PAIGE TURNER

 I almost never made it here – after driving more than 3,000 miles, the last fifty were the toughest. 

I’ll admit, I was speeding when I entered the Golden State, fueled by days of solitude on Route 50 and frequent stops at gas stations hawking “I survived the Loneliest Road in America” sweatshirts. 

Four hours from the state line, a sign read “Bishop: 257 miles,” which intensified my anticipation of my new life away from green, humid Vermont. My foot pressed harder on the gas. 

As I drove, my palms clammy and nerves high, my 2000s mix playlist cued Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the U.S.A.” I laughed and let tears swell in my eyes as I belted out the familiar, now ironically fitting, lyrics. 

My smile quickly died, however, when I accidentally entered the truck lane at the California Agricultural Inspection Station. There, two agents lectured me on my reckless driving. 

“If you’d been going the appropriate speed, you would have noticed the signs,” the agent told me. 

I guess it was fitting to arrive in this new state by showing off my suburban Boston roots. 

 Nobody drives quite like a Masshole. 

I promised to be more careful, and I sheepishly turned off my radio, realizing Britney Spears now blasting wasn’t helping my case. 

But my humiliation was not yet over. 

The agent asked me if I’d noticed the cloud of smoke emanating from my car’s engine, reeking of burnt oil. 

I had not. With my window down, I caught a whiff of the scent for the first time. 

Uh oh. 

I continued, acutely aware of the trail of smoke I was leaving behind me and pulled into the first gas station I saw. 

In blistering 102-degree heat, I wrestled with my car’s hood for ten minutes. Suddenly, my independence wasn’t so exhilirating. I called my now-distant parents for help, to no avail. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, kiddo,” my dad told me, his words breaking up through the phone. 

My introduction to Eastern Sierra cell service. 

I caught sight of my disheveled reflection in the window of my car door, behind which lay every single one of my earthly possessions. 

I’d spent the greater part of my final semester of college at the University of Vermont planning out how to meticulously pack my life up, bidding my friends farewell. 

I thought, through careful planning, I’d be invincible from loneliness and fear. Yet, here I stood, completely alone and completely afraid. 

Fortunately, my first taste of Western hospitality came quickly. Three silver-haired strangers approached me and helped diagnose my car trouble. 

With trepidation, I called Milender, my future colleague, roommate, and aside from Lunch, the only person I knew in Mammoth. She made a plan to come to my rescue in Bishop. 

I fumbled in and out of the convenience store, stupidly pushing on the pull door, and bought a can of oil to top off my canister. 

I crawled on for another 25 miles, with my hazards blinking and speed capped at 35 mph. About 10 minutes from town, an officer pulled me over because he saw me using my phone. 

On the brink of tears, I told him I was lost and was searching Google Maps for an auto shop. 

He took pity on me, and I escaped with directions and no ticket, only to find Bishop Automotive closed for the July 4 holiday. 

Shaken, I took refuge in the adjacent convenience store’s cool air and kind staff. They helped me reach the mechanic by phone. Milender arrived soon after, greeting me warmly despite the chaos. 

As the day’s events sank in, I found myself mired in self-pity, lamenting Murphy’s Law and convincing myself leaving home was the worst possible decision I could have made. 

Yet, upon reflection, this tumultuous start had unexpectedly bonded me with the Eastern Sierra community. I realized I’d spent a lot of energy that day focusing entirely on myself; chastising myself for my stupid mistakes and telling myself I’d marred future connections. 

But with time, I took gratitude in how excellently people here handled my tribulations. 

I’d found, in just a couple of hours, a number of people with impressive commitment to safety and readiness to assist others. They’d held me accountable for my actions but made sure I was okay, too. 

 This has only become more true as I’ve settled into my new life here. I ended up taking my car to Alpine Garage in Mammoth, where Mike fixed the oil leak and treated me like one of his daughters. 

I’ve built friendships, attended community events and recognize familiar faces everywhere I go. I’ve been impressed by our readership: people care about what happens in this town. I’ve been asked follow-up questions on articles I’ve written in my short time here, yet another display of accountability. 

It seems to me the more you invest in this place, the more the people give back to you, and that is a wonderful thing to see and experience. 

Community can have a lot of different implications. 

By definition, it’s just a group of people living in the same place or having something, anything, in common. 

But ultimately, we all need support, we all need each other, and, heck, we all need to not be alone. When we feel abandoned—physically, emotionally, spiritually—that’s when we find our strongest alliances. That’s when we find community. 

And so, though an unconventional approach, I think I truly became a local when my car broke down with all my stuff in the back.