Highway to Lonesome

Across the broad desert, mountains and plains,

  a blacktop road that’s only two lanes.

Nobody lives there, there’s nuthin’ to do,

  just lonesome travelers a-passin’ on through.

The coyote howls his lonely refrain,

  nobody else is there to complain.

The gas station burned down decades ago,

  the ruins stand out in the evening glow.

The guard rail is bent, rusty and old,

  waitin’ for drunkards, the careless and bold.

Beer cans are tossed in to the bar ditch,

 those breathalyzers sure are a bitch.

Someone built a rock monument,

   We don’t know what it documents.

Covered wagons once passed by this way,

  but no one ever wanted to stay.

There’s no water nor wood to set up a camp,

  it ain’t even got a highway off ramp.

Shredded rubber where tires once failed,

  black skid marks where sirens once wailed.

Broken down car ‘longside the road,

  it’s too bad it never got towed.

The wind is blowin’ the dust and the sand,

  this surely is a forsaken land. 

A single headlight pierces the night,

  lighting the road, but not all the blight.

The stars are twinkling high up above,

  the only thing here worthy of love.

There’s nuthin’ on the car radio,

  you can’t sing along as you go.

The miles roll by with nuthin’ to see,

  no place to stop if you have to go pee.

Hungry and thirsty you look for a sign,

  eighty more miles and you will be fine.

LDT July 31, ‘22

Nevada’s Highway 50 is often described as the loneliest road in America. The 208 miles between Fallon and Ely are particularly desolate. On Christmas Eve, 1965, my buddy Jack and I drove it in his ’53 DeSoto. We met one car. There was one gas station open on the entire route. The DeSoto had one headlight and no heater. The temperature was in the teens. We were dressed for Southern California. Good times.

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