to push the van a few hundred feet to make it to the pump. In a third version, the Yellowstone Supervolcano explodes -- somehow behind us -- and we have to race the lava on less than half a gallon of gas, bouncing comically along the suddenly undulating highway like we are in a Saturday morning cartoon. In this version, when the van inevitably runs out of gas, we call Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson and he lifts the last of us into his helicopter just before the lava kisses our toes. I leave it to the reader to decide which version they prefer. (The third version does not have Bright Spot in it, so it sucks.)
Bright Spot is composed of two buildings: A small convenience store and a smaller motel. The pull-in is dirt and tumbleweeds. The gas pump does not have a digital display or a credit card reader; it relies on turnstiles and trust instead. This is almost exactly what it looked like:
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| Note the PAY BEFORE YOU PUMP sign in lieu of a credit card reader and the analog display. |
Never before has a question been so incisive, yet so simple. Here was a woman just doing her job, performing a routine she had doubtless performed countless times before, yet to us, she was a messiah. In the moment she asks her question, we know we are saved, the lion lies down with the lamb, and all is good in the world.
She fuels us up, operating the pump with arthritic joints and atrophying muscles. I talk to her as she does it, learning of her Hawaiian heritage and her job working in the oil fields. I go inside to pay. I regret not leaving a tip, or some token of appreciation, even though this would somewhat degrade the mythic nature of Bright Spot. The other three do not understand why I would want to tip someone for simply doing her job. They do not fully appreciate the nuance of subjective perception -- how her doing her job means the world to us, in that moment -- but, then again, they also do not understand how melodramatic I can be in blog posts.
The only way this story could have been more perfect is if there had been a total solar eclipse, thereby making Bright Spot a literal bright spot out in the middle of Nowhere, Wyoming. In some versions of the story, there was a total eclipse, plus the four of us heard the voice of the angel Gabriel coming from the heavens and are now devout Christians. In another version, we heard Mohammed and are currently on our Hajj. I leave it to the reader to decide which version they prefer.
We leave Bright Spot with smooth, clean souls. Back onto Highway 26.
It is somewhere between 6 and 8 hours into the drive, which I know because I was driving and I had the last shift. We are all tired and anxious to arrive at our hotel in Cody, Wyoming. The folio for the reservation I printed offscreen is ready to deploy.
Highway 26 diverges in the town of Shoshoni, Wyoming. Cody is to the north, along Highway 20. We drive into Shoshoni, slowing to comply with the city speed limit. Shoshoni is a thousand times larger than Bright Spot and a thousand times less bright. It is all motels, convenience stores, and boarded up windows. We prepare to drive onto Highway 20.
The large procession of cars preceding the highway indicates something is wrong. The large, flashing sign saying ROAD CLOSED -- HEAD BACK TO SHOSHONI indicates the road is closed, and we should head back to Shoshoni. We pull off to the side of the road. I exit the van to ask someone about the situation. Hi, sir. Do you know why the road is closed? (No, but we saw a bulldozer driving in, so we suspect it may have been falling rock.) How long do you think it will be closed? (We have no clue. It could be 20 minutes. It could be 5 hours. It might not reopen until tomorrow morning.) Is there another route to Yellowstone? (You can go through the southern entrance, which is mountainous. We are not so lucky. This highway is the only way back to our home.)
I return to the van to discuss. Apparently, while I was gone, an SUV flew past the line of pulled-over cars, far exceeding the speed limit, irreverent of the flashing road sign. I get back in time to see that same SUV flying back out the other way. This confirms the fact that we cannot roll the dice and ignore the sign -- not that such a thought ever crossed our minds, officer.
We decide to first take a bathroom break at the nearest convenience store, weigh options, get out of the van for a little bit. There are condoms for sale in the bathroom. 75 cents. We do not buy any.
We could try to wait it out. We could try the alternate route to Yellowstone -- but wait, we have to get to a hotel tonight. Either way, we are not making it to A Wyoming Inn. Later, I will cancel the reservation, thereby making the folio I had printed out offscreen totally useless. It is a sad moment.
We return to Highway 20, wanting to be ready in case it reopens. We sit for a short while when the sheriff drives out from the highway. I roll down our window. He rolls down his window and elucidates us.
"The road'll be closed for 3, 4, 5 hours at least. They're talkin' 'bout not opening it until tomorrow morning."
Crestfallen, we reevaluate. Smartphones roll out like autobots. The Recycler finds another town, another possibility: Dubois, Wyoming. It is to the west, not the north, and we can make it there tonight. For some reason, Dubois sounds familiar to me. Much later, I will realize this is because it reminded me of civil rights activist and prolific author W. E. Dubois, a cofounder of the NAACP.
We decide to go for Dubois. I turn the van around and set out toward the west, an agent of our own kind of Manifest Destiny. The Sojourner looks up inns in Dubois, finds one, calls it, makes a reservation. Our plans have rapidly changed, but the profound synergies of our group have made the major adjustment painless and smooth. We are back in business.
En route to Dubois, we speculate as to why the road was closed, as we never got to see the source of the blockage. It could have been falling rocks, but it also could have been an alien invasion the US government efficiently suppressed. This theory sticks immediately, becoming a sort of conversational stomping grounds. As we drive westward, we imagine a full-out scorched-Earth war taking place between the aliens and the US military, hidden just out of our view by the hills to the north. I imagine the US troops becoming overwhelmed and retreating to none other than Bright Spot Wyoming, where under the strategic genius of that Hawaiian woman, they commit to one glorious last stand. Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson is among them, for some reason.
We arrive in Dubois. The population is under a thousand.
Next time: Cowboys, outlaws, and the world's largest Jackalope exhibit!
Part 3
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