On a road trip across America, I knew the truth was out there. The aliens? Maybe not

He said this softly, a burden he shared with a stranger in the museum: “This happened to me.”

He was standing behind me when I overheard this silent explanation. It anchored me in place. I thought the remaining exhibits could wait. Instead, I would linger and listen to his story. Randomly, of course.

Okay, eavesdrop then. It wasn’t my finest hour, but we were in the middle of the International UFO Museum and Research Center in Roswell, New Mexico.

How did I get there? I was taking a road trip across America with friends and this was my must-see detour on a coast-to-coast road trip. It is the kind of pilgrimage that my companions do not fully embrace or understand, but tolerate nonetheless.

America was different then. It was a few years before 9/11; This was before the date became a turning point where the world held its breath and history changed.

Bill Clinton was still in the White House, the US federal budget was comfortably in surplus, and the president was on track to be impeached.

It seemed the truth was out there, but not yet siled.

And I wanted some, if only for laughs.

Growing up in a country town meant ABC TV was my main source of entertainment. Sure, a local commercial station filled in some gaps – hello JR and Bobby – but as a kid it was all about Beauties and Time Lord adventures. Absurd and fantastical – Ecky Thump and giant kittens followed by Egyptian demigods and Daleks. All bridled with black pudding or Venus karate.

Let’s fast forward to the 90’s and enter the era The X-Files and restarted Star Trek A franchise that produces spin-off series with the regularity of a nice afternoon tea. (Earl Grey, of course.)

Then I received an invitation to the USA.

The plan to cross America came from My Very Cool Friends. They met at a Nick Cave concert and are stylish enough to look effortless.

Their US adventures have meandered through great museums and galleries, enjoyed the American vibe, and cranked out unforgettable music in obscure clubs across the country.

We shared the admiration of touching natural wonders such as Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley and the warm waters of the Atlantic for the first time.

But I was also on a different tour. The whole place leads to a sideshow street full of delights and distractions. I was in Los Angeles researching original movie posters of 1950s sci-fi classics (way out of my price range) and admiring them with friends at Dennis Hopper’s house (a Blue Velvet moment).

Views of Death Valley? The warmth in that endless landscape, the light and color dancing in the canyons. What a stark desert beauty. It was also where a droid on Tatooine went in search of his master. Only blooming wildflowers destroyed the vision of that place far, far away.

But David Lynch was there too, on that lost highway, a dark, broken mirror of nonsense.

When we arrived in Las Vegas, I hopped into the Hilton; alone Star Trek Experience.

From the bridge of the Enterprise to the famous Bird of Prey battle on the Strip, to finally taking a ride on a space station and visiting Quark’s Bar. (Yes I know, klaxons sound the cow alarm.)

But it was a fitting place to end: exiting the gift shop run by a fictional alien race that worships the most rapacious form of capitalism. It was an American morality tale previously told through the lens of a sci-fi franchise. A race run by “Purchasing Rules” – the art of agreement.

We were staying at the Tropicana; At that time, bargaining was done on weekdays. There was a 2.5-hectare pool area and a history of real and imagined mafia connections. GodfatherThe Las Vegas scenes were filmed there. Maybe they made an offer they couldn’t refuse.

Tropicana “exploded” last year. In the city of the shiny and new, it was decided that it was past its sell-by date. This death became a production number with fanfare and fireworks. This is Las Vegas, after all.

Monument Valley, then, was a warm, quiet balm after Vegas. Red soil of the desert, sandstone monoliths. It is on the lands of the Navajo Nation and has a breathtaking otherworldliness.

I remember thinking what the red planet Mars would look like.

NASA had sent Mars Pathfinder there a year earlier, on July 4, 1997. The images sent by the rover Sojourner may have come from this Arizona national park.

I would love to camp there under that endless starry sky. I don’t think I’ll sleep.

An artist I met in New Mexico was inspired by the blessings of this place; the Milky Way stretching over the adobes of his home, Taos Pueblo. His name was Wings and he made jewelry. It was shaped like a one-piece flying saucer. He said he did this in honor of the many events seen in New Mexico. “Just remember to look up.”

I bought it; the piece of jewelery and the hope. It was impossible not to feel the possibility of something more in this timeless landscape.

Then Roswell came and the surprise faded.

But first – the origin story. In 1947, a UFO crashed near Roswell and the US government covered up the incident by claiming it was a weather balloon. They retrieved the alien’s body and vehicle, shipped it to Area 51, and spent decades reverse engineering the technology.

This is the conspiracy theory.

The truth is probably closer to the weather balloon explanation, except that this was the beginning of the Cold War and the US government sent out much more advanced “balloons” to detect Soviet atomic tests. It was top secret and known as Project Mongol..

But by the early ’80s, the conspiracy gained momentum — weather balloons were debunked, of course — and the “Roswell Incident” became entrenched in popular culture. It took the 90’s to glue it firmly into place. The X-Files mark the point. And so Roswell embraced his destiny.

The UFO museum opened and the annual UFO festival began. Businesses bowed to their new alien overlords; long gray faces adorned stores everywhere. This was where kitsch collided with conspiracy, in a feverish mental medley of consumerism: Everyone could live long and prosper.

To this day, I regret not purchasing the “alien road kill” with tire tracks on the body of that ubiquitous being. A Roswell souvenir. The museum itself was disappointing, even with Exhibit A, the alien prop on display in the autopsy room.

But people came. One was a woman seeking answers to an encounter she found difficult to express. He found a kind listener in the woman next to him. There is no judgment there.

For me, it was the crux of the winding road to weirdness. So yeah, not my finest hour.

I wonder now how many people embark on this pilgrimage in search of community, understanding, and sometimes sanity. Something had happened to him; he believed this. He wanted to learn more and find others.

I hope so. Eventually I walked away, my journey decidedly less fraught.

I spent the day in Roswell taking photos like crazy. My friends were mostly doing their laundry. We set off the next day.