Highway 666

Highway 666, some might tell you, bears the number of the beast. So much so that the portion in Arizona is not longer numbered 666 but rather is called Highway 191 now. In New Mexico, it is still 666. I wondered what sort of beast I would encounter on this 150 or so miles this highway was to take me south through the Navajo Nation to my destination of Gallup.

Not far south of the Colorado-New Mexico line, I noticed an enormous front of storm clouds to the south, with intermittent lightning. This storm was far in the distance, well past Shiprock and, I figured, well past Gallup, as well. Darkness was falling and to the west of the town of Shiprock, I could see the mammoth stone mountain that gave the town its name. The rock, looking in the dusk light and rain clouds like a great sailed warship scudding into a harbor, stood many times taller and wider and longer than any ship imaginable. The weather only served to make it look more menacing.

South of Shiprock, I pulled over to attempt some shots of the cloud-to-cloud and cloud-to-ground lightning far to the south. Each strike would light up the huge clouds, but my camera was unable to capture the scene. I remembered my southward trip in April and how I had been able to get some great shots of Monument Valley which is located west of Shiprock 100 miles or so. No such luck on this dark night. I got back in the car and headed on down the two-lane highway.

Somewhere around Newcomb I realized I had greatly misjudged the distance between myself and the storm. The clouds, which I could only see when lit from inside by lightning, were looming just in front of me. I was going to have to go right through the heart of this huge storm to get to Gallup.

The rain hit slowly at first and the motorcycle rider ahead of me slowed down a bit. Gradually his speed decreased down under 40 mph....then 35...then 30...then 25 mph....with good reason. The rain was now so hard that my wipers on high speed could not keep the windshield clear of water. The sound of the rain on the roof of my car was deafening. Lightning was no longer a distant light to be photographed but was now a very real danger, with bolts striking the ground, sometimes two or three in a few seconds time within a mile of my car. When lightning hits that close, your windows are glazed with water, and there are no trees for miles, it lights up your world and gets your adrenaline is pumping!

I began to think about the reality of getting hit by a lightning bolt or not being able to see the road (this was already the case...I was only able to navigate by following the dim tail light of the motorcycle or the headlights of oncoming cars). Everyone was traveling slow now as the water was several inches deep on the road. Too fast and you hydroplane; too slow and you get sucked into the ditch or hit from behind by another car. I grew up driving on two lane highways and in winter storms, but this was really putting my driving skills to the test. I also knew that I needed to get to Gallup as I would have certain shelter there. A long lonesome highway in the middle of Navajo country is not the best place to have a chance of finding an inhabited area with overhead cover, let alone a town.

I decided to tough it out until I found a gas station. Miles and miles rolled by, lightning feeling closer and the water getting deeper and visibility near zero. Finally I saw the lights of a store and gas pumps and pulled in. I pulled out my map and saw I was somewhere around Tohatchi; I had less than 20 miles to go. I had passed the motorcycle a few minutes earlier and out of the corner of my eye saw him cruise by, still going slow. From out of the store ran two sets of three Navajo women/children, soaked in a split second, some with shirts up over their heads, trotting to their cars. They got in, started up, and headed south. I followed them. Gallup or bust!

Thankfully just south of Tohatchi the rain lifted slightly, enough so that visibility was decent enough to drive somewhat safely. I pulled into Gallup and found the Motel 6 a mile or two west on Interstate 40. I told the Navajo lady at the counter about the severity of the storm just north of Gallup. She said "That road is bad. Lotta wrecks on that road, even with no rain. It's two lanes, you know. It's a bad road." I was now off of Highway 666 and safe and warm and dry for the night. I had made it through the beast.