Traveling across “The Loneliest Road in America” in Daydreaming on the Porch

There is a certain ten-year period in my life — 1984-1994 — that I will never forget, for so many reasons. I’ve written about that decade before and referred to it as a time of “wandering in the wilderness.” But it was also true of me during this time that “not all who wander are lost.” Despite some really terrible experiences and setbacks, I knew the general direction I was going. I had a series of temporary jobs, including two years teaching journalism in a college, several years in graduate school, and the rest of the time traveling around the country on four consecutive road trips. The road trips were the defining experiences of that decade because they opened up the country to me for the first time. I had never traveled before and had not been out of the South except twice in my entire life.

So at 33 I embarked on my first trip after much planning and preparation. By the time I wrote the following travel journal account in the Fall of 1987, I had become a rather seasoned road traveler. I knew exactly what I wanted to see and planned accordingly, but there were many serendipitous discoveries as well.

I dug this piece out of my paper journal, written over 33 years ago. As I re-read it, I could perfectly picture myself in that vast and empty space that was central Nevada. In the days before cellphones taking such a a drive as described below was a bit nerve wracking, as well as exciting. For one thing, you wanted to be sure you trusted your car, which I did. It was my faithful two-door yellow, 1983 Nissan Sentra that had already flawlessly carried me around the country on three previous trips.

The Nevada portion of my 1987 travels was perfectly suited to my solitary ways. As on my other trips, I had only myself for company, and that was enough.

Monday, October 12, 1987, Carson City Nevada

The past weekend’s contrasts in scenery have been stunning. Saturday I was hiking up above the Virgin River in Zion National Park in southern Utah along the Emerald Pools Trail to a wooded oasis of small springs and waterfalls. Towering above were sandstone ramparts of fantastically shaped canyon walls. The whole scene, including the winding river in its grove of cottonwoods far below, invokes wordless feelings of awe and gratitude for this work of great natural beauty.

Later that afternoon I entered Nevada. My goal was the small town of Ely near the eastern edge of the state. To get there from the south, one must traverse the vast and barren Lake Valley, a 15 or 20-mile wide basin of sage brush flanked on either side by mountain ranges. These mountains, also, are rather gray and bare. For 90 miles straight up through the valley, one encounters not a single town or service station, not even any abandoned structures. Total emptiness. At a couple of points in the distance I could see small ranch houses snug against the base of the mountains, but that was rare.

Departing from Ely Sunday morning, the first sign to greet a traveler outside of town was this: “Highway 50 — The Loneliest Road in America.” Never has a slogan so aptly described a stretch of highway. For 320 miles the road crosses a series of flat basins and mountain ranges, one range and then a 10 or 15-mile stretch of desert plain. Visibility was good and I could gaze across the distance to mountains many miles ahead. Occasionally a rabbit with scamper across the road. I was afraid to stop the car and shut off the engine for fear it might not start up right away. That’s the kind of apprehension this desert inspires. I won’t say fear, exactly, for the landscape’s riveting and desolate beauty redeems it from being a wasteland. Many would perhaps consider it such. There were however a number of times when I said to myself, “Never again.” It really feels like the proverbial middle of nowhere out there – literally, austerely, unambiguously. Not a trace of water, not even a dry wash or gully to show that water once coursed through these plains in seasonal flash floods. An open-to-the-sky wilderness. And it was much too late to turn back. After 77 miles — and one is acutely aware of the distance — the old mining town of Eureka suddenly appeared. A time for thanks and relief, topping off the tank and stretching the legs. An imposing 1879 Victorian courthouse here seems as out of place as the whole town itself, drowsy and near deserted this sunny October morning.

On to the next town, Austin, 70 miles distant, and absolutely nothing but a ranch or two in between. It is located on the downward slope of the west Toyabe Mountains on about a 6% grade. About 300 denizens of this deteriorating outpost maintain gas stations and restaurants for weary drivers on their way to any other destination. This town was about as raw and undignified looking a place as I’ve ever seen. But what an oasis in the desert! I saw only a few pick-up up trucks, dogs and modern-day cowboys and ranch hands – who else would live out here so cut off from civilization. Actually, it sounds pretty good in some ways. I’m sure it’s a very close knit community. It would have to be out there in the middle of nowhere.

After stretching and walking up and down the little Main Street, I got going again on “the loneliest road in America,” knowing that the halfway point to Carson City would soon be reached. I was relieved to know that the desert oasis town of Fallon was only 118 miles away.

New Pass Summit, Cold Springs (was there actually a spring out here?), and a great dry lake bed all passed, the road fine and straight, and my spirits beginning to lift noticeably. I paused at the stone ruins of an old Pony Express and stage station. Once the engine was shut off — and I had the confidence to do so at that point in the journey — the rockhard stillness of the desert came through with crystal clarity.

About 35 miles beyond this historic site are the first glorious clumps of trees in the distance. Soon fields of alfalfa and mowed hay were everywhere to be seen as well as cattle and houses — human habitations, greenery, trees, life as non-desert people are accustomed to it. Never have increased traffic and cottonwood trees appeared so welcome, so longed for.

Later after After driving through the greenbelt of the Carson River Valley and taking a side road to the mining and tourist town of Virginia City , I stopped in at a beautiful Catholic Church down the hill from Main Street, kneeled in a pew and thanked God for seeing me safely through the great basin desert of central Nevada. A once in a lifetime experience.

For more about Highway 50 in Nevada

https://travelnevada.com/road-trip/anything-but-lonely-on-nevadas-highway-50