On the Loneliest Road to the Ancient Soul of Great Basin National Park, NV

When I started planning my six-week trip, I knew I wanted to visit specific places—and that some would naturally unfold as I created my travel map.

One destination I knew was a must-visit: a stop to see Betty in Northern Utah.

If you remember, I met Betty during the third week of my journey, back in mid-October 2022. Since then, we've met again in March 2023 at Zion National Park, and again in March 2024 for a week-long trip that started in Kanab and ended in Capitol Reef National Park.

So how could I go without trying to keep such a beautiful tradition and nurture a wonderful friendship? In almost every conversation we've shared over the years, Betty has encouraged me to visit her. "You would love Northern Utah," she said.

And so, that is how I discovered one of the more under-the-radar national parks: Great Basin. Through further research, I also learned I'd be driving what I like to call a "landscape movie"—a long day on the open road. Nearly 400 miles on Route 50 in Nevada, or as it's better known: "The Loneliest Road in America."

But how can one feel lonely with such beauty?

To my surprise, I am traveling at a high elevation of around 7,000 to 8,000 feet. The landscape is incredibly diverse, shifting from flat desert land to snow capped mountain ranges. Every 80 to 100 miles, a small town appears to welcome you.

One of my stops, recommended by a follower (thank you, Katie A), is Middlegate. I had planned to make my own lunch, but the incredible smell from the small, iconic restaurant is too hard to resist. It's a great place to stop.

I take my time enjoying the ride. I set my cruise control to 60 (any higher and my gas usage spikes because of the cargo box). I have all day. My destination is a BLM campground about 20 minutes before reaching Great Basin.

On days like this, the feeling of freedom is such a gift: good music and an endless horizon.

By the time I arrive at the BLM site, which, by the way, is the best BLM I've ever stayed at. It feels more like a developed campground. My site has a covered table and plenty of privacy. Thank you, Nevada. The sun is setting, and so is the temperature.

At 4:30 a.m., I wake from the cold. I turn on my heating blanket to warm up, and it feels so good. By then, day is breaking, and I am ready to start my morning. An early start means nature will be mine alone.

How can I express my love for this lifestyle? Even though I find myself in a public bathroom at the visitor center washing up for the day, which is far from anything luxurious or convenient, I find so much charm and freedom in it. Life is good and simple, just as I like it.

I have one day to explore the park, so I choose the iconic Bristlecone and Alpine Lakes Loop Trail. By now, the Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive is open, and the trail is accessible.

The trail starts at just over 10,000 feet, where the morning air is fresh and crisp. I set out toward Glacier Point—2.5 miles with more than 1,000 feet of elevation gain. I take my time, feeling blessed by the gift of solitude on the trail.

As I climb, the unique rock formations of Glacier Point grow larger and more defined. What first appears to be a distant pile of rubble slowly reveals itself as an ancient rock glacier. The mix of gray and brown hues, shaped by time and movement, creates a rugged, unexpected beauty, like sculptures frozen in time.

I reach the area where the bristlecone pines rest. (From Google: The bristlecone pines in the Great Basin are among the oldest living organisms on Earth—some over 4,000 years old.)

It is hard to simply stand next to them and admire them. I feel an irresistible pull to touch them, to wrap my arms around them, honoring the history they carry. Their beautiful texture reveals the twists of time and wind.

I think to myself what incredible stories they must hold. It is hard not to be inspired by their resilience, standing strong through centuries of storms and silence.

The higher I climb, the colder it gets. The last traces of winter make the ascent a bit more challenging, but nothing stops me from searching for the right footing, careful not to sink into deep snow or slide across icy patches. It's still early morning, and the sun has only just begun to warm the air.

I sit for a while at the end of the trail, feeling small yet mighty. The blue sky outlines the ridges in sharp contrast, shimmering in the morning sun. All I can feel is the pure blessing of the love the universe is shining on me.

Well, what goes up must come down. :) I always find the descent more challenging.

Halfway down, I reach the trail that leads to the loop of Alpine Lakes and Teresa Lake.

Both lakes rest quietly beneath the towering mountains, their bright, clear waters creating a stunning contrast against the rugged landscape.

By four, I am back at the BLM campsite, relaxing with some yoga and a good book. Cooking dinner with a view is always a gift in itself.

Good morning, new day!

"Welcome to Utah," Google Maps announces.

I've lost reception again, but I need that quiet. I need the open landscape to crack me open even further.

Tears are slowly coming back into my life, and I am so grateful for them. I let the silence wrap around me as I sit with enormous gratitude for my mom.

She was a woman of few words, but her actions spoke loudly.

Even though my childhood lacked words of love, the fact that she never hurt me was always how I felt her love. Believe me, there were times I gave her reason to, but she always walked away.

That, for me, was the greatest act of love.

I wouldn't be the woman I am today without that kind of role model in my life. Even though I only had her for 17 years, I can now see what an enormous gift those years were.

She left me with a kind of strength I still carry—quiet, steady, deeply rooted.

I raise my eyes to the sky and create a one-way conversation, thanking her for everything she gave me. I carry a great deal of sorrow knowing her final years were full of suffering. Even in her pain, she showed so much grace.

My heart aches for her.

And the tears that roll down my cheeks are tears of love and deep appreciation for a strong, beautiful woman I had the privilege to call Emma (Mom in Hebrew), even if only for a short time.

Utah welcomes me with the same stunning landscapes I've experienced before. But as I continue traveling north, it feels like I've entered Switzerland.