Tattooed Angels

Our mountains were burning, and Monticello residents had been notified to be ready to evacuate if necessary.
Except for our prayers Ted and I were powerless to help, so we decided to do an overnighter in Flagstaff to escape the smoke and heat.
On the way there, we wanted to see White Mesa Arch on the Navajo Nation. The arch, shining white in the intense, 109-degree sunlight, was 84 feet high, 53 feet wide, and easy to spot from a distance, but we couldn’t find a road that led directly to it.
We later found that the area was restricted because it’s sacred to the Navajo people. The center of the formation is considered the eye of a giant bird while the sandstone arch forms its beak.
It’s also connected to the wind and creation with the Blessingway, Protectionway, and other ceremonies performed there to help restore harmony between nature and humanity.
Since we couldn’t find direct access to the arch, Ted followed more sideroads, finally driving up a hill toward a massive formation.
The Jeep couldn’t quite crawl up the last little bit, so Ted parked, turned off the ignition, and we climbed up to the double hoodoo, spending time overlooking the landscape before walking back to the Jeep. We poked around a bit more on the dirt roads and then drove back to the highway.
Once we arrived in Flagstaff, Ted pulled into a parking spot near Super 8’s office. I checked in, and when I came out, I handed him the parking permit and explained where we could park.
“If it will start.” He turned the ignition and pumped the gas pedal. The Jeep’s engine turned, but it didn’t start even after several tries. “It died right after you got out,” my hubby said. “It’s probably vapor locked. We’ll let it cool down and see what happens.”
We unloaded our bags and settled into the comfortable room, but without the Jeep, we were grounded.
Fortunately, Marcos Pizza was on one side of the motel and Pep Boys on the other. While we enjoyed the pizza, we discussed what might have happened if the Jeep had died while we were exploring the desert, a sobering possibility.
The next morning, it still wouldn’t start, so Ted walked over to Pep Boys, an auto mechanic shop, but they couldn’t work us in until Tuesday.
Undeterred, he researched other shops until he found Seven Day Auto. The owner said they could look at our vehicle as soon as we could get there.
Ted called Economy Towing and gave them our address while I went back into Super 8’s office to make sure they had rooms available for that night—just in case.
By that time, I’ll admit I was experiencing a fair bit of anxiety. I walked poor Kenidee around and around the motel as we waited and waited—and waited.
Eventually, Ted got a call from the tow truck driver saying he couldn’t find us. They finally figured out that he’d gone to the wrong Super 8, which, he said, would cost us extra.
By that time, we were more than willing to pay whatever it took. Fifteen minutes later, the truck pulled up. The driver backed into the parking lot and climbed out to hook up the Jeep. A burly guy, he had tattoos covering his arms and hands, and a Route 66 symbol tattooed on his bald head.
He gruffly told me I could get in the Jeep with my dog and buckle up as usual. While I did that, I could hear him asking Ted what part of Utah we were from.
“Blanding,” Ted said, “I bet you’ve never heard of that.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.” The driver extended the bed of his truck. “I was born in Durango and grew up in Farmington. I’ve got an aunt who lives in Blanding.” He hooked chains onto the Jeep.
“Who’s your aunt?” Ted asked.
“Don’t see her often,” the man said, telling us her name. “Maybe every 10 years or so.”
We knew his aunt with Ted even knowing her maiden name. By then, the driver had the Jeep secured. He told Ted to climb in. He retracted the towing bed and off we rode to Seven Day Auto.
Once there, the driver backed up, extended the towing bed and perfectly placed the Jeep into an empty bay.
While Kenidee and I were climbing out, Ted shook the driver’s hand and asked how much we owed him. I didn’t hear exactly what they said, but I thought I heard, “Nothing.”
“Are you sure?” They talked a nano second longer, and Ted walked away with a bemused look on his face.
I walked out into the parking lot to thank him. too. “You look like an angel in disguise,” I said, shaking his hand.
To my surprise, the husky man covered his face with both hands. When he finally dropped them, he muttered, “Some days” and headed back to his wrecker.
In short order, the Seven Day Auto mechanic, also tattooed and gruff, had diagnosed our problem—the fuel pump—ordered a replacement, installed it, and we were on our way home by two.
It was still 109 degrees as we drove across the desert, and our mountains were still burning, but we’d seen White Mesa Arch, albeit from a distance, where sacred ceremonies were performed for cosmic harmony and balance.
We miraculously arrived safely in Flagstaff, met an angel with Route 66 tattooed on his bald head, and been led to another unlikely angel who repaired our aging Jeep. Somehow, all of that gave us hope.