Once Upon a Time in Nevada

When you drive through Nevada there are two roads you gotta take— Highway 50, the Loneliest Road in America, and 375, the Extraterrestrial Highway. I was heading towards 375. The fastest way I could find to get to Tonopah.

I woke up before the sun near the San Juan River in Southeast Utah and drove 17 miles to an overlook in Monument Valley. It was cloudy, but the sun still rose —lighting up the painted desert.

A Hopi Man told me the day before to pay close attention in the mornings to the moment when the sun is half and half with the horizon line.

“This is the moment to pray, he told me. This is the moment of everything.”

That morning, I saw it.

And ever since then, I see it that way.

I watched the sunrise — prayed— and then I kept on my way. The landscape shifted throughout the day from the bright red rocks of Zion to the faded Mojave Desert. After a little bit of staring into the desert, your mind becomes capable of distinguishing between the shades of greys, light greens, browns,  the dust, the dirt, and the gravel. The shrubby trees and grasses. The occasional bloom.

I drove across Utah into Nevada and lost cell phone service immediately. This lasted for hours with only a town here and there. Nearly ghost towns. People living scattered few and far between. So different from hurling down the interstate at 90 miles per hour. I get it though. There is safety in the light of gas station, a stop sign, a billboard telling you what's ahead. There is safety feeling like you are going anywhere at anytime.

There is nothing like that here.

Unless you take comfort in riding the wave of the mountain range and the valley under a big open sky.

Then you’re right where you need to be in the middle of nowhere meandering.

There are fewer and fewer moments in life where we have nothing to do with what is digital. I don't just mean away from a screen. I mean the space it occupies in our pockets, our hands, our minds. Think about how frequently your thoughts are tied to something that is happening on a phone, computer, tv, watch, or screen— meanwhile, the electricity is constantly churning.

—

I made two stops. The first was at a Dollar Tree. The first store I had seen in awhile. I bought a maroon towel— an essential for where I was going.

The second stop was a little further down the road. I hadn't seen many cars. I possibly hadn’t seen any cars. There wasn't anything except for the land and all that was growing there. Joshua Trees included.

But suddenly, there was a mailbox.

I knew about this mailbox. I was waiting for this mailbox. We found it on our trip out West in the Fall of 2023. It’s postmarked to the aliens and located just north of Area 51.

I pulled over to send a message— a love letter — to all the places I have been, the people I have met, who I was when I met them — all of it bringing me to this moment here.

I pulled in, put the Prius in park, wrote my message, and opened my door— and a plane flew low over my head— WHOOSHHH— a fighter jet. It was there and then it was gone. The car shook. My mind rattled. I thought the aliens had come and gone. And then I laughed. And laughed again.

I took a peek inside. The mailbox was full of letters and knick knacks, mementos, and messages to the beyond.

I folded up my single sheet of pink legal pad paper with purple ink and tucked it far back in the corner. If anyone is ever out that way, let me know if it's still there. I promise you can't miss the mailbox if you go looking for it on 375.

I still had miles to go and I was racing the daylight. I always try to be where I'm supposed to be before dark when I'm traveling alone. It feels a little safer.

When I got there, the place was empty. Except for a half spilled jug of spoiled milk. I came up with all the reasons why that nasty ass milk wasn't my problem until I was wrapping it up in a bag and setting it by my back tire to take into town the next day.

The wind was howling. I cooked dinner inside the car with the windows cracked and watched the sunset through the windshield. I didn't even bother with my tent. This would be a night to sleep with a little more structure around me. I made some space to sleep and waited for the wind to calm down enough to soak in the spring. The sun set behind the East Sierra Mountains. There wasn't a light to be seen for miles and miles, only starlight filling up the sky.

I made my way to the hot spring to soak for awhile. Clear my mind of the miles I drove. Across Oklahoma. All of Southern Colorado. Through Zion. I had only left two days before, but it already felt like a lifetime had passed and then some.

It wasn't exactly quiet despite the solitude. Water dripped hot into the spring from what was left of a pipe protruding from the earth. A direct connection to the source. It flowed from one pool into another down and down until it was cool enough to land in a sort of shallow pond or wetland. Frogs croaked and called. Birds sang their songs. This was an oasis. And I was just like all the other animals seeking the water for life sustenance.

The next morning I woke up to calmer winds just before the sun began it's ascent the east horizon. The moment of everything. I made my way again to the pools where I could see the steam rising.

I sank into the warmth.

A little ways away I observed an RV that had driven in sometime in the night. A few minutes later, someone emerged and began to make their way over.

In another moment, he was there before me, smiling, asking if it was okay to get in with me.

His hair was white. His eyes were blue. He had a very light, easy way about his movements. Instantly, he was easy to talk to.

We talked about who I was and who he was and how we had ended up where we were at the same time. The conversation flowed as if two friends had just met again after years of separation and yet not a moment had actually passed between them.

He told me about his work as a psychologist. He had worked in the healthcare system as well as built his own private practice — all at the same time. He said at one point he was working with around 200 patients at the same time.

I let that absorb a bit. Listening and working with the minds of so many different lives at the same time. Not to my surprise, he said he doesn't do that anymore.

He told me how it took him a really long time for him to realize that he likes to take time to be alone. He said he was always so nervous in the company of people— being alone was the only way to get back to who he was at his center.

“My wife is a Rabbi. She lives in Nepal," he said. "She doesn't understand it at all. She cannot stand to be alone— to be alone doesn't make her feel like herself. But for me, I went on a trip for the first time by myself in my late 30s and I had never felt so much peace. It gave me energy to move forward at a really dark moment in my life."

He continued, "You must know something about this feeling yourself as you are traveling alone. You're lucky. You've figured it out before I did. Know yourself and you will have infinite peace. That’s what they say but so few ever achieve it."

I talked to him more about my life, recent trips across the country— alone and with friends, and how comfortable I always feel moving in wild spaces alone, even if it feels a little daunting when you begin.

"I imagine," he began, "based on this conversation, that you, actually, are someone who is never alone.

He paused.

"You may consider sometime, what angels are riding with you?"

—

We kept talking as the sun rose. Time stretched out in that unusual way that it does when you get caught up into a good conversation.

I asked him what was the most common feeling that came up with the people who he talked to.

His answer— grief.

"There are three ways that we lose people in our life-- and this comes up again and again and again— it is, for the most part, why people seek therapy in the first place. It is extremely difficult for people to sort out. And I don't blame them. Our increasing dependence on technology has changed the way we communicate, interact, and depend on each other for support through life's greatest challenges."

"The first way we experience grief seems very simple, but it is not. It is completely immeasurable. We meet someone for a single moment— like you and I here. We will likely never cross paths again, yet, here we are capable of having a conversation as if we have known each other our entire lifetime. We likely will never think of each other again after a certain time. As humans though, we will make meaning of this situation. This conversation that we have found ourselves in. Because of this, we must process the loss— either consciously or unconsciously— while we simultaneously carry the experience with us through the rest of our lives. It can be quite unsettling at times. Especially when people are unhappy with any particular thing in their life at any particular time."

"The second way we experience grief," he continued, "is the one that most people are familiar with— death. And I'm talking about the death of someone close to you. Someone who you would say had an impact on the shaping and forming of your life. This is deep pain. This is loss that is never coming back. All we can ever do is make peace with it. And that is extremely hard to do. Your body feels it. Your mind takes a long time to get used to it. This is when relationships with the right people can be critical. Many seek therapy because it feels like there is no one to talk to who will understand.”

"The third way is about how we lose ourselves. Now, if we're lucky, we will awaken again and again and again in this lifetime. New experiences will create new thoughts. New relationships will take us places we've never been before. Changes that come into our life that redefine who we are— it could moving to a new house, changing jobs, letting go of a friendship, going to school, getting married, having children, going on a trip," he paused here.

"Like this— you and I will never be the same after this day, this conversation, this moment. This incredible place. It is as simple as that and here we are— meeting ourselves again for the very first time."

I think about this conversation often. It grounds me when I start thinking about all the people who have come and gone in my own life. The people who have been central to my life who are no longer here and are no longer coming back. All the lives who I have entered just as quickly as I have exited. The different ways that I have lost myself and found myself again and again and again.

We continued to talk a little more until his son called him on FaceTime. I got to meet him and talk for a few minutes. And then I left. Just as quickly as it started, I was walking away and waving to a person who's name I don't think I could ever remember no matter how hard I tried and I'm sure for him it was the same. But the conversation remains in my memory as if it just happened.

—

My only plan for the rest of the day was to watch the sunset on the sandy beaches of the California coastline. I was a few hours and a quick detour around Lake Tahoe away from making that a reality.

I was just finishing my packing when I looked up to see two horses running in from a distance. They were undoubtedly coming in for a drink of water.

These horses are the descendants of miners, missionaries, and settlers from the time of the "Great American West". A few years ago, they estimated over 30,000 wild horses were living wild in Nevada. They say the landscape can only support around 13,000 over the long term. Some are adopted. Some are killed. Some are trapped, bought, and shipped to other countries and consumed for food. Some get to stay and hope to find enough grass to graze and water to consume in order to survive.

For me, I am no different from those horses coming to this source of water to revive, to refresh, and to meet myself again— for the first time.