Crossing Nevada

Nevada is a big state that stands in the way between Utah and the West Coast, so if you want to drive to California, the shortest way is always through the “Silver State.” This territory is a big desert, mainly populated by Las Vegas and Reno. Between that northern town and Salt Lake, there are just a handful of tiny towns, like Wendover, Wells, Elko, Winnemucca and Lovelock. In between there’s absolutely nothing; just dust, sagebrush and, depending on the season, tumble weeds. I know, I’m not including the Bonneville speedway in Utah, that’s next to Wendover and its famous terrestrial speed records, but it’s not a town, it’s just a place. At any rate, we’ve been driving all day this Sunday through this dreary landscape; to make the journey a bit worst, the skies were filled with smoke drifting East from the this year’s thousand of Californian fires. They were very few cars on the road, just lots of big trucks going back and forth on I-80, the New York to San Francisco thoroughfare. At one point, we noticed a hitchhiker; he looked old, unkempt and dressed in ragged clothing. I passed him, thought for a while, then backed up as fast as could on the shoulder and picked him up. Our backseat was filled with junk, so we had to make some space for our passenger. He wasn’t talkative at all and smelled intensely bad. He reminded me of someone I knew but I couldn’t place any name I knew on his face. We dropped him off at Battle Mountain, a tiny place that’s mostly an Indian Reservation; that’s when it all finally clicked. I recognized Steve Fawcett the navigator extraordinaire who’s been missing for months. He too was quick to realize that I had identified him. As he bid farewell he told me to shut up, ask me for my name and address and simply said: “I’ll take very good care of you.” We drove off…