For the remainder of the way up to the summit, the road steepens and I am pleased that I opted for the larger engine in the Saturn. The descent down the east side of the pass is at first marred by sharp turns that prevent freewheeling but then it straightens out some and I can admire the flimsy guardrails at 90 while saving all that gasoline.

Once out in the middle of the basin, I suddenly realize that the loneliness factor has increased considerably. This comes to me as I look as carefully as I can in all directions and, other than the highway, see not one mark of man. No fences, roads, trails, utility lines, microwave towers, habitations, sheds, abandoned vehicles with skeletons inside, no nothing but rocks and, very occasionally, unobtrusive flora.

Across the basin lies Eureka, as cute as Austin and similarly situated well up the west slope of a range. Over the top and down into the next basin, which seems just as desolate as the last. I turn on the radio and punch Seek. It stops at an NPR station airing a discussion of the development of the American evangelical movement. When I have learned enough, I punch Seek, only to return to the same station. Hmmm, I think, recalling my high school physics, FM is line-of-sight. AM signals, bouncing off the whateversphere, are receivable for longer distances. I switch to AM, punch Seek, and watch the numbers fly by, repeating themselves over and over until I give up. This is true isolation. And yeah, yeah I do remember that the signals bounce better at night, owing to something.

Once you get a third of the way across Nevada, it's basin and range, basin and range, over and over, variations on a theme. On US 50 the high points as you head east from Carson City are New Pass Summit, El. 6348; Austin Summit, El. 7484; Scott Summit, El. 7267; Hickison Summit, El. 6564; Pinto Summit, El. 7376; Pancake Summit, El. 6517; Little Antelope Summit, El. 7433; Robison Summit, El. 7607; Connors Pass, El. 7723; and Sacramento Pass, El. 7154. For reasons I do not yet understand, both California and Nevada often use the word "summit" on road signs and maps to refer to the elevation of the pass through which the highway is going rather than that of the higher flanking peak.

All this elevation change is accompanied by the poinking of jelly jar lids, an unexpected pleasure in which I continue to delight. Unfortunately, I am encumbered by a carload of art and cannot take full advantage of the freewheeling opportunities down off all the ridges lest, as Terry Allen put it, "precious objects [be] scattered all over the road" or more likely, all down the mountainside.

I stop in Ely (pronounced "eely") for a chocolate milk shake, which turns out to be a step down from the one back in Austin. I do hope the quality is not going to continue to decline as I move eastward. Ely is by far the largest town I've hit since Fallon, and it's also so ugly, since it seems to consist entirely of brightly colored plastic covered franchise stores and fast food restaurants and gas stations, that I am so eager to get out of town that I begrudge even stopping again for gasoline. There's just enough in the tank to get me to Baker, which is a tiny little place where I plan to spend the night.

When I get to Baker, it is brought clearly home to me that I am definitely on an adventure, for it seems that Baker is now a ghost town. The gas station is closed. It appears to have been closed for a year or so, but we all know how the dry desert climate preserves things, so it may well have been closed for ten years. I switch the engine off while I study the map to think through my options. At this point, I would be happy to swallow my pride and return to Ely, where I saw the last gas station, but the most casual examination of the gas gauge rules this option out. And there is clearly no possibility of gas for many, many miles beyond Baker. But then I remember, about five miles back where I forked off US 50 to the south, a billboard advertising The Border Inn straight ahead on US 50.

The map clearly shows the Utah border about ten miles beyond the fork. However, there is no indication of any town anywhere near the border, and I am parked in dead proof that even ghost towns are marked on this map. Luckily, I am not bewildered by a variety of options, so deciding that I'd rather be out of gas on US 50 than on my current thin blue line, I backtrack to US 50 and turn right, hoping as never before that there is truth in advertising and that The Border Inn is, in fact, on the border.

It is, although it takes what feels like hours to drive that fifteen miles at 30 MPH in fourth gear without the air conditioner as I try to remember just how far to the left of the E mark I've seen the gas gauge in the past. Never have two nondescript buildings looked lovelier than The Border Inn and its accompanying gas station/restaurant/bar/casino. First things first, I fill up. Hey, I could have made another seven miles, maybe eight.

Inside, as I pay for the gasoline, I begin to learn how this place operates. The motel is a separate building to the left, well inside Utah. The other building sits on the border so that the gas station, restaurant, and motel office are in Utah, but the bar and casino are in Nevada. Since it's all one big room, the state line is marked on the floor lest you go wandering off into Utah with your drink in hand. When I ask why they didn't just put the whole place into Nevada, I get a very short answer, "Taxes."

It is by now about 7:00 and I decide I've had enough excitement for the day even though I've covered only 393 miles, so I check into the motel. It's a beaverboard dump, but it's clean, and about a quarter of the price of last night's accommodations. I return to the restaurant and try to guess what they might be best at way out here. I get a glimpse of the cook and see she's Chicana, so I opt for the enchiladas. Hmmm. I didn't know you could get canned enchiladas way out here. I take a look at the display of pastries and pass on dessert. I move three stools to the right over into Nevada and strike up a conversation with the bartender over a scotch and water. Younger man, seems to be out here starting over from something and managing the whole operation. This would be a good place to start over from just about anything.

The casino area consists entirely of gaming machines and is occupied only by an older couple playing an adjacent pair of the machines. I decide I've had enough fun and retire to the motel. I write a few more notes in my journal and then crawl into bed. Almost immediately upon my turning off the light, a small dog begins yapping on the other side of the thin wall at my head. I experiment with the television set to see if I can get enough white noise to mask the dog's barking while blocking all the light with sofa cushions, but this attempt fails.

I dress and step outside. There are only two vehicles in the motel area, mine and one on the other side of the drive-through. Apparently, the clerk has booked the only two guests into adjacent rooms. I return to the office/restaurant/bar/casino and tell the bartender that I need a different room as there is a little dog barking continually in the room next to mine and I can't go to sleep under those circumstances. The man at the barstool next to mine silently rises and goes over into the casino area and says something to the woman at her machine. She comes over and allows as how there is a dog in the room but that she barks only at people outside the room. I point out that I was lying in bed with the lights out and my curtains closed when she started barking, but that she continued barking while I fiddled with the TV and then dressed and left the room, seeing not a soul in the entire parking area to bark at. She asks me if I'd like a drink, and I observe that what I really want is to sleep, which amuses the bartender, but that a drink might help.

So I accept a drink and we chat a bit. They're on their way back to their home in Arizona after a few weeks in Oregon, and I tell them I'm on a retirement motor tour of the west. They suggest that I take I 70 across the Rockies instead of US 40 as I had been planning. After a bit more conversation, I suggest that either they put their dog in their pickup/camper or the bartender/manager put me in a different room. They join me over to the motel, where thank God the little bitch is still barking her head off and they talk about how she never does this while I say goodnight. I pop a lorazepam to potentiate the scotch and fall asleep instantly.