I was preparing for an art show based on US Highway 50 (The Loneliest Road in America) as it crosses Nevada.
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| Since I left the details of the trip as a recollection of a child, I've chosen not to identify this mining town. |
I was ten when I discovered the
lonely highway. My parents were still
married then, and lived in Reno, Nevada. Spring break, took us to my grandmother’s
place for a visit. At the time, (this
would have been the late sixties) Orem was a small town just north of Provo,
Utah. In many ways, it really was not
much of a town. Off State Street, the layout
was a farming community of blocks so long that the cross streets seemed to
complete the horizon. Agriculture still
had a lock on the community. Residential
housing, the idea of neighborhoods had not yet replaced the furrows of open
fields. The white stucco house sported a
red tile roof. Two junipers framed an
entrance that was nothing more than a concrete step, a landing place to scrape
the mud off shoes onto a welcome mat, and two blue ceramic pots. In the pleasant weather of spring and summer,
they contained flowers. From the living
room, the view was lawn, a line of spruce trees, a mailbox, the street, fruit
trees and mountains. In yards of
historical houses, these trees seem to be enormous. They are as old as many of the settlements of
Utah. An irrigation cannel raced on the
other side of the road with water that had not yet learned how to meander. Cold as snowmelt, it was a cooling brew to thirsty
orchards. Fruit trees framed the
mountains around the valley. Looking to
the east, the Wasatch Range rises. Almost
no urban area in the United States of America, sits in such a dramatic location.
The flight over Mount Timpanogous is
breathtaking. The shores of Utah Lake
embrace the west. Although in the same
valley as the lake, Orem is much higher.
It sits on one of the ancient shorelines that register as steps as they
bump up along the mountainside. Lake
Bonneville covered most of the western Utah and spilled over into eastern
Nevada. This and the Great Salt Lake are
all that remain.
The spring was wet and cold. Clouds rolled in and out, breaking up for
perhaps part of the day. Each morning
rose in a fresh coat of snow that failed bury the green blades of grass. Orem never really knows the meaning of buried
in snowed. However, the same does not
apply to other towns around the valley. An
inch of the white stuff in Orem may measure a foot or more of glorious powder
in the towns of Mapleton or Salem. This
inclement weather may have influenced some of what I saw as we made our way
home along the new highway. Although, I
have no way of knowing. I’ve never crossed
the state at the same time of year again.
Heading south, the interstate follows the Wasatch Range in a westerly swing
that terminates with Mt. Nebo. At 11,
877 feet above sea level, it rules as the range’s highest peak. The freeway swings around it, skirting its
fan down into Juab Valley. Highway 50 can
be reached by leaving Interstate 15 at Santaquin. I did not know any of this information at the
time of our trip. What I describe now,
is a journey across a land beautiful and mysterious. This is an exercise in recall.
Leaving the freeway, a two-lane road crosses a small
valley. Out the side window, Utah Lake is
off in the distance. The mountains ahead
are like many I have seen before. They
are average, but here average is mean. The
car pulls under the weight of a climb up into juniper and pinion pine. I want to say it is overcast, that is what I
see, but I can’t be sure of that. It is
such a long time ago, and impressions of sunshine fall in dry and open places. Whether this is accurate or not, I have no
way of knowing. There is a sense though
that these broad flats and valleys are less omminous, that they escape drizzle
if there is any. Many of the places I
have in mind have names, but I have decided to leave them out, for that is how
I encountered the terrain of a long and lonely highway. And in thinking about it, that may not be a
bad way to approach this description of land I have never seen before. Like the settlers and the explorers before
them, it is unknown to me. That is how
many travel anyway. They have their maps. They know what towns and highways to look
for. However, they have no concern for
landmarks. A low ridge on the horizon
goes by. It is lost to talk, or to the tuning
of the car radio. There just has to be a
station out here somewhere. This is the kind of place for a pillow and a book,
and with food in the cooler, it will be fine. Never mind the travel. Are we making time?
and distance
is a swell
and a long haul
stammer
I must confess that these are never my attitudes while riding
in a car. Every attribute the land has
to offer, features a narrative that runs through my mind. Sometimes I am an early explorer, but more
often than not, I am a travel guide sharing beauty with those that follow.
We come to a town at the top of the hill. Its prime is past. The mines played out long ago. The one thing mining never fails to do, is to
place a town in a dramatic location. Here
streets are cradled in ruggedness. Winding
down through the canyon, a valley lays claim to more mountains. All this can be seen from living room windows,
or at the very least, from mailboxes posted by crumbling steps and struggling roses
on the verge of going wild. If I lived here,
I would be checking the mail all the time.
As far as I am concerned, the wealth of these towns was never the ore,
and the ones that find a way to stay are well aware of this.
Coming to a tee in the valley below, the pavement extends in
two directions. A left turn happens to
be the right choice. A weathered highway
rolls down a valley of juniper and pinion pine and the mountains diminish with
ease. A range rises to the south, the
west opens on a horizon of sand, and the land broadens. I am not sure I remember all these
details. They may come from events more
recent. Still, it is hard to imagine
that I would have missed sand dunes. They
are romanticized in movies of the West, and of course, there was Lawrence of
Arabia. That was my favorite film as a
child. Sand is singular in the way it
rides the wind. Unlike dust, it never
gets lost in a storm or settles down in mud flats. It is much too particular for that. Although at ease in large congregations, it
has no interest in bonds and is always ready to move to the persuasive sound of
wind, even if it just happens to be a whisper. It is also as rare as radio, out where towns
have no real significance. I keep coming
back to the idea of a land without radio. Welcome to radio free Nevada. The interior of the state has a ban on the airwaves.
Static is the sound of love songs and
commercial spots in a land locked between mountain ranges. This is this country’s Tibet. Much of it is high, open and remote.
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