I’m a fan of a road trip. The open highway clears the mind, offers escape, and leaves room for discovery.
Our off-the-beaten-path destination was Marathon, Texas, with a stop in Marfa to see the Prada installation — an art piece in the middle of the desert. It felt like the perfect kickoff to a summer filled with boundless adventure.
We made it to Prada Marfa as the last traces of light bid the day adieu. There it stood, in the dusk, its minimalist form glowing faintly under the skies — the Texas desert stretching wide on either side of Highway 90.
Admittedly, we took full advantage of the opportunity for a western-wear-meets-urban-fashion photo shoot, donning cowboy hats and Prada swag. My attempt at discussing the exhibit’s take on consumerism and gentrification was met with less than enthusiastic back seat participants.
“Can we just leave it at ‘it’s a cool spot where visitors can make their own interpretations?’” queried my youngest.
Cruising down the final stretch of highway to Marathon, I realized we hadn’t accounted for how much of our route would be devoid of towns and gas stations, or how quickly a full tank of fuel can vanish when you’re distracted by the horizon.
The sputtering began without warning. I could’ve sworn the last time I’d glanced at the gas gauge, it showed plenty of fuel. The car gave one last cough and coasted to a stop. No towns for miles. Sketchy cell service. The car’s SOS operator delivered bad news: we were too far to dispatch help.
Cars roared past, but none slowed down. As the last streaks of light faded into the skies that summon dreamy-eyed stargazers to the nearby McDonald Observatory, its vastness seemed less magical with rescue possibilities vanishing like the shooting stars above us.
Just as my worry intensified, an SUV passed — then U-turned and pulled up. A hiking-weary family of four offered a single spare middle seat. “We can drop one of you at a gas station 17 miles up,” the dad offered.
One seat. One ride. The rest of us would have to stay behind — and hope there’d be a rideshare driver willing to return a quarter of our pack safely, with a gas can in tow.
As I stood at the crossroads, torn between instinct and logic, I was keenly aware I was only further delaying the would-be saviors from their dinner plans. Before I could think it through any further, my son stepped forward.
“I’m going,” he insisted, with a glance in my direction reminding me he wasn’t a kid anymore. No second guessing. No debate. He opened the door and jumped into a car with strangers.
An hour later, headlights headed back toward us, and there he was with a gas can in hand and a grin on his face like he’d just finished a top-secret mission.
We finally reached Marathon — hours late but full of gratitude.
The real magic of a road trip isn’t always the destination. Sometimes, it’s the people who stop when they don’t have to.
And the strangers who helped us didn’t just stop. They went out of their way.
That night, the Kesler family reminded us that, even in the most desolate places, people still show up for each other. And sometimes, that’s all you need to keep moving down the road.
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