The Bottomless Lake
Bottomless Lakes State Park, New Mexico
I left Lilly with some cash after she shared her story. She had been quiet for a long time, her eyes reflecting something I could barely grasp. You catch The kind of look when someone’s been holding too many secrets for too long. There was a kind of resignation in her voice, a tiredness that wasn’t just from the circumstances she had spoken of but from the weight of her whole life. It was hard to tell if she was just tired of talking or if she was afraid I wouldn’t understand, maybe both. I left her anyway because sometimes you just don’t know how to help, even if you want to. It was hard to just get in the car and drive off, but our moment had passed.
I drove into Roswell, feeling like a ghost in the town that seemed to fold in on itself as the sun began its slow descent. The streets, lined with the sort of worn-down buildings that made it clear that once, maybe, there had been more life here, were mostly quiet now. The faded signs in neon—once symbols of tourist traps—now seemed melancholy in the dimming light. I circled, aimlessly at first, looking at everything- trying to soak it all up, but it was a little before sunset, and everything interesting was closing down. Every small shop, every quirky little diner, they all seemed to shut up as though the day had never mattered. I couldn’t help but feel like I was watching the town exhale, its heart fading, a shadow of a place that had been used to fame once upon a time.
The sun sat fat, red, and thick. I found myself parked in a church lot, the car’s engine idling softly as I stared at the space in front of me. The gravel crunched under the tires, a sound that felt heavier than it should’ve. I had nowhere to go, and in a way, nowhere I wanted to be. I checked my phone for a place to sleep, but nothing felt right. I didn’t want a hotel, I was being frugal and adventurous. I remembered a spot I’d seen on the map: Bottomless Lake. It was back in Lilly’s direction, back where I had come from, just a little beyond the outskirts. I had passed it when I first drove into town, but I hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Maybe it was the kind of place that would make you feel smaller, make you feel a little bit lost—but in a good way, if such a thing existed.
So I turned around, tired of the road and the nervous eyes of the parishioners, and headed east. The drive was mostly an empty road, the kind where you know if you get lost, nobody’s coming for you. It was a slow, lonely kind of ride, winding up into the mountain ridge, the dark creeping in around me, suffocating everything. Shadow tongues licked at the asphalt, closing in. There were no streetlights, just the soft glow of my headlights barely cutting through the dry air. The land was barren here, just the hills rolling on like a giant’s back, and the roads were narrow and twisting. I could barely make out the dry brush on the periphery, their shapes sharp and black against the night.
At the crest of the ridge, I turned into the park. The Bottomless Lake sounded like a horror movie title that I was not thrilled to be in. My anxiety elevated, I missed the ranger station twice, of course. I doubled back, annoyed with myself but still not quite ready to admit that I had no real direction. The check-in box was just a standard brown signpost with a small, rusted metal box attached to it, and a sign whose paint was chipped, and bleached by the sun. The form inside was simple enough; a couple of questions about your vehicle and your intended stay. I scribbled down my name, gave the park my five bucks, and stuffed the slip into the over-packed slot with a quick, unceremonious motion like I was leaving a note for someone who might never read it.
As I finished, another truck passed me, headlights blurring for a moment as they caught me in their wake. It was a strange feeling, being here alone, in this park, with nothing but the mountains for company. There was a thick, still quiet here, an emptiness that felt almost sacred. The sky above was a heavy mass of clouds, with no stars, and no moon. It was just darkness pressing down on everything, suffocating most subtly.
I drove deeper into the park, passing a few RV spots that were already filled. The parking lot at the end of the road was deserted, save for the family nearby. I pulled into the first available parking space, a gravel lot that looked well-kept, but very simple. The surrounding silence was so thick, I could almost feel it pressing against my eardrums. The family next door wasn’t too loud, but their voices carried in the quiet, bouncing off the emptiness around us. They had a little girl, probably around four or five, who seemed determined to stay awake as long as possible. I could hear the gentle hush of her parents as they coaxed her to bed. “Just one more story,” I heard her beg, her voice high-pitched, raw with the desperation of childhood. A light bounced in the family’s red and gray tent. I couldn’t help but smile, they were making amazing memories.
I watched them for a while, a sort of sentimental curiosity creeping up on me. It was like watching a family sitcom. They were from Austin, they said but had come from Diamondhead—a little stopover on their travels. I couldn’t help but smile when they mentioned it. Diamondhead was a place my family used to stop at on the way home from the beach, back when the world felt smaller and less complicated. They talked about Dairy Queen there, and how it was the best stop for a Blizzard. The mom, her voice warm, laughed and said, “You know, that place in Diamondhead? Best Dairy Queen we’ve ever had.” I nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly.
“It was a tradition when the kids were little,” I said, half to myself, remembering how my partner would always say that no road trip was complete without a stop at a Dairy Queen. Funny how those small things stick with you, those tiny rituals.
It had been a few days since I had bathed. There was no caked-on grime or sweat, I hadn’t started hikes yet. So, I ended up carrying my backpack with soap, towel, and clothes to the state bathroom. My sandals flip-flopped in the darkness. They sounded incredibly loud. In the shower, I saw a big beautiful spider. We exchanged pleasantries, and I wasn’t offended at all when she didn’t turn away at my nakedness.
It was dark when I finally got out of the car to set up my camping gear. The night was still and dry, and I could feel the absence of trees, and the wide open space of the park. The air had a thin, sharp edge to it, but nothing that made you feel cold, just a constant dryness that clung to your skin. I tried setting up my hammock, but the lack of trees made that impossible. The family was still talking softly, their voices barely audible against the hum of the night.
The little girl was finally asleep when I crawled into my car, deciding to just sleep there instead. Out there in the desert, alone in the dark, I felt as though I was the lost member of a brass band. There was nothing I could do to be quiet. I cracked the windows and stared out into the darkness, letting the soft murmur of my neighbor’s voices lull me into a kind of numbness. I hadn’t talked to anyone for more than a few minutes in days. The isolation was starting to settle in, curling up beside me like a strange, unwanted guest.
It wasn’t until the next morning that I could make sense of the place. The air had shifted—cool, crisp, and clear. The lake, once just an unknown shadow, now stretched before me, its surface calm and untouched. I could see the way the light played off it, the quiet ripples creating patterns that seemed to mean something. There was something unnervingly still about it. It looked endless, infinite in a way that didn’t quite seem possible. But maybe it was just the way it stood there, a quiet reflection of the world that surrounded it, pretending to have all the answers.
I boiled water in the park bathroom, the hiss of the electric kettle steadying me as I began to prepare breakfast—simple things, oatmeal and coffee, nothing fancy. The steam from the kettle rose in small curls, and I watched it for a while, thinking about nothing in particular. It fogged the bathroom mirror. The process was soothing.
The family from Austin wandered over, the dad smiling in the way people do when they feel the need to make small talk. He asked if I had made it from Diamondhead, and I told him I was coming from Covington, Louisiana. He knew the place, laughed, and then went back to his favorite Blizzard combination. I had to smile, mostly because I had no idea what to say, but also because it felt like a connection, however small.
They packed up and left as I sat eating oatmeal one, bite, at, a, time.
I met a couple of older travelers that morning, a pair of seasoned road-weary souls who didn’t seem like they had the energy for much conversation. They were polite, but their eyes said it all. They had the quiet, tired look of people who had lived enough of the road to know when to speak and when to just listen. After a few minutes, we all shared a comfortable silence.
As I walked around the park after breakfast, taking pictures, with my mom’s Cannon, of the lake and the surrounding hills, I met Thomas and Ruby Anderson, a couple from Australia. They were in their mid-sixties, both with a kind of serenity about them, like they had made their peace with the road long before I had even thought to begin. They told me about their life on the move—how they traveled for a month, then went home for a month. They were semi-retired, doing odd jobs and teaching online. They lived simply, saving what they could to fund their travels. They had already covered most of Australia, and now they were in the U.S. They joked about going to South America next.
Ruby spoke at length about her work as an online educator. She described her students and the challenges of teaching in such an impersonal way, but there was a spark in her eye when she talked about the rewards. It was the kind of passion I didn’t expect to find in a traveling couple, but there it was, tucked away between the lines of her stories. Thomas, however, didn’t talk much. He seemed content to let her share the stories while he watched the world go by. He seemed a man of few words, but the ones he did speak were quiet and firm. He said he was happy to finally be living the dream they had both long chased—a life on the road.
They shared a story about a camping trip they had taken early on. They had gotten stuck on a beach, bogged down in the sand. It was one of their first trips together. Thomas was embarrassed, but Ruby just laughed. “You just never know,” she said, her voice warm. “Sometimes the best plans don’t go the way you want, but that’s life.” Thomas nodded. “You plan the best you can,” he added, “but in the end, it’s all about how you deal with it.”
We stood in a moment of silence after that, the lake before us, so calm it seemed almost unreal. The clouds drifted lazily overhead, and we didn’t need to say anything more. We all understood, without words, that there was a certain beauty in letting life unfold without too many expectations.
After they left, I walked through the hills again, stopping to take more pictures and capturing the delicate blooms and rough textures of the local plants. The air was rich and heavy with the scent of sagebrush and dust. The road ahead seemed to stretch on forever, unbroken and full of promise.
I wasn’t sure where it would take me, or who I would meet along the way, but for the first time in a while, I felt like I was ready.
I let my arms fall wide, leaping into the future, not knowing what would come, but excited to face it all the same.
The following are a few more pictures of Bottomless Lakes area:
