Correspondent Greg Dobbs on “The Loneliest Road”

We just came back from the loneliest road in America. That’s not my name for U.S. Highway 50 across Nevada; Life Magazine gave it the name a quarter century ago, and they didn’t mean it as a compliment. It’s about 300 miles of asphalt, with not a thousand people living within sight of it. One example: we came across one lonely mailbox, maybe 20 yards from the loneliest road, yet as far as the eye can see in every single direction there’s nothing—-and no one—- who might need a mailbox.

Cameraman John Goheen and I spent some of our time at a place called “Middlegate Station,” population 17 and about a hundred miles from nowhere. It’s a former Pony Express transfer point which now serves as a motel and restaurant and bar and RV camp. The people who run it love the stunning desolation of the desert and say it’s only lonely along the loneliest road if you don’t look. They both told me they probably make more new friends in a day at Middlegate Station than the average city-dweller makes in a week. They might have a point.

We also came across a couple of characters there. One is known only as Sleeping Bag Billy; don’t ask why. His claim to fame is that while he lives about 300 miles from the nearest ocean, he surfs….by running his Harley down the road, then getting his feet up on the gas tank, then letting go of the handlebars and standing straight up at about 40 mph. And there’s Greg Delposo. After we watched Greg manipulate a monofilament line on a fishing pole into a small lasso, we went out with him onto the desert to see what he’d do with it. The answer?  He goes fishing….for lizards.

But besides a chocolate milkshake made with real ice cream, real syrup, and real milk—- what a concept!—- maybe the best thing about the loneliest road is what it doesn’t have: no drugs, no crime, no rules. Or very little anyway. And besides gas, no chains, which means no chemical milkshakes. I wouldn’t want to live there…but I wouldn’t hesitate to go back.