text: The digital sign read, ACCIDENT AHEAD. ROAD CLOSED. FOLLOW DETOUR, and that’s what I did, or thought I was doing. I-25 between Las Cruces and Albuquerque is the personification of desolate nothingness. Becoming lost should have been impossible. The word impossible only applies to a task until someone accomplishes that task and, unfortunately, that someone was me. There were sparsely placed detour signs right up to where the road forked. Then it was the driver’s choice. Waze was useless because there was no cell service. I chose the right fork, which was definitely wrong. I continued to drive as the road became narrower and changed from blacktop to hard-packed dirt. Yes, it was time to turn around, but there were two problems: 1) if my tires left the hard pack, they would sink into the soft dirt that lined both sides of the road; and 2) I had less than an eighth of a tank of gas. Logic dictated that if there was a road, there had to be a settlement somewhere up ahead, so I continued. The setting sun outlined the silhouette of a town approximately two miles ahead. Five minutes later, my car sputtered to a stop, drained of fuel, in the middle of what must have been Main Street. Fate likes a cruel joke from time to time. A faded sign dangling by one chain over the sheriff’s office proclaimed the name of the town was Hope. There were no people and probably hadn’t been for at least one hundred years. I walked into a nearby building that appeared to be held together by spider webs cascading down from what was left of the roof and along the walls. The building might have been the town’s general store, but now it was just creepy. I turned, went to step off the sidewalk, and froze in mid-stride. A rattlesnake slithered by. Clearly, this was no place to explore in the dark. I returned to my car, locked the doors, and promptly fell asleep in the back seat. Dawn crested the horizon bright and clear, allowing me an unobstructed view of what was left of Hope. Strolling down the center of Main Street, ever vigilant for more reptilian inhabitants, I read a sign nailed over a doorway. This building was the former home of the Hope Gazette. The structure appeared sound enough, so I went inside to explore. Most of the paper in the office was yellowed, brittle, and unreadable, but the lead typeface on the press was legible. Headline: Hope, Born January 10, 1835, Died July 4, 1910. The article recounted the history of the town. It told of its founding, the trials, and triumphs, and finally the inevitable slide into oblivion. Hope was originally founded when a vein of silver was discovered in the nearby mountains. The town grew and prospered for sixty years, but then the mine played out. The residents were not ready to give up on their community. They switched from mining to raising cattle and farming. These new ventures extended the towns’ life for another twenty years, but the end was inevitable. Without the daily shipments of silver, the railroad reduced the number of trains that stopped in Hope. Cattle and produce shipments were not enough to justify running trains through the isolated town. The residents slowly left Hope and moved to other parts of the state. The editor had dutifully chronicled all these events for one last issue. Then he delivered it to the last of the residents before they abandoned their town. On July 15, 1910, everyone living in Hope gathered in the town center. They said goodbye to one another and to their beloved town and left for good. It was a depressing tale both for the former residents and especially for me. Hungry, thirsty, and desperate, I scoured the remaining buildings for something to eat and, more importantly, water. Food was a lost cause, but I located a well. Much to my surprise, the hand pump still worked. At least I wouldn’t die of thirst. I continued to search for anything that could help me escape this forgotten part of America. What I found was a Penny-Farthing bicycle. First the well and now the bicycle. Maybe it was my lucky day after all. The wheels were steel and although the leather on the seat had rotted away, everything was in perfect working order. Now all I had to do was learn how to ride the baffling contraption. I’ve watched people in old newsreels ride along on one of these without a care in the world. It took me multiple attempts, countless falls, and some skinned elbows, but by the end of the day, I had mastered the beast. I filled a couple of jugs with water and departed at sunrise. Once I got that big front wheel spinning at a steady pace, I made surprisingly good time. When I reached the location where the road split, I took the left fork, which was the right one. Approximately five miles from the highway, I was stopped by a Border Patrol agent. You can imagine what he was thinking when he first spotted me cruising down the road on an antique bike. The agent listened to my tale of trial and tribulation and when I finished, he just shook his head and said, “I know about that town and its’ history. No one ever found the residents of Hope. Legend has it that the day they left, the area was engulfed by a massive dust storm that lasted for two days. People organized a search party and spent the next three days looking for them. They either became disoriented by the storm or, more than likely were buried by it. Either way, no trace of the last residents of Hope was ever found.” The agent helped me load the bike into his truck and gave me a ride back to civilization. I bought some large gas cans and got a ride back to Hope to retrieve my car. If there is one thing I’ve learned from this adventure, you should never abandon Hope.”