GRAND CANYON: THE LONELIEST ROAD IN AMERICA

We are entering the barren desert that naïve visionaries once dreamed of transforming into farmland through the miracle of irrigation. That dream was long ago swept away like the sagebrush that haunts this landscape. It is hunting ground of the lone coyote, sky of the buzzard and crow, a wasteland where society digs for precious minerals and buries its toxic poisons. It is a land where dreams go to die.

The long stretch of flat desert highway between Ely and Fallen, Nevada, is known as the loneliest road in America. Ely is a major crossroad amidst this desolate land. Its tourist attractions include casinos and one of the world’s largest mining pits. We are not ready to stop in Ely. We fill up with gas and begin the crossing. Despite its flatness the elevation ranges from six to seven thousand feet above sea level. This is what is known as the high desert plains and we half expect Clint Eastwood in black to make an appearance. There are no trees. There are no wires and no electrical lights in the distance. There is nothing but sage and an eerie sensation, a sense of death and longing in the cool desert air.

Wiz has taken the wheel when we encounter kamikaze rabbits. They dash across the highway in droves and turn directly into the headlights of Mustang Sally. This is a breed of animal behavior I have never before observed. I have seen animals of all kinds frozen by the light of approaching vehicles and in their disorientation break the wrong way in an attempt to escape but I have never seen an animal plunge so intentionally into the center of a roaring mechanical beast. It shudders my soul and infuses my mind with doubt and foreboding.

Is it a sign? What lies beyond our naked view to justify such abhorrent behavior? There are thousands of them. Is it Darwin’s process of natural selection, survival of the fittest? With such a sparse supply of food, have these rabbits arrived at this solution to their over-abundant population growth? Should we see this as an act of heroism? Are they sacrificing themselves so that others of their kind can live? Or are there other forces at work: chemicals or radiation that poison and torture the unfortunate of the species? Is this a death of choice or one of madness?

We encounter a deer that startles us with a gesture that reminds us of the suicidal rabbits, feigning a dash into our headlights. We see an elk that watches us with absolute detachment. We see a lone coyote. The coyote alone seems to be home in this place. Here the coyote is king. He is neither startled nor afraid at the sight of our car streaking over asphalt in a vain attempt to outrun the barren loneliness of this land.

At Eureka nothing is open, not even a gas station. We take a look at the map and figure we have just enough to make it to Fallon. Wiz has been driving Sally hard so I take the wheel while he collapses in the passenger seat. I have slept erratically, on edge, but I am driven to put this place behind me. I feel threatened and I know the source of danger is uncertainty. I am not familiar with the rules of this road.

The wise one says: Go into the darkness and be not afraid.

But I am afraid. I can no more deny it than I can deny the moon. I experience the rabbit holocaust from the helm. It is beyond my control. I am driven. I finally begin to accept the unknown, relax and let the road with its flashing line calm me.

Wiz is still asleep when I encounter a stalled four-wheel drive on the opposite side of the road. The driver is on the road trying to wave me down. He is well dressed and the vehicle is new. There is someone else inside. I run all the factors through my mind but I do not stop. I slow and wake Wiz up. I explain the situation and he replies: I’d sure like it if someone stopped to help us. I know he’s right. I should stop and go back.

“How was he dressed?”

“He looks okay.”

I should stop and go back but I keep on driving.

“They should get some rest. There’s nothing we could do anyway. What could we do?”

I am relieved. I realize that my fear is not the risk they pose but the fear that if I stop I will be able to go again. We’re miles and miles from anywhere. Sally has driven harder and longer than she has in a decade. Rational or irrational, I’m afraid.

“We’ll call the highway patrol when we get to the next town.”

“They won’t be stranded long.”

Wiz goes back to sleep. I keep driving. I feel a little better when a truck passes. Truckers have CB radios. All will be well. Still, it is a strange feeling to find myself in a survival mode. How quickly we forget others when we sense ourselves in danger. To feel threatened by the simple act of stopping to aide a fellow traveler. The mirror is unkind. I know this will stay with me a long time. The karmic debt gains a notch.

The sun is slowly rising. The desolate landscape is becoming clearer with stark treeless mountains now in view, rising from the flatland plateau. During the course of a long night I realize that I cannot be sure about the gas status. The gauge is inoperable. The tank originally held twenty gallons but I’m sure about the replacement. The capacity of the new tank is uncertain.

Wiz wakes up some hours into the day and announces, looking at the road atlas, that we are in a danger zone. We have no idea what that means but there it is in black and white. We have entered a danger zone. There are postings in the sage alongside the road at approximately two hundred yard intervals and a hundred yards into the desert. They are too far away to read from the highway. My only thought is: This is not a good place to run out of gas. I wonder if this is my karma for failing to stop in the night.

The road before Fallon is far longer than its mileage. We enter the desert mountains and I coast on the downhills. I whisper solemn encouragement to Sally. Just a little longer. At each crest I look for signs of civilization like a ship lost at sea looking for land. There are cluster of crow, groups of five to seven, and that somehow gives me comfort. Where the crow lives, civilization cannot be far away.

At last Fallon appears like an oasis on the horizon. We have survived desolation row and the loneliest road in America. The gas meter reads 13.1 gallons. The attendant informs us that the danger zone refers to the naval air station’s use of the land for target practice.

It could have been worse. Much worse. The danger was more imaginary than real.

Still I have no desire to pass this way again.