The Story
Every bad decision I’ve ever made has started with someone telling me it was a shortcut.
I was somewhere in the American desert, driving back from a little film job that had been a complete disaster. I think I got paid in exposure, which is perfect because I couldn’t afford petrol either.
Anyway, a guy at a servo told me I could save at least an hour if I took the scenic route.
I should’ve known better.
The sign was handwritten, leaning against a fence and had a big arrow painted on it. I don’t know why, but I trusted it immediately. Maybe I thought a hand-painted sign felt more authentic than Google Maps. Maybe I thought I was some kind of rugged cowboy and not a guy who got sunburnt through the window of a hire car.
The road got smaller and smaller until it became dirt. Then the dirt became rocks. Then the rocks became a suggestion of a road.
My phone had no signal. The fuel gauge was sitting somewhere between “you’ll be fine” and “you’re an idiot.” I tried to turn around but there was nowhere to turn around, unless I wanted to reverse about twenty kilometres through the desert, which felt like something a man with a better relationship to tools might do.
So I kept going.
Eventually I found this little diner. It had a faded Coca-Cola sign, three old blokes sitting outside and a dog that looked like he’d lost every fight he’d ever been in.
I ordered a coffee.
It was terrible.
But when you’re lost in the desert, bad coffee feels like civilisation.
The woman behind the counter had a little girl with her. She was sitting at the end of the booth drawing pictures while her mum worked. I asked what she was drawing and she held up this sketch of a cactus, a few clouds, the sun and a big orange hill.
It was pretty good, to be honest.
I told her I made hats.
She looked at me like I’d said I was a pirate.
“Why?” she asked.
I didn’t really have an answer.
So I said, “Because I’m not very good at anything else.”
She thought about it for a second and then said, “You should make one with a cactus on it.”
I said I probably would.
She told me cactuses store water inside because nobody comes to help them.
I thought that was a bit bleak for a kid.
Then she said, “No, it’s smart. They know how to look after themselves.”
That kind of got me.
I was lost, flat broke and driving a car I’d probably have to explain to the hire company. And this tiny desert kid had just given me better advice than most self-help books.
One of the old blokes looked at my car, laughed a little too hard, then called his mate who came out with a jerry can. He didn’t want money for it. He just told me not to take roads I couldn’t see on a map.
Fair point.
When I got home, I kept thinking about that drawing. Not the actual desert, because the desert was mostly beige, hot and full of things that wanted to bite you. But the version of it in her head—green cactus, yellow sun, little white clouds and the kind of orange ground that makes everything look warm.
So I made this hat.
I stitched the desert onto it like she drew it. I gave it a worn leather band because every good road trip needs something that looks like it’s survived one. The bow is a mess of hand-stitched scraps because I guess I still haven’t learnt to throw anything away.
Maybe that’s not a bad thing.
The scenic route cost me about five hours, a tank of petrol and whatever dignity I had left.
But I made it out.
And I got a hat out of it too.
So I guess the lesson is: if you see a handwritten sign pointing into the middle of nowhere, maybe don’t follow it.
Unless you’ve got a full tank.
Or a cactus.
KM