Waking up in Truth or Consequences with Donald J Trump

It's a new day in America...

January 19, 2025: We’re parked in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico tonight, tucked into some Bureau of Land Management dispersed camping south of town. The Rio Grande flows soft and clear just outside our sliding door.

If you were to lick the Truth or Consequential air, you’d detect a mineral tang to it. Before World War II, there were about 40 hot springs spas in Truth or Consequences. In its heyday, that meant there were 75 residents for every hot springs pool. I assume some of them wore spurs, so hot-tubbing with 74 others at once might have been rather uncomfortable.

My fascination with Truth or Consequences is nearly lifelong, stemming from the days I watched Bob Barker host the show by the same name (long before he took over The Price is Right) on our family’s black-and-white TV. I remember Barker with his 18-inch pencil-thin microphone asking contestants ridiculous questions and then, when they didn’t tell the truth, making them suffer the consequences, which involved a dare that was usually more embarrassing than life-threatening. I wish today’s politicians were forced to play something similar before they could enter the Capitol Building.

Truth or Consequences the town in New Mexico is one of the few places in America to change its name because of a radio contest. It was originally called Hot Springs, until the spring of 1950. That’s when Ralph Edwards, the host of the NBC Radio quiz show “Truth or Consequences,” came up with a publicity stunt: if any town in America was willing to rename itself after the show, he would broadcast live from that town on the show’s 10th anniversary. The steamed-up, mineralized citizens of Hot Springs thought that sounded like a good idea. So, on March 31, 1950, Hot Springs officially changed its name to Truth or Consequences. True to his word, Ralph Edwards came to town and did his broadcast from there the following evening.

After the war, it seems the hot springs business dried up. These days, Truth or Consequences is mostly dust and rotting cars. The mineral activity seems to center around one swanky spa, Riverbend, which offers its guests private “whisper quiet” soaking sessions. When Jean and I approached the ticket window, we were told they were booked until 8 p.m., seven hours away. I whispered some obscenities as we left.

Bummed out and soak-less, we drove through town aimlessly, looking for other hot springs pools. The ones we came across were dozing in the winter afternoon sun, dreaming of their better days back in the 1980s. Sketchy and crumbly and well past their prime, these pools were hard Nos for both of us. We sighed, we shrugged. There’d be no hot water for us today. I drove a few miles south of town and found this dispersed camping spot along the Rio Grande. It’s no hot springs, but the trees, as always, are therapeutic.

Despite the best efforts of the trees, the site was hardly whisper-quiet.

Since we parked here in early afternoon, we’ve had several slow drive-bys, local young men with thin mustaches peering through the passenger window at our van’s blazing whiteness. They crane their necks, drinking us in. I’m not sure if we’re being assessed for a nocturnal crime or if we’re just that interesting that T-or-C’ers turn out on a Sunday afternoon for a looky-loo at visitors passing through.

I retreat deeper into Sugar, away from their gaze.

Jean and I are both yearning for our privacy on this day before Donald J. Trump takes office tomorrow. From this point on, it’s all Trump all the time, blaring his daily horn in our ears for four more years. Jean and I are both quiet, whisper quiet, on this last day before America turns sour. We’re already missing what we have. We can only hold it close, prevent it from chipping away, little by little.

We also need some time to rethink our travel plans. Before last month, we were pretty solid in our decision to head south into Mexico directly after Jean’s silversmithing class in Abiquiu. We would wait out the first terrible months of the administration in some beachside cantina sipping cervezas and filling our stomachs with tacos. We would watch our country implode from a distance and wait for the right time to return, picking our way through the hot ashes of what had once been a great America. That was our plan and we were leaning forward over the steering wheel ready to carry it out.

But then our daughter got the unexpected news that she, her husband, and our grandson would be moving to Arkansas this month. Oy! Here came another pivot, another spin of our compasses (both spiritual and physical). We regrouped, we reassessed, we rerouted.

For now, we won’t head toward Tijuana, but will stay in Trump-a-merica, for better or worse. And maybe only for the time being. We’ll see how it goes.

It feels all-too-fitting to be waking up on Trump’s inauguration day tomorrow in Truth or Consequences—both of which he always manages to bypass. I have a feeling unintended irony is going to be a common theme with this administration. I may as well be in the right mindset from the start.

There are signs and portents everywhere. Nature has messages for us, carried in the feathers of hawks, caught in the needles of the pines, delivered by wild dogs crossing our path.

On the drive to Truth or Consequences this morning, snaking down Highway 14 through the rolling scrubland of southern New Mexico, a dog crossed the road. I touched the brakes. That was no dog, I said, that was a coyote.

“Ooo!” Jean exclaimed. “That’s my spirit animal. We have to stop.”

I knew that—that’s why I was already pulling over to the side of the highway.

“I’ll bet he’s still out there,” Jean said.

“I’ll check.” I grabbed my phone and stepped out of the van. I walked down the road a few yards, scanning the earth embankment blindly because the sun was shining in my eyes. I cupped a hand across my forehead. He’s out there somewhere, I thought. He can’t have gotten far.

I lifted my phone, closed my eyes against the sun, clicked the camera shutter, certain I hadn’t captured anything in a photo besides sun-blasted, colorless sage and dirt.

But, no, there he was. The coyote had stopped on the opposite bank and the phone had captured him in the frame. He was staring at me. I looked up sharply at the real thing. Now I could see his ears fringed in morning light, his snout gleaming, his eyes clamped on mine. I started to raise my camera again, but with a tuck of his head, the coyote turned to the right and melted into the sage.

I got back into the van and showed Jean the blindly-taken photos, apologizing I couldn’t capture her spirit animal any better than that. I put the van in Drive, started forward onto the road again, and then there he was, crossing back over the road just ahead of us, loping with a soft ease but nervously side-glancing at us intruders. I fumbled with my phone again but couldn’t get off a proper shot before he started down the slope on our side.

Jean craned her neck. “There’s two of them!”

When we looked down the side of the hill, we could see the first coyote had been joined by another and they were touching nuzzles tenderly, then looking sharply up at us. When creatures of the wild lock eyes with you, you know they’re sending a direct message. It was time for us to leave, so they could return to the peace of their den and the business of raising a family. Lord knows, all creatures deserved to have as much peace and quiet as they could get before Trump takes office. I lowered my phone with its useless pictures and returned to the van.

A Bad Photo of a Good Coyote

Later, tonight, while walking near our parking spot along the Rio Grande, a family of quail scurried across the dirt road in front of me, chuckling and chortling. I reflexively reached for the phone in my pocket but then stopped. For now, I would just watch the quail with my naked eye. I let the birds be, refusing to pursue them like a nature paparazzi just to get a photo that wouldn’t turn out anyway. I stopped in the cool evening air, tipped my head back to look at the emerging stars, and let the soft birdsong wash over me. I breathed deeply once, then let the air in my lungs trickle out slowly on this last quiet day in America.

---

Housekeeping Notes

1. You’ll notice a name change to this Substack, from The Quivering Pen to Van-ish-ing America. While I have loved the Quivering Pen’s name since I originally started that blog in 2010, its original intent was to provide book reviews and news about literary culture. This new version on Substack is different, focused more on travel around America. So, I decided to capture the spirit of our odyssey with a new name. While America as we know it hasn’t completely “vanished,” I do think much of what we’ve been seeing over the last year—from national parks and monuments, to the very lives of people in small towns—is under threat; we’re trying to see as much of it as we can before it goes away, for one reason or another.

2. I’m back on Facebook after a six-month hiatus. I’m trying to rebuild the community I had before, but FB is currently limiting my ability to add friends. If you send me a friend request, I will accept it, if the Zuck gods allow. Click here to find me.

The Quivering Pen is a reader-supported publication. Please consider becoming a paid subscriber, if you’re inclined and able. Your support is how I’m able to continue this work. Thanks for reading!