A week or so into my drive, I leave Bluff, Utah, and head south into the vast expanse of the Navajo reservation. Highway 161 takes me through Mexican Water and then up a long stretch of road that weaves its way through the iconic red bluffs of Monument Valley. Along the way, I pass a smattering of roadside pullouts where natives are selling silver and turquoise jewelry. I pull off to take a look. Business is slow. Beautiful pieces of jewelry that I can't afford are on display on some of the tables, while others display cheap mass-market trinkets that are made in China. Near the outskirts of Kayenta, I pull into the parking lot of a mini-mart. I buy a soda and some beef jerky and eat in the shade of a ramada. A large and loud diesel truck with oversized tires that appears to have no driver pulls into the parking lot. A boy, no more than 10 or 11 jumps out of the truck and turns around to push the door shut. Five minutes later he trots out of the store with a case of RC cola. He throws the soda into the bed of the truck, pulls himself into the cab, starts the truck, and pulls away. Someone on the road waves and a little hand waves back.
Later in the afternoon at an intersection a ways past Tsegi, I pick up a hitchhiker. He tells me he's been trying to get to the next big town—almost 50 miles down the road—for several hours.
“I was trying to get to Tuba City to buy a few things," he tells me by way of introduction. He speaks in the soft, rhythmic, gentle lilt of the Diné.
"But all I really need is SPAM and laundry detergent."
Having given up on his original destination, he asks if I would be willing to take him to Shonto Trading Post, which he assures me, is not far down a gravel side road a few miles ahead, near where he lives. I hesitate—it means I would have to travel in a different direction, but my only destination is "further," so I agree and take a right at the intersection onto a highway that has an arrow pointing to Shonto. Ten minutes later we turn onto a gravel road and begin to descend into a shallow canyon. The bottom of the canyon is a sandy wash filled with rows of enormous cottonwoods in full fall color. There's a small community hall on the near side of the canyon, and the trading post on the other. I pull up to the trading post to let him out, but before I can pull away he asks if I’d mind waiting a few minutes so I can give him a ride up the road and back out of the canyon. An old man with long white hair in braids sits on a bench under the porch of the trading post and watches me. I get out, lean on the hood of my truck, and watch some kids playing in the shade of the trees. A young woman selling fry bread sits behind a folding table in front of a makeshift post office haphazardly attached to the trading post. Soon, my passenger reappears carrying a plastic bag and gets back in the truck. He empties the plastic bag on his lap to show me his purchases: one bottle of laundry detergent and one tin of SPAM. As we climb back up and out of the canyon I offer to drive him to his house, which is nearby. Soon we come to a group of small gray travel trailers, set amongst six or seven dilapidated cars.
“Some of them still run,” he says.
As he gets out of the car he tells me he would like to give me something and asks me to follow him up to his trailer. It's a tiny trailer with flat tires and tall grass growing along its sides. He opens the screen door and looks for something inside. I stand on the steps in the bright sunlight and peer into the darkness of his tiny home. He gives me a couple of key chains that he's woven out of plastic cord. It’s a nice gesture and I thank him. It's quiet for a bit.
“I just make these key chains for something to do,” he tells me.
I walk back to the car. He waves from the steps of his trailer as I drive off. A few minutes down the road I look over and realize his bag of SPAM and detergent is sitting on the passenger side floor. I turn around and head back to his trailer. He’s outside and greets me.
“I forgot my SPAM. I was hoping you’d come back,” he says.
He takes the bag and tells me to wait for a second and goes back into the trailer and then comes back out, holding something. It’s another key chain.
“I wanted to give you this too,” he says. “I used glow in the dark cord on this one.”
I thank him and drive up the dirt track away from the trailers and cars. I look in the mirror and see him waiving.