I Drove Down America’s Loneliest Highways

“NO GAS NEXT 150 MILES” read a roadside sign. I merged onto the Extraterrestrial Highway—the lonely stretch of road adjacent to Area 51 that juts northbound across the Nevada Desert.

The sun dipped further beneath mountains to the west, and I had 550 miles in the gas tank after stopping at a Sinclair in Hiko. Bear this in mind; it could mean the difference between an easy ride or a fight for survival. I woke up in Oceanside, California. I’d burnt across the Mojave Desert for eight hours after battling a traffic jam near Barstow. Almost 500 miles later, my decisions rendered me a man on the moon.

I was bound for the Little A’Le’Inn—the solitary remote refuge in a dry place where you can still find traces of when the Great American Deserts were submerged by water. It has a diner, motel, and affordable campsites. Thirty minutes had passed since the highway sign. No cars within sight for miles ahead or behind, because while navigating the ET Highway, visibility stretches forever and the exaggerated sensation of being cut off from the world emanates and roars like war drums. There was a point in my life when I never could’ve imagined silence to be deafening.

Without speed limit signs or any other cars, I figured I’d test the limits of my ’16 Ford Fusion. Rolling a steady 80 miles per hour, I kicked it to 90… 100… 105… 110… 115—my speed commenced in mimicking the day’s high temperature, and topped out at 117. It turned out as one of those extraordinary balls-out impulsive moments where you gamble with your life and up the ante further, knowing you’ll either curse yourself or laugh later when the heat dies down. What a ride!

After playing games with fate, I slowed to 90 all the way to the Little A’Le’Inn. A saucer burger and a couple of beers called my name. It was like a movie scene. The eyes of tourists gravitated to this kid firing in from the desert driving a Fusion with Illinois plates. I wouldn’t have been surprised if somebody figured me for trouble and phoned some dusty law enforcement agency. I envision the fictitious cop now; a little far from Illinois, huh kid?

Thankfully none of this happened. I enjoyed my only meal of the day, downed a couple beers at the bar, and conversed with a local novelist. We’ll call him Jake. Jake is from Florida, and told me he’d driven and hitchhiked through forty-three states. He’s the only person I’ve met to match or exceed my grand total of thirty-four. We had a mutual affinity for transgressive literature, and I myself am a transgressive novelist. We shared our admiration for literary heroes like Sylvia Plath, Charles Bukowski, and Hunter S. Thompson. We pivoted to discuss societal ills that drove our literary companions mad.

“Like the shit you see in Dubai,” he began, “you have all these huge buildings and modern highways that all the billionaires visit and live by. But outside all that, Dubai is a fucking slum.”

“This doesn’t surprise me, man. I grew up in Chicago. The city gentrifies areas near the expressways so travelers don’t have to suffer any eyesores. It’s a mircocosm.”

“The rich are getting richer, and poor, poorer. Nobody cares.”

Jake had an interesting cadence, hissing the “S” sound like a snake.

“Bread and circuses… The Caesars gave Roman citizens food and games to distract them from whatever shady shit the Senate was doing. Nobody cares.”

He gave me a copy of his novel, which was independently published. We’re extremely like-minded, and I scanned a few pages. It was undoubtedly up my alley, because it’s based on his hitchhiking adventures between the coasts. He asked about my own debut novel, and I told him it’ll be released July 31st of 2023 through Outcast Press. I said they may be interested in his work.

Outside, the diner sign with a large grey alien face on it glowed in the blackness. I pushed through a crowd of Italian tourists, walked about fifty yards to the back lot, and set up camp. Every now and then headlights flickered from the south, only to disappear into the northern mountain ranges. So I invented a game as I drank Wild Turkey and smoked by the fire, mere feet from the desolate highway. From the moment of appearance to disappearance, the cars averaged between twelve and thirteen minutes.

Shooting stars beamed across the sky, and all was silent aside from my music. Or were they UFOs? The fire could ward off any extraterrestrial visitors. Somewhere my friends and family adhered to routine. Somewhere political candidates warmed up for the midterms. Everywhere kids loathed the impending schoolyear as August aged. Here I sat, surrounded by stars, blasting Jimi Hendrix, and reflecting on solitude, love, and my future as a writer. When you’re young everything remains uncertain. Around midnight I retired to the tent. Next morning I’d leave for Idaho.

At daybreak I packed the car and finished my ET Highway venture, driving past cattle ranches before merging onto US-6, which takes motorists clear through the Nevada Desert, north toward Idaho. US-6 is sometimes branded as the “true” loneliest highway in America, and I have no doubt that it is. I stopped briefly in Currant, Nevada to brush my teeth on the shoulder. Described as a “semi-ghost town,” a few people still live there, but the main street dried up, adding it to the number of towns slain by the interstate highway system. The motel, gas station, and wooden shacks stood empty and dilapidated in the sand, condemned to the forgotten pages of American History. Broken glass, slogans spray painted everywhere—you know, those weird ones that don’t make any sense. The town was not even a skeleton of its former self, and epitomized what a wasteland the star-spangled outback can be.

Between Las Vegas and the Canadian Border, Boise and Spokane are the only cities with more than 100,000 people. I learned my first time out west that America does indeed have its own outback. On US-6 I never saw more than ten cars in a given hour. The campsite I reserved in Southeastern Idaho’s remote hills awaited. All I did was go along for the ride.