Outdoors/Adventure

Crazy ideas seem sane when they let you sleep under the stars

I took a deep breath and clicked the "Contact Driver" button as I headed toward baggage claim in the Albuquerque, New Mexico, airport. Finally I was putting my plan in motion.

I was running on no sleep after a red-eye flight the night before, so as the phone rang I mentally rehearsed what I needed to say.

"Hello?" said the Lyft driver.

"Hi, this is Alli — I just sent you a request?" I rubbed my eyes. It was 9:30 p.m. on a Friday. This was crazy. "I know that you can't see the destination when you accept a ride request, so I just wanted to give you a heads-up that I am trying to get to Chaco Canyon."

I paused to let that sink in. She prompted, "Uh huh?"

"My understanding is that Chaco is three hours away from here and that at least part of the drive is on dirt roads. I don't know what condition they're in. It's super remote. So I, uh, just wanted to give you the opportunity to decline."

She said quickly, "No, that's fine. I'll see you in one minute."

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"Oh" — I was surprised — "I still need to grab my bags, but yes, I'll see you in a few minutes."

Originally I had a carefully laid plan to meet colleagues at 11 a.m. on Friday in Albuquerque. They were flying in from Washington D.C., and I was coming from Alaska. I was tagging along for a photo shoot of the incredible Chaco Canyon, a UNESCO World Heritage site in northern New Mexico. But when my flight from Anchorage was delayed, I missed my connection and was delayed by 10 hours. I told my work pals to go on and I'd figure out a way to meet them.

At first I sulked, thinking about spending a night in a hotel after a full 20 hours of travel. One night of camping under the stars, lost. Then I'd wake up and waste three hours of perfectly fine desert warmth and daylight in a car en route to the canyon. Would I rent a car by myself? That seemed like a big expense and very dull.

That's when the idea hit.

In Seattle I sat down at a bar, ordered breakfast and texted a few trusted friends. "So, I'm supposed to go camping with coworkers starting tonight but I missed my connecting flight and my ride. Option 1: stay the night in Albuquerque and rent a car to drive out tomorrow am. Option 2: see if I can get a Lyft out to Chaco tonight."

My very reasonable, non-sleep-deprived friends unanimously chose Option 1. I sighed and drank coffee, depressed at the prospect of an additional 10 hours at SeaTac followed by another flight followed by a night in a hotel. Still. My friends were probably right. This was the reasonable course of action.

Then I struck up a conversation with the fellow sitting next to me.

As I ate my food and he sipped his 8 a.m. Old Fashioned, I explained my situation. His take was that getting a Lyft to Chaco that night would get me out under the stars faster, and be a much better story. He said I'd be much happier waking up in the desert instead of a Best Western near the Albuquerque airport. Besides, the cost of the ride ($165) would surely be cheaper than renting a car and getting a hotel for the night.

I agreed. My mood lifted. I paid for my meal and wished him well as he ordered another cocktail, raising a glass to him in my mind to good judgment.

As I waited for my connecting flight, my pals in Albuquerque went food shopping and texted me a photo of a full cart. They picked up an absurd quantity of camp fuel because I requested it (again, about that judgment).

I called my sister, who works in one of Lyft's corporate offices, and asked her if this was a crazy idea. She told me how to share my ride details with her so she could track me.

Once in Albuquerque, my driver flagged me down at the curb with my luggage and said she didn't feel comfortable driving to Chaco after all. But she introduced me to another driver who shook my hand in front of his SUV and, even after I'd repeated all of the daunting details, assured me he was up for it.

My orange camping knife stuck in my boot, I got into the car and re-set my request so he could accept. After picking up a couple of jugs of water at a convenience store, we were off. It was 10 p.m.

I was exhausted, but my driver was nice and normal and we kept a conversation going for the entire three hours. We talked about our lives, priorities, kids, New Mexico, politics and making a living. The desert whizzed by under a hazy sky of stars. Sure enough, closer to the canyon the road turned to washboard. I was grateful my driver had a good car and the skill to navigate the road.

A butte appeared in the distance with one bright light at its base, and slowly it became bigger and bigger as we approached. Suddenly the road was paved and National Park signs appeared, guiding us toward the campground. I opened my window. Cool air rushed past, smelling like sage brush. My heart lifted. This wasn't a Best Western by the airport, and I was almost there.

The campground paralleled a low canyon, the wall lifting abruptly up from a patch of tents and shiny camper vans. We pulled up at the site I'd reserved, the headlights and the hum of the engine suddenly in stark contrast to the still and quiet night. I exchanged contact information with my driver in whispers and thanked him, promising a tip when I had cell service again. He helped me put my belongings on the dusty ground, got back in his car, and slowly backed away. It was 1 a.m.

I set up under the stars, using my headlamp sparingly so I wouldn't wake up my colleague whose tent was already on the pad. I didn't bother using my tent fly – it was too noisy, and there were no clouds.

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By the time I was in my sleeping bag, I was so amazed I'd made it I had trouble finally falling asleep.

Taking a Lyft three hours to Chaco Canyon is the kind of decision I'm not sure future me would consider a wise idea. But I made it safely. My luck, combined with a little insanity, is not lost on me. It is incredible that there are so many possibilities in the world that, even starting with the headache of a flight delay, allow me to go from Alaska to sleeping under a bright night sky in the desert. Sometimes it is worth the risk to get there.

Alli Harvey lives in Palmer and plays in Southcentral Alaska.

Alli Harvey

Alli Harvey lives in Palmer and plays in Southcentral Alaska.

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