We have all heard the dictum told to millions of men in order to veer their relationships away from eternal torment and instead toward the path of peace and tranquility. It says: “The woman is always right.”
Women often cite this saying in half-jest, while men — typically older, long-married men — cite it in sarcastic resignation: they don’t believe it but they abide by it to defuse arguments. On the other hand, I put true stock in the wisdom, though I admit it’s a tad too ultimate. The truth is that women are usually right.
To this day, I credit my woman with ensuring that we made the best possible decisions on our walk across America. She kept us nourished, she kept us out of danger (relatively speaking), and she kept us focused on what mattered most. And yet, I can’t say she’s always right.
In the dead of night, I awoke to the sound of a growling vehicle shining its lights on our tent. While Natalie lay sleeping, I sat up in a daze and meekly coughed out “hello,” but no one replied. After an eternity, the vehicle drove away and I fell back asleep.
Perhaps camping in the brush on the side of a dirt road hadn’t been our wisest decision. Either way, the morning brought a new wave of gratitude for life and the opportunity to push a dog stroller with my girlfriend down dirt paths through the middle of nowhere. I still couldn’t believe the vision had been real. Had it been just a nightmare? How close had we been to experiencing an alien abduction — or the latest grisly murder in Juab County? Or had it simply been a local, perplexed and slightly frightened by the sight of a stroller and tent by the side of the road they knew so well?
My mind quickly moved onto other things as we absorbed the Utah sunrise and, later, listened to David Sedaris reading selections from Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls. Later still, a couple in a pickup truck stopped us on Leamington Pass to say hello. They looked completely wowed, but not because of our crazy walk — they’d found a rattlesnake corpse up the road.
“But we already cut off the rattle,” said the woman proudly.
Just a series of residences along a small highway, the town of Leamington offered nothing to us weary travelers, so when we found shade under a large tree we stopped to eat our lunch of peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Across the street, we could see a busy, bustling family carrying out various chores and tasks inside, outside, and around their large house before all piling into an SUV and driving down the road. They spoke no word to us, but we noticed that their dog — a big black lab — looked absolutely crushed at being abandoned
We shrugged, and walked on, but then the dog started following us. His name was Rocky, and he wouldn’t leave us alone. We tried ignoring him. We tried cursing at him. But he kept on following us, happy-go-lucky, zigzagging all over the pavement. This was no straight road, so we legitimately feared someone would come flying around a turn, kill the dog, and then tell the family that we were to blame. Or the driver would freak out, sharply turn, and kill us all.
Eventually, however, the blazing midday heat got the best of Rocky, and he headed back home. The same heat — 95°F —began to wear us down too.
Leamington had no places to stay, and Oak City seemed too far off. My map had teased a nice open area for camping about halfway between the towns, but when we finally reached it, it turned out to be a barren hillside littered with mounds of sand, gravel, and rocks. Not a tree, not a fleck of grass. Just dirt, brutal as the sun.
But we had already walked nearly 20 miles, so we didn’t immediately reject the idea of camping there. After all, we had slept in worse places. Just as we were about to call the place home, a middle-aged white man slowed down his truck to stop and make sure we were okay. We said we were fine, and then asked whether we could spend the night in the wasteland behind us.
“Nobody would bother you up there,” he said. “But Oak City is throwing its biggest party of the year, and I’d be happy to give you a ride.”
“No, we can’t accept the ride,” we said. “But thank you.”
He looked at us, baffled as to why we’d rather camp in a gravel pit than take his offer, but he went on his way. As the sun beat down on my love and me, we stood on the side of the road weighing our options.
The man’s bafflement had emboldened me. Maybe the party was a good idea. It would only be a couple more hours of walking, and there would probably be food and cold drinks and a place to spend the night. And besides, shouldn’t one always trust the locals?
Natalie disagreed. She was hot. She was tired. She felt better ending the day and laying down in the gravel pit (albeit underneath our makeshift shade structure) than she did about walking two more hours in the ninety-plus degree sun. We didn’t know what the party was about, she argued, and we had no guarantee we’d have a place to stay once we got there.
So often I had deferred to my love’s judgment, and so often she had been right. But now something felt amiss. Standing in direct sunlight with nothing but our ugly, wide-brimmed hats for shade, we shifted our weight from side to side and continued arguing. The heat made it hard to think clearly. Our arguments dissolved into silence. Natalie stood with her arms crossed. I stared toward the horizon. My heart trembled.
“Well?” she asked.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and then I said: “When you’re walking in the desert, and someone drives up to tell you there’s a celebration happening five miles down the road, you go.”
I don’t know if it was the statement or the tears or just her own hazy intuition, but my love was convinced to forego the dirt pile and instead walk the two hours and five miles to Oak City. The walk was not easy nor fun, and the entire time Natalie looked like she could’ve stabbed someone.
At last, we strolled into town. All the streets were empty, all the houses quiet. We only needed to walk a few blocks to reach the park, the site of the party. White people everywhere. Families, babies, kids, teenagers, men, wives, elders. Everyone nice, smiling, at ease, celebrating.
The first reward? Cups of ice cold water in the shade. That alone could have made the entire walk from the gravel pit worth it. But there was more.
People crowded around various booths and stands, and one in particular caught my eye. Homemade ice cream. $1.50. I walked up, and the girl in charge handed me a scoop.
“Our last one!” she said.
Finally, my love and I found a plot of grass to catch our breath and get our things in order. A middle-aged guy introduced himself and said he’d caught wind of our journey. He told us he was a local that enjoyed biking these same highways, and he warned us about the loneliest road ahead. When we asked him about camping in Oak City, he brought over his friend Jeff, another middle-aged guy who happened to serve as council member for Oak City. At first, he seemed shy and almost hesitant to grant us specific permission to camp in the park, but then he said, “Sure, just tell ’em Jeff said you could.” Then he handed us a $20 bill to spend on burgers, brats, and hot dogs at the BBQ. We thanked him and then took full advantage, each of us making multiple trips to the grill.
Fully hydrated, bellies full, and the taste of that divine vanilla ice cream lingering on our tongues, we chilled in the shade, surrounded by happy humans, cool grass, and gentle twilight. And, for once, I had been right.
