Writing for Fun
The Highway - Pete Norman
April 2013
'Dinosaur poo . . . I can't believe it. Genuine, vintage, unadulterated dinosaur poo!' Richard stared in wonder at the fist sized balls of rock at his feet. He crouched and ran his fingers over the rough surface.
'65 million years old. The Cretaceous period is when they all died out.' The voice came from behind him and was followed by another squirt from the washing up liquid bottle. The water sizzled as it hit the hot rock and for a few brief seconds the true shape of the ancient remains was highlighted, before the blazing hot sun evaporated every trace of moisture and the fossils blended back into the uniform dull grey/brown of its surroundings.
Richard looked up at Haloke: a tall willowy Native American youth who was dressed in faded Levi 501s and a black t shirt with a single white feather emblazoned on the front. A pair of Nike trainers and mirrored sunglasses completed the image, which was about as far removed from Richard's preconceptions of Indian dress as it was possible to be.
Shima, her black hair cascading down her back, was dressed in perfect harmony with her partner, except that a wolf's head stood in relief against the darker grey of her t shirt.
Together they moved through the uneven rocky pavement, occasionally spraying water on the more interesting sections. There were footprints – giant footprints – stretching out in a rough line ahead, impressed into the soft mud aeons before man took his first tentative steps upon the earth.
Beside them lay much smaller impressions, so shallow that they were only visible from a very acute angle. They appeared to have been left by a juvenile which, judging by the length of the stride, was as large as a horse.
Richard was so entranced that he was able to show only token resistance to the sales patter of the experienced entrepreneur and he soon found himself walking back to the rental car with a lump of fossilised excrement in a bag in one hand and a much slimmer wallet in the other.
When he opened the car door the heat blasted his face – it was like a furnace. He slipped in the key and waited for the air-con to kick in before he climbed aboard. In front of the car was the sign that had attracted him into this archaeological site; he smiled at the rough wooden board, supported against two rusty iron posts, which said simply: 'Dinosaur Tracks. Turn Now.'
A quick glance at the map confirmed that he had another two hours to go to Monument Valley. He took a swig of tepid water and, with the prospects of an ice cold drink when he got to the Navajo Visitor Centre, he swung the car back out onto Highway 160 and headed East, leaving the small hamlet of Tuba City far behind him.
The roads out here in the desert were bland and featureless – a thin line of black tarmac bounded by a sea of dry red dust and the occasional tin hut – the only relief from the monotony were the mountains which, no matter how long he drove, seemed forever to sit just out of reach on the horizon.
The best part of two hours later, the mountains had finally crept a little closer and as he rounded a long sweeping bend in the road a vista opened up before him that took his breath away. The thin black highway stretched arrow straight to the edge of the world where it disappeared through a gap in those misshapen monoliths.
He eased the car over to the edge of the highway and took out from his bag the photograph from the National Geographic which had first motivated him to take this Canyon-lands holiday. He held it up to the windscreen. It was perfect – the photographer had to have been standing on this very spot when he took it. He simply must take a photograph of his own; he had to have proof of his own visit. As he opened the car door the long drawn out blast of a klaxon screamed out its warning. He spun around and to his horror saw a massive juggernaut bearing down on him at speed. It was instantly apparent that the lorry took up most of the narrow highway and that he and the car were directly in its path. He leapt back into the car, fired it up and gunned the engine. The wheels spun as they fought for grip and the car leapt off the hardtop, dropping with a bone shaking thump onto the rough ground beyond, just as the howling truck thundered past. The blast of its slipstream rocked the car violently and then a dust storm like a tsunami swallowed it up – it was as close to hell as he could possibly imagine.
When the dust had finally settled and he had recovered his senses he pulled a Nikon SLR from his bag and took his precious photograph, after taking a good hard look back down the highway for any signs of potential danger. When he checked the screen he grinned, as on the finished photo he could still see the dust cloud from the truck far in the distance – it would bear witness when he came to retell the story.
The car fired up and he turned back towards the tarmac. A wheel dropped into a hole and the body smacked hard onto the ground. He froze. It was only a rental, but he would have to pay a substantial policy excess if the car was marked in any way. He climbed out to survey the damage and was horrified to smell petrol and to see a dark stain spreading across the dust from beneath the car. He panicked.
He flicked the ignition on and saw that the tank was only a quarter full. At the rate he was losing fuel that would not take him far. There was no time to lose.
He bounced determinedly back up onto the highway and gunned the engine. He would get to the Visitor Centre and then summon help from there. The car purred along the highway, eating up the miles and he began to relax. By his reckoning he had less than ten miles to go. But then he glanced down at the fuel gauge and saw the needle dropping fast into the red. He had little time to react to the devastating news before the engine coughed and the car rapidly slowed.
The mountains were still on the horizon. The highway was still stretched straight out towards them and there was no sign yet of the Visitor Centre. He coasted to a stop, rolling the car off the highway again while he still had the momentum to do it.
He checked his mobile phone, but there were no bars visible. He dug out the rental company documents and punched in the number anyway, but the phone simply beeped back at him. He had no choice; he would have to wait for some Good Samaritan to come along and give him a lift to civilisation.
In the back of his mind there was the niggly thought that there had been no other traffic for hours, with the exception of that blasted lorry, of course. Nevertheless, he settled back with both doors open to await the arrival of his saviour.
It was unbearably hot. The sweat was trickling down his face and oozing down his back, sticking his shirt to the car seat.
There was no car.
He gave it half an hour.
He gave it another ten minutes.
He gave it five minutes more . . .
Reluctantly he peeled himself from the car. He slung his camera over his shoulder and threw his bag into the boot – it was too heavy to carry and if some thief wanted his dirty underwear, then he would just have to take it. He looked at the bag on the front seat – he had foolishly paid a small fortune for a lump of rock and he was damned if that was going to get stolen. He snatched up the bag, locked the car and started to walk.
The thin black highway stretched arrow straight to the edge of the world and as he trudged along the sticky blacktop the sun beat down relentlessly down, soaking the Yankees baseball cap and welding it to his head.
On and on he walked.
The sun beat down.
The beautiful mountains hovered on the horizon mocking his distress.
The sun beat down; mirages gleamed on the tarmac before him.
The sun beat down.
Hour after lonely hour he trudged onwards, grateful that as the afternoon progressed the temperature started to ease from the dizzy heights of noon. He had no recollection of how long he had been walking or how far he had walked, he had long since lost the will to check his watch, it was only the sun sinking fast behind him that gave him any indication of the hour.
Despite the relief from the searing heat, his steps were becoming so laboured that he was staggering more and more, beginning to take heart at any dark patch he could see ahead, hoping that it might just be a building – might just be the building. He began to hallucinate, began hearing vehicles behind him, hearing voices calling out his name. He was losing the will to carry on, it would be so easy to just curl up beside the road and surrender to the exhaustion that was fast overwhelming him.
But then he saw the sign . . . that wonderful sign.
'Navajo Visitor Centre 1 mile.'
His heart soared, his pace quickened and he stumbled forward with purpose once more until at last he could see buildings across the vast expanse of dust to his right. He set off at an angle; a shortcut. But away from the smooth tarmac, with the night fading fast, he stubbed his tired toes on every rock protruding from the level ground and several times he found himself tripping, falling painfully. Blood trickled from cuts to his hands and his knees as he staggered the last few hundred yards towards shelter. The last time he fell he was unable to protect himself at all and his face struck the ground hard. He struggled to his feet and stared at the Visitor Centre through the blur of the blood trickling down his face.
So very close . . .
But then his heart sank – there were no lights on and there were no vehicles parked outside.
He had failed.
He sank back onto his knees in utter defeat.
From somewhere deep within he found the last vestiges of some hidden reserve and he dragged himself to his feet. His t shirt was struggling to keep the chill night air at bay and he began to shiver. He determined to explore the building to find some form of shelter for the night and until the staff returned in the morning. He managed to make it across to a large picture window.
Standing on tip-toes he peered through the glass. The inside was completely black with the exception of a faint glow coming from the far side. He staggered around to the front of the building, to the covered porch way, climbed the steps to the twin glass doors and to his relief saw a figure standing on the far side of the room. He tapped on the glass, but the figure didn't move. He rapped harder . . .
Almost delirious, he subjected the glass to a frenzied attack, only stopping when the figure began to move towards him. He stopped, leaning against the doors, mentally and physically exhausted, while he waited for the man to arrive. This one most certainly was an Indian, of an indeterminate age, his grey/black hair tied back into a long braid halfway down his back. He was dressed in a light brown beaded jacket and leggings with leather moccasins on his feet – now that was what a Navajo should look like!
A dark brown weather-beaten face smiled at him as he reached for the door locks and turned the key. The doors fell away from him and he collapsed unceremoniously onto the floor. Strong hands grasped him and lifted him to his feet and somehow, with support, he staggered inside.
Without a word the man led him through to the cafeteria and gestured towards the foodstuffs on display in the counter cabinets. Richard fell on the food with ravenous desire, tearing it apart like a wild beast, cramming it into his mouth and washing it down with blisteringly hot, strong black coffee. The man stood back watching with interest, but took no further part. Somewhat guilty at his animal display, Richard tugged out his wallet and tossed a few dollar bills onto the counter, but when he turned back the man had gone. Puzzled, he made his way back into the Centre Reception area and found him; the wonderful, kindly man was preparing a bed-roll on the floor. The soft comfort beckoned irresistibly and Richard nodded gratefully and then threw himself wearily down. Sleep overtook him almost instantly.
His dreams floated around in an ever decreasing bizarre spiral until, suddenly, a sound disturbed him and his eyes flew open.
A harsh sound . . .
Crunch . . .
He dragged himself up to a sitting position.
Crunch . . .
The first thing that caught his eye was that he was lying on a rough heap of ethnic t shirts. The rail where they had been hanging was lying on the floor beside him.
The second thing he saw was a raised dais in the corner of the room, where, in a historical setting, the tall model of a Navajo brave stood beside his tepee.
Crunch . . .
He turned towards the sound. A tall Native American lady, drowning in a voluminous padded grey coat was stepping gingerly through the shattered remains of the front doors, her boots scattering the glass fragments before her. She bent to pick up a small anonymous lump of rock from amongst the debris and through gritted teeth said, 'And I suppose this piece of fake dinosaur crap belongs to you!'