For my roadtrips, I covet the open road, the broad vistas and a distant horizon with a road and all thoughts to myself. So I made sure to schedule a route across "The Loneliest Highway in America", Highway 50 from Salina, UT to South Lake Tahoe, CA. With an overnight stop in the middle of the route.
Leaving Goblin Valley and getting back on I-70, the day started great with wide open spaces and nothing but a quick interstate before us. A quick start is a good start. We cut a good pace across the San Rafael Swell, still enjoying the clean white cliffs of Navajo Sandstone as we cross canyon and mountain range sculpted in bold, shear lines with a patina of warm colors. Cutting off the interstate in Salina (I missed the exit twice, coming and going - a moral failing on my part), stopping at the Maverick gas station for fuel, as such opportunities will be few and far between on the Loneliest Highway over the next two days. We have evening reservations at a B&B in Austin, Nevada; the Union Street Lodge, where doors are never locked.
In route, I could see the clouds building with an increasingly angry tone. Gaining a dark underbelly west of Delta, Utah. I say as much to my wife, "I'll bet we're in for some pretty heavy rain ahead." Out on the two-lane highway that crosses the alkali flats west of town, the heavy rain comes at us hard, only the rain is frozen. This is hail!
We are pelted with kumquat-sized hail stones, the racket inside the cab sounds as if a truckload of gravel were being poured upon us. The icy hail stones are dashing into our windshield with such velocity and frequency it was hard for me as a driver to discern whether my windshield was just covered in fractured ice or whether the windshield glass itself was fractured. The noise was deafening, the fear and anticipation that the kumquats would soon become the size of baseballs was nerve shattering. I putted along hoping the hail core of this storm would not produce larger hail stones and smash out our windows. I wanted to go fast to get out from under this pounding, but I could not see the road, so going slow was the only option. But staying under this torrent seemed also like a doomed strategy as well. If we were meant to catch hail's fury, nothing I could do about it now. As these storms do, it passed, but I am sure we got the brunt of it, leaving no smashed glass, but several dimples in the body of the Hyundai.
Feeling of good fortune for having both us and the car survives the pounding hail, and thus not forcing a return to Delta for windshield replacement; I was now looking forward to dinner.
Having some familiarity with Ely, NV from my Fresno State geology field trips to eastern Nevada, I thought we might be able to find a good Basque restaurant in town for a hearty meal. When connectivity was available, Sue would search the internet on her phone for Basque dining in Ely. Nothing too promising, but the Silver State Diner was listed as an option. We found the diner, and pulled in at 4:30 (in time for the senior early bird specials). However, nothing on the menu said anything about Basque food. I opted for a chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and white gravy.
Two blocks down Main street beyond the Silver State Diner , "Look!" Sue pointed and shouted as I drove past an old hotel on my left. Lettered on the front of the historic hotel was, 'Fine Basque Dining'. I have now stored that experience in my memory of places and things, and will no longer rely on the internet to locate a Basque meal in Ely. Next time no chicken fried steak for me, for sure.
Now driving into the sunset through intermittent rain showers (no more hail), we cross multiple mountain passes and then glide down into the intermontain basin below before we climb up the next mountain range pass. It has been a wet year for most of Nevada, providing a verdant view outside our car windows as we travel in the low evening light.
My original thought was to stop stop in Eureka, NV, where the early city fathers built a beautiful opera house during the booming days of mining. The Jackson House Hotel was a possible overnight destination. But a check of the internet before leaving showed multiple web pages, some stating that the Jackson House was close, or under new management, or open or serving good meals or serving greasy atrocities. In which webpage does the truth lie? I called one of the phone numbers given for the Jackson House on a webpage that seemed maybe current; whoops, wrong number. The guy who answer was polite but seemed to have no association with the Jack House Hotel. Back to the web, I find a different number on another website, I give it a try; whoops, wrong number again - but the very same guy answered. I give up. We will stay in Austin where I can get the right number the first time.
Austin has very few streets, but we decide to use GPS navigation to find Union Street. GPS navigation lady who lives inside the phone was receiving spotty satellite communication - but how hard can this be? Really? She comes back in service as we crest the pass and wind around swithcback coasting into town.
"Turn left on Virginia",
"Turn left on Union",
"Your destination is on the right".
No it is not. We are not on Union Street, we are in some body's drive way on the side of the hill. This is not a street. We drive around up steeply inclined narrow streets (some would say alleys) of this old mining town. I stop, I am not sure but I knock on the door. Wrong place, but they are happy to point us back around the block to get to Union Street Lodging B&B.
We see the sign, indicating we are now in the proper place. We pull in and are greeted by a 3 legged dog. I ring the bell, and the proprietress shows us to our room and takes our order for tomorrow's breakfast.
She and her husband have done a lot of work to refurbish an old boarding house that once had men on the lower lever, and women on the upper lever - but originally no stairs between upper and lower. She said a lot of Europeans book her place 2 years ahead, and once they get to central Nevada, they are of one of two reactions: 1) Their minds are blown by the amount of space in the American West, or 2) their hearts a stricken with fear for being so far away from cities and civilization and can not wait to get back to crowded spaces.
Leaving Goblin Valley and getting back on I-70, the day started great with wide open spaces and nothing but a quick interstate before us. A quick start is a good start. We cut a good pace across the San Rafael Swell, still enjoying the clean white cliffs of Navajo Sandstone as we cross canyon and mountain range sculpted in bold, shear lines with a patina of warm colors. Cutting off the interstate in Salina (I missed the exit twice, coming and going - a moral failing on my part), stopping at the Maverick gas station for fuel, as such opportunities will be few and far between on the Loneliest Highway over the next two days. We have evening reservations at a B&B in Austin, Nevada; the Union Street Lodge, where doors are never locked.
In route, I could see the clouds building with an increasingly angry tone. Gaining a dark underbelly west of Delta, Utah. I say as much to my wife, "I'll bet we're in for some pretty heavy rain ahead." Out on the two-lane highway that crosses the alkali flats west of town, the heavy rain comes at us hard, only the rain is frozen. This is hail!
We are pelted with kumquat-sized hail stones, the racket inside the cab sounds as if a truckload of gravel were being poured upon us. The icy hail stones are dashing into our windshield with such velocity and frequency it was hard for me as a driver to discern whether my windshield was just covered in fractured ice or whether the windshield glass itself was fractured. The noise was deafening, the fear and anticipation that the kumquats would soon become the size of baseballs was nerve shattering. I putted along hoping the hail core of this storm would not produce larger hail stones and smash out our windows. I wanted to go fast to get out from under this pounding, but I could not see the road, so going slow was the only option. But staying under this torrent seemed also like a doomed strategy as well. If we were meant to catch hail's fury, nothing I could do about it now. As these storms do, it passed, but I am sure we got the brunt of it, leaving no smashed glass, but several dimples in the body of the Hyundai.
 |
| The edge of the heavy hail storm in our rear view mirror |
Feeling of good fortune for having both us and the car survives the pounding hail, and thus not forcing a return to Delta for windshield replacement; I was now looking forward to dinner.
Having some familiarity with Ely, NV from my Fresno State geology field trips to eastern Nevada, I thought we might be able to find a good Basque restaurant in town for a hearty meal. When connectivity was available, Sue would search the internet on her phone for Basque dining in Ely. Nothing too promising, but the Silver State Diner was listed as an option. We found the diner, and pulled in at 4:30 (in time for the senior early bird specials). However, nothing on the menu said anything about Basque food. I opted for a chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and white gravy.
Two blocks down Main street beyond the Silver State Diner , "Look!" Sue pointed and shouted as I drove past an old hotel on my left. Lettered on the front of the historic hotel was, 'Fine Basque Dining'. I have now stored that experience in my memory of places and things, and will no longer rely on the internet to locate a Basque meal in Ely. Next time no chicken fried steak for me, for sure.
Now driving into the sunset through intermittent rain showers (no more hail), we cross multiple mountain passes and then glide down into the intermontain basin below before we climb up the next mountain range pass. It has been a wet year for most of Nevada, providing a verdant view outside our car windows as we travel in the low evening light.
My original thought was to stop stop in Eureka, NV, where the early city fathers built a beautiful opera house during the booming days of mining. The Jackson House Hotel was a possible overnight destination. But a check of the internet before leaving showed multiple web pages, some stating that the Jackson House was close, or under new management, or open or serving good meals or serving greasy atrocities. In which webpage does the truth lie? I called one of the phone numbers given for the Jackson House on a webpage that seemed maybe current; whoops, wrong number. The guy who answer was polite but seemed to have no association with the Jack House Hotel. Back to the web, I find a different number on another website, I give it a try; whoops, wrong number again - but the very same guy answered. I give up. We will stay in Austin where I can get the right number the first time.
Austin has very few streets, but we decide to use GPS navigation to find Union Street. GPS navigation lady who lives inside the phone was receiving spotty satellite communication - but how hard can this be? Really? She comes back in service as we crest the pass and wind around swithcback coasting into town.
"Turn left on Virginia",
"Turn left on Union",
"Your destination is on the right".
No it is not. We are not on Union Street, we are in some body's drive way on the side of the hill. This is not a street. We drive around up steeply inclined narrow streets (some would say alleys) of this old mining town. I stop, I am not sure but I knock on the door. Wrong place, but they are happy to point us back around the block to get to Union Street Lodging B&B.
We see the sign, indicating we are now in the proper place. We pull in and are greeted by a 3 legged dog. I ring the bell, and the proprietress shows us to our room and takes our order for tomorrow's breakfast.
She and her husband have done a lot of work to refurbish an old boarding house that once had men on the lower lever, and women on the upper lever - but originally no stairs between upper and lower. She said a lot of Europeans book her place 2 years ahead, and once they get to central Nevada, they are of one of two reactions: 1) Their minds are blown by the amount of space in the American West, or 2) their hearts a stricken with fear for being so far away from cities and civilization and can not wait to get back to crowded spaces.
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