Pt. 1 — “Desert Solitaire”
Highway 50 through the state of Nevada was once dubbed “the loneliest road in America.” Between the expansive valleys and endless sagebrush, few signs of civilization exist for hundreds of miles. Hours away from the bustle of Las Vegas or Reno, the solitude of rural Nevada life remains intact.
Snaking its way from Lake Tahoe to the Utah border, primarily through the desolate Great Basin, Highway 50 is most notable for its lack of anything notable. While any normal person may find the long drive across rural Nevada tedious, the endless possibilities to explore pristine wilderness are a beckoning call to any adventurer.
Driving through Nevada, the typically brown desert mountains are often overlooked in favor of the famous high peaks of California, the Pacific Northwest, or Colorado. Surprisingly, Nevada contains more mountain ranges than any other state in the contiguous U.S. From the Rubies to the Schell Creek and Toiyabe ranges, over 300 mountain ranges cover Nevada. These are stunning landscapes, with enough unnamed and unclimbed peaks to justify a lifetime of exploration.
The irony of Nevada, however, is that it is a state fundamentally characterized by its laws, not its geography. Images of slot machines and showgirls quickly come to mind when we mention the overlooked western state.
Another fascinating quality of Nevada is land ownership: the federal government owns over 80% of the state. Simply put, the public has access to some 63% of state lands—48 million acres—more than any other state in the contiguous United States. So as a young man, it wasn’t gambling or loose women that drew me to the Silver State. Nevada represented an unparalleled freedom compared to the states bordering it. By crossing an imaginary line from California, you could camp anywhere for free, shoot guns, and ride dirt bikes.
My strongest suggestion is to embrace the Nevada expanse and strike out for the heart of desolation.
For two college guys at the University of Nevada nearing the end of spring semester, the drought-stricken winter in the Sierra Nevada had begun to fuel dreams of early-season camping trips. Drinking beer late on a Friday night, these two 19-year-old kids found themselves obsessing over climbing a high-elevation peak rather than partying with their peers that weekend. Where could we climb tomorrow?
The abysmal winter had left little snow in the high peaks, but May was also too early to safely summit anything in the Sierra without serious avalanche risk. We brought out maps and scoured for new places to explore. Looking east of our beloved Sierra Nevada, a curious wilderness entered our vocabulary. Positioned in the middle of Nevada, a splotch of green represented public land. The name was familiar: Toiyabe.
Running 120 miles long and sharply dividing the Reese River and the Big Smoky Valley, the Toiyabe Range is a stunning wilderness and perhaps one of the best reasons to travel Highway 50. Sitting in the rain shadow of the Sierra Nevada, the range is an arid environment dotted with the lingering effects of the last ice age. Viewed from above, it stands in stark contrast to the barren desert surrounding it. Alpine forests and snow-capped cirques make the Toiyabe wilderness an oasis for adventurous hikers.
Pouring over the topographical map, we were stunned. Did that elevation mark really say 11,000 feet? Arc Dome, the highest peak of the Toiyabe Range, soars 5,000 feet above the Great Basin desert and the small mining communities below. Its summit sits just under 11,800 feet, and it is one of only 57 mountains in the U.S. with over 5,000 feet of prominence (a very good thing for mountain nerds or exercise fiends).
With minimal research and a focus on going somewhere new, the obscure Arc Dome became our weekend destination. The mountain was plenty tall, and the directions said it was four hours away. Better yet, the route to the summit was a measly 13-mile round-trip hike—or so we thought. There was no real understanding of what the journey would be like, how the hike would go, or whether we’d make it back in time for school on Monday.
A 2 a.m. promise was made to rise early the next morning, load our backpacks, and tackle the peak. At the crack of 10 a.m., with two ill-equipped packs, we headed east on Highway 50. Driving through Fernley and Fallon, the impending isolation ahead was completely unexpected.
Pt. 2 — “On the Road”
A road trip is often the easiest way to have a deep conversation. Add in the loneliness of Highway 50, and even the most introverted person becomes a brilliant conversationalist. Nothing is off the table out here.
The hours began to rack up as we left Fallon and pushed deeper into the Great Basin. The number of passing cars dwindled until we entered valleys without any signs of life. Yellow highway lines stretched undisturbed as far as the eye could see. No vehicles ahead, none coming toward us. The novelty of having nobody else around was too good to pass up. We drove in the wrong lane for minutes at a time, parked in the middle of the highway, and did sets of push-ups and handstands.
Many people who travel U.S.-50 describe the surreal beauty of its desolation. Dropping into each successive valley, the road runs perfectly straight toward the horizon. I understood that fascination immediately. Farther east, the road begins to climb, and the small town of Austin pleasantly surprises weary travelers. It feels like a time capsule from the golden age of highways. You don’t just stumble upon Austin—Highway 50 is the reason you’re there. The gas station becomes a quiet nod of shared experience. Everyone knows the distance it took to arrive.
With a full tank, a cold drink, and an empty bladder, we climbed out of town toward Austin Pass. Then, just minutes later, the loneliness returned. We were about an hour from our destination, and the anticipation of hitting the trail was at its peak. Turning onto NV-376 didn’t change the scenery much, but the mountains finally came into view. We searched for our first glimpse of Arc Dome. Snow still clung to the higher elevations, surprising given the weak winter and desert surroundings. The range rolled on—peak after peak, cliffs, snow patches, and resilient pine forests.
Fifty miles to 40, then 30. The turnoff couldn’t come soon enough. After several miles down a dirt road, our 2WD Datsun gave up. We grabbed our packs, locked the truck, and started hiking. The excitement was high. It wouldn’t last.
Pt. 3 — “Into the Wild”
Despite spending most of our free time outdoors, our preparation didn’t reflect it. We had ventured deep into the backcountry before without enough water, clothing, or shelter. We mocked the overly prepared “REI hiker” mentality. Why carry anything you don’t need? As college ski bums, dirtbag thriftiness was the goal. We may have packed limited food and water, but we somehow found room for six tall cans of beer, a half ounce of weed, and multiple ways to smoke it.
The Toiyabe wilderness captivated us immediately. Lush alpine forests, fresh with spring growth, surrounded the winding trail. Creek crossings grew more challenging, and before long my canvas shoes were soaked through. A few miles in, we rested in a beautiful canyon, gazing up at our distant summit. Then things unraveled. The trail faded. We followed what looked most traveled, convincing ourselves it was fine. It wasn’t. Soon we were bushwhacking uphill through dense trees. The easy pace was gone. Darkness fell as we broke above treeline. We reached a false summit and collapsed, deciding it would be our bivy. Hungry and tired, I stabbed my truck key into a package of spaghetti—and snapped it in half.
At 11,000 feet, miles from anywhere, we had no way to start the truck. We lit a joint and decided to deal with it tomorrow. Morning came quickly. We summited Arc Dome quietly, the situation weighing on us.The descent, somehow, lifted our spirits. We glissaded down snowfields, laughing as my shoes fell apart completely. Against all odds, we made it back to the truck. Then reality hit again.
Pt. 4 — “MacGyver”
We tried taping the key back together. It snapped again—this time inside the lock. Now we were truly stuck. We debated hiking out. Then, by sheer luck, after two days of not seeing a soul I found two ranchers fishing nearby.They followed me back to the truck. Within minutes, they broke in with a piece of wire. “Why’d you lock it?” one laughed.
Getting inside was easy. Starting it wasn’t. They dismantled the door, retrieved the key fragment, and quickly realized it was useless. Then came the idea: hotwire it. Using nothing but two flathead screwdrivers, they tore apart the steering column. An hour later, one turned the ignition with a screwdriver. The engine roared to life. We couldn’t believe it. They refused anything in return, offering only water and soda before heading back to their families. We drove to Austin without turning off the engine. Back in cell service, we called our moms and lied about everything. Final exams were the next morning.
Every time I turned that screwdriver to start the truck afterward, I thought about Arc Dome. Highway 50 may be the loneliest road in America—but that weekend, we were the luckiest guys on Earth.