So this is a true story, improbable as it may seem (the best ones are always like that!). I wish I could make up things this inspirational...

A couple of years ago I was driving across the Arizona desert on I-40, heading from the central highlands to Las Vegas to catch a flight back east. I'd driven this stretch many times before (having lived in the desert for almost 20 years), but a few years on the east coast must have dulled my desert survival instincts, which became apparent on this journey.



The landscape I was traversing is beautiful and foreboding all at once; it draws you in, even as it casts you out. I suppose this sense of being lulled in might explain how I made the critical mistake of gambling on a rental car dashboard gauge and running out of gas in the middle of nowhere (literally, there's a town in AZ called Nothing, not far away)!

To compound matters, I also failed to bring enough water with me (I know, I know...). As I realized the gas was running out, my hope was to get over the last big mountain pass and then coast as far down as I could, using the remaining fuel judiciously to make it to the next station outside of Kingman (about 20 miles away). All I needed was a gallon in the tank, or at least enough fumes to keep things rolling.

But it wasn't meant to be. The car died on the side of the highway on the final uphill climb, right next to a large quarry in the median used by official vehicles as a turnout. I walked over there to find a Department of Transportation crew that was piling back into their truck. They said they weren't allowed to help me (nice rule, "no helping allowed"!) because of insurance reasons, but as they pulled away one of them tossed me a bottle of water and wished me good luck. Thanks!

No gas, no cell service, limited water, and a flight to catch with the clock ticking. Things weren't looking good. And just as I thought that through in my mind, a car pulled into the quarry and stopped about 20 feet away from me. What was this now? I approached cautiously.

It turned out to be two women on their way to Las Vegas for a friend's wedding, and the rear driver's side tire on their car had blown out. Right then and there, right where I was stuck in an impossible situation. "I'm out of gas," I said contritely. "Can you fix a tire?" they asked hopefully. I bluffed and said I could (which I could, only it'd been a while), and they in turn promised to bring me to the next station down the road.

About 40 minutes later we were at the gas station outside of Kingman. I bought a gallon of water and we all drank it so I could use the container to get gas. I was planning to hitch a ride back to the quarry, but they insisted on driving me back there, adding 40 miles to their trip. Which they did, and even fashioned a cone for me out of a magazine they had in their car to pour the gas with. Without this, I would have easily missed my flight (which I barely made) or something even worse.

Stories like this, where strangers help one another despite all of the fear and doubt that we're programmed with, are inspiring yet not uncommon, and I've had other moments like this in my travels. But this was different, not only due to the foreboding landscape and seriousness of my predicament. The incredible timing and improbable odds of stalling at the same mile marker are notable -- as was the larger context in which the race, class, and gender differences between us on that roadside are usually flagged as points of suspicion and division.

Maybe we bonded on that roadside out of convenience. Maybe it was the sense of shared vulnerability that connected us there. Perhaps it was an implicit recognition of fate bringing people together for a moment. It certainly wasn't the cultural messaging we often receive.

In the end, I guess if any of this is possible when you run out of gas in the desert, it might be possible more generally in a world that's also running out of gas and becoming more desertified. That is my hope.