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Marissa was a very adventurous person. Always wanting to try something new and always faced any challenge that came her way. Many people always thought she was crazy for always doing these challenges, but it was one of the only things that made her happy. She doesn't have any family around to support her in person, so she's doing all of these tasks alone. Her parents live in New Mexico, so she never really sees them often, which actually makes it easier to do all these adventures, since no one will be holding her back.
This time, Marissa will walk nearly 300 miles from Los Angeles, California to Lake Havasu City, Arizona. A whole trip by foot, to another state. This was nothing like she had ever done before, but she was very excited to take on the challenge. Marissa had to prepare on where to sleep, eat, go to the bathroom, and shower. But, some things don't go as planned, so she just figured it out as she went. She knew she could make it, and she would not give up during the trip.
Marissa left on March 10th, at around 10 A.M. She was off on a long journey she knew she would be able to finish. Many people who knew about her journey, were very supportive and cheered her on. Others did not have much faith in her and did not believe that she'd make it the whole way. But, she did not care about anyone's thoughts but her own. Marissa had a successful first day of walking. Not many distractions and she was able to sleep in a cheap motel for a night. This wouldn't be this easy the whole way through since the farther you go, the less civilization there is and there's not many cities along the way. She tried not to make too many stops throughout the day, so it wouldn't slow her down, but some days the weather was warmer and she couldn't help but try and stop in some shade if she could find any. She tried not to walk at a fast pace because that would get her legs more tired. But either way, she wasn't trying to get there as fast as possible, but just trying to stay on track with her plan. After day 2 it was harder for her to find places to sleep and go to the bathroom, but she wasn't going to let that stop her. Walking so much everyday gave Marissa a lot of time to think about everything.
She brought portable chargers for her phone just in case she needs her phone for an emergency. Marissa's parents usually give her a call everyday, so they can check in on eachother. But, she hadn't received a call from them in 3 days. She just thought they were busy and went on with her other thoughts. The more tired she grew, the more she felt like giving up. Marissa is about 5 days into her journey, but it's only getting harder. The days feel so long, especially when the weather is warmer, which makes Marissa take more breaks. Her trip is taking longer than expected, but she was still pushing through to finish it. She was about 120 miles in, which should've been 150, but she slowed down. Marissa was growing tired and her legs were aching due to all the walking. This is the first time she thought about giving up, and getting a ride back home. But why would she want to show those people who didn't believe in her, that they were right. She kept going, and got rid of the negative thoughts.
Marissa reached the halfway point of 150 miles on day 6. She still hadn't received a call from her parents, but did not put much thought into it. She got more rest after she reached the halfway point, which made her want to keep going even more now. Since Marissa had her phone with her, she'd document a bit of each day to let people know where she'd be after every night. She believed in herself even more to make it because she was getting anxious to get to her destination.
That night, Marissa found a rest stop to sleep at. She actually slept good there, unlike the other few places she tried to sleep at before this. She was getting her stuff ready to get back on the road to walk. Marissa finally got a call from her parents as she saw the name ?Dad? light up on her phone screen. She picked up before leaving again to another day of walking.
?Your mother is in the hospital in critical condition, we need you to come down here quickly.?
Marissa's happy smile from getting a call from her parents turned into a big frown after hearing those words. The conversation went on for another minute, but Marissa was full of emotion. Terrible sadness because of her mom. Disappointment because her journey was ruined. Confusion on why these unfortunate events had to happen. She had to stop her journey and find the closest airport to get on the next plane to New Mexico. Almost 200 miles into the journey. Someone from the rest stop offered her a ride to the airport, and she accepted due to the lack of time When Marissa arrived at the airport, she quickly tried getting the quickest flight to New Mexico and succeeded. The only thing that seemed to be going okay at this point. She soon got on the plane, and was on her way to see her parents. Marissa doesn't know why her mom is in the hospital and was only told to come quick. A lot was going through her mind.
More than 24 hours after leaving our apartment in Northeast Portland, we finally reach our destination: A humble wooden signpost painted black with white lettering welcomes us to Alvord Hot Springs. The campsite features a half dozen repurposed military bunkers to our right and the corrugated iron-sided hot springs to our left. A lone red Dodge pickup hitched to a Dutchmen trailer is parked next to the office general store, a white one-room ranch with forest green accents. Beside it lies a debris pile of discarded tent skeletons and camping furniture, the evidence of nature's coming wrath. There are no tumbleweeds in sight, but a cursory glance over the grounds gives the impression of abandonment. We pull ourselves out of the car, stretch our restless limbs with an exaggerated groan, and head for the office. It's locked.
?Hello?? I call out from the wooden deck, in no particular direction, scanning the surrounds for the nearest lifeform.
After a moment of stillness, the trailer door thrusts open and a young woman with thick ankles and a heavy Arkansas drawl appears, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.
?Y'all are earlier than I expected!?
She's finishing off a cigarette started the night prior and wearing a flannel hoodie over the Zeppelin '77 USA Tour tee one finds at Hot Topic or Walmart. She crushes the cigarette butt on the steel camper step and walks over to greet us.
?Maya,? she says sweetly, maintaining our maskless social distancing and letting us into the office Inside is a commercial desert oasis. It's air-conditioned with a chest freezer filled to the brim with assorted IPAs, steaks, hot dogs, and a variety of ice cream novelties, each neatly assorted in their proper sections. I inquire about the source of their bountiful provisions:
?The Costco over in Boise, Maya responds casually. ?It's only around 200 miles or so.?
We set up our two-person Coleman tent, erect the crimson red easy-up canopy, stake each into the soil, and plop down in our nylon folding chairs. Splitting a gram of mushrooms, we put on reggae music, and stare out at the desert, sipping iced tea while Dennis Brown wails away about love and hate and quarrelsome next-door neighbors.
An indeterminate time later, three motorcycles buzz past our campsite on the access road twenty yards to our right. We watch them slowly vanish from sight down the half-mile pathway leading to the open desert. After they've exited our field of vision, a dust cloud kicks up where they left off and begins to obscure our view of the open playa. It gradually continues to grow in size, like a slow-moving tornado, sauntering across the dry lake bed. Andrea and I look at each other in disbelief before returning our gaze, only to see the storm growing larger still. Unsure if our minds are actually seeing what we believe, we look around the campsite and spot other awestruck spectators scattered about the shrubby plain, holding their phones up to capture the moment, their mouths agape. For the supposedly enhanced communication between our brain receptors, we can't reach a consensus as to whether or not those three motorcycles were responsible for such a marvelous spectacle.
***
?Bullsnake,? the female twentysomething says matter-of-factly.
For its reputation, Fields Station is rather unassuming. After an hour driving through stunningly bleak terrain and scattered outposts with one stop sign and fewer signs of life, we take the correct fork at the only junction, yet somehow drive right past the car-filled parking lot It's as if the preceding three months' solitude has now been compounded by the isolation of our current surroundings, and we've ceased to remember what human congregation looks like. We pull in and graciously fill the gas tank ourselves; a relic of the outside world that had only recently made its way to southeastern Oregon.
I head inside to pay and stare in amazement at the framed photos of local hunters beside their prized trophies. All the local fauna is on display, from the customary jackrabbit, elk, and deer, to the more elusive bobcat, bighorn sheep, and mountain lion, each lying inert and expressionless beside a beaming father and son, or sometimes, three generations of proudly camouflaged tradition. The cashier informs us that the summit loop road is closed until July and hands us our frozen bounty before we re-enter the blinding brightness. By mid-day, the summer sun is oppressive enough to melt our triple-thick peanut butter milkshakes and we seek out the last available picnic table and the respite of shade.
We slurp the delightfully melty remnants of soft serve and people watch. Many of the picnic tables are filled with groups who've come to the middle of nowhere to get anywhere outside the confinement of their home. Most sit with burger baskets, waffle fries smothered in cheese sauce, and cookie-filled ice cream concoctions of various indulgence. Two teenagers sit in the wooden rocking chairs flanking the store entrance, each wearing a cowboy hat and boots, Carhartt brown work pants, and flannels of differing shades of blue, one sporting aviator sunglasses. Like the grazing pronghorn from the day before, they stare back at us coolly. I avert my gaze as the same three bikers from the day before come roaring into the parking lot on their Kawasakis and pull up to park beside us. When I look back at the store entrance, one of the two supposed dude ranchers has disappeared; Aviators is still staring back at me, his face portraying not the slightest hint of emotion.
While they eat their burgers, we share tidbits of information about ourselves. Having recently been laid off once the university I worked at was promptly shuttered by a deadly airborne disease about which so little is still understood, I try to steer clear from career talk. Though I don't say it explicitly, the pack leader seems to understand.
?Here,? he offers, digging out a smooth piece of shiny black obsidian from the bike's storage compartment and handing it to me. ?We got these from the Antelope Refuge in Nevada. The road's littered with them.? We compare maps and inform them of our plans to drive as far up the Steens summit as possible, bidding them farewell and wondering if our paths might cross again.
As we hurriedly make our way back to the car, the motorcycles suddenly flash through the trees across the lake and come zooming around the campsite road. Spotting us, they pull up near the shore and disembark.
?Beautiful scenery! Shame about the road closure,? the pack leader laments.
On our last night in the desert, we seek out the vast wonder of the playa to play guitar at sunset and frisbee under the stars. We drive deep into its interior, far enough that the surrounding mountains and plateaus all begin to look identical. In the relative geographical center of the desert, the breeze kicks up from time to time, but it is mostly silent, stagnant like the open ocean doldrums. We lie on its cool floor and watch the sky change colors, awaiting the planetarium above us to reappear. It doesn't, and the darkness comes on quicker than we'd anticipated.
***
?Whatever you do, do not leave this car!? I command. This is the panic you've been dreading.
You've drunk plenty of water, but your adrenaline is a sieve precipitating dehydration. Your throat feels as dry as the dusty ground on which your footsteps crunch. The absence of moisture has split your cracked lips in half and irritated your nasal membranes to the point of bleeding. You shiver from the delayed onset of cold following the sun's departure behind the mountains. If there were ever a moment to be present, this is it.
Beyond the flickering embers, the Steens lurks in the darkness. Once again, you venture toward its summit, as if expecting it to present a window into a life undiscovered. The first time you entered the domain of the rattlesnakes and the cougars, your own imagination had chased you down its slopes. Now, its need to fill in the gaps of your current sensory deprivation is slowly driving you insane. The distant howl of coyotes pierces the night silence. You thought the seeming familiarity of the desert was your sanctuary. But now it too threatens to swallow you whole.
You hasten the pace of your jog as the lights alternately shimmer blue, red, and yellow. It's a camper, surely. One of the dozen or so scattered along the cracked bed of lily pads that comprise this 84 square-mile barren expanse. As it inches closer to your shouting distance, you anticipate the imminent relief. In a few minutes, you'll rendezvous with fellow travelers, display self-deprecating humility, and graciously accept supplies to help pass the night. Perhaps they've even got chains to extract Raven.
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