The last day of my road trip is a bit of a blur. I remember stopping for flatbread at Laguna Pueblo, another rest break at the Petrified Forest Visitors Center, and chasing a train just west of Flagstaff. I remember my fatigue, and anticipation, and nostalgia from previous drives and the stops I had made along the old Route 66. I also remember feeling behind schedule all day; despite an early start it soon became clear I would not make my seven p.m. estimated arrival time.
One of the best things about living in Vegas is the view, and one of my favorite views is that first glimpse of the strip as you crest the rim of the valley. If you arrive after dark from the south on I-15 you have a clear view of the Strip, a brightly colored ribbon nestled in an orange-thread lace. Cresting Railroad Pass, my chosen route for the day, our famous skyline is in silhouette with all the casino and resort lights twinkling in the night and it feels like you are descending into an imaginary land. Either way, it is a bright oasis after a long lonely drive.
This was not one of those times.
It was late July, one of the hottest weeks of the year, and close to seven p.m., one of the hottest times of the day. As I approached the turn to the ring road, traffic slowed, drivers became aggressive, and I missed my usual first glimpse. For the next hour it was stop-and-go traffic under yellow haze, my XTerra’s air conditioner straining as I made my way to the west side of the valley in the triple-digit heat.
As I made my way across the valley, a previous road trip came to mind. It was on this very road, in the opposite direction, thirteen years before. I was a relatively fresh widow, still stung by a commander’s assertion that the accident that killed my husband and our eleven friends was “just the cost of doing business”. Chewy was by my side (dog is my co-pilot) and I was on my way to Florida to begin graduate school. My plan was to study aviation human factors, and use the thesis process advance our understanding of the effects of mission pressure on in-flight decisions. Now it was just me, limping home, wondering whether anything I had done in the intervening years had nudged the needle in any way.
Traffic slowed and sped as we moved from exit to exit. Despite the hour and the sun’s angle, its light was still strong. To pass the time, I watched the planes inbound to McCarran and, as I progressed past the airport, outbound. The shadow from the range of the west side of town slowly crept towards us as we crept towards it, until finally its shade was upon us. As traffic passed through the edge of night we seemed to collectively take a deep breath: the cluster of commuters seemed to thin, and we began to increase speed. Soon I was exiting the highway and at my friends’ door.
I was an hour late for our scheduled mac and cheese. As I lifted my suitcase from the rear seat, a breeze from a nearby canyon ruffled my hair with what felt like affection. As I trundled up the sidewalk, I felt my body begin to relax. I rang the doorbell. It was nice to be home.