Day 2

Baker, NV to Moab, UT

I often tease Olivia about the small town she grew up in, Fleischmanns, New York. As I was driving downstate for the first time to visit Olivia, it seemed that I was lost in the Catskill Mountains. I stumbled upon a little town…and that is when I knew I couldn’t be lost. Nearly every street was named after someone in her family! Despite my frequent teasing, Fleischmanns is a wonderful little town in the Catskills.

I didn’t know how small, small could get until I visited Baker, NV. For those who didn’t read Olivia’s blog post yesterday — go back and read before continuing to read this one! As Olivia mentioned, Highway 50 is appropriately named the Loneliest Highway in America. For example, we saw one billboard the whole time we drove on it. It read: “Visit Austin.” That was it. This, of course, sparked a conversation.

Olivia: “Austin, Texas?”

Me: “Uhhhhhhhh?”

Me: “You know these random houses we see every 100 miles?”

Olivia: “Yeah, why?”

Me: “I bet Austin lives in one, he wants people to visit him.”

Olivia: “No, I think it’s Austin, Texas.”

See folks, you have to understand, this is truly a desolate landscape. Eventually we hit a town named Austin, it consisted of a gas station, a saloon, a few houses, and a sign advertising the Boy Scouts of America. That was it. A few hundred miles later we hit Eureka, the self-proclaimed “Nicest Town on the Loneliest Highway in America.” Indeed, they were right, the sheriff waved as we drove by him. Then a few hundred miles later, we hit Ely…again not consisting of much except an angry driver flicking me off (I proclaim it the Meanest Town on the Loneliest Highway in America). And a few miles beyond that, we hit Baker.

Baker was so small we drove past it. We drove back once we realized we were about to hit the Utah border. Our intention had been to meet our host and grab a bite to eat on the town. Maybe sit at the bar, get a drink, and learn a bit about what life was like here in Baker. Unfortunately, none of that was possible. You see, there wasn’t really a town. Baker is made up of 5 houses (all of which are very modest), a gas pump, three abandoned saloons, and a motel and attached restaurant that is closed for the season. So Plan B. Ramen Noodles & rice crackers for dinner. Wilda, our host, had left us a loaf of homemade Cranberry bread that was absolutely delicious, however, we have no idea where she would have obtained those ingredients within 250 miles of Baker. Our room had a miniature chess board, which we played over dinner. We took a peek at the guest book in the apartment and were amazed at what we found! People, not just ourselves, had visited Baker. I’m going to write that again just so you understand how surprised we were. People, other than ourselves, had visited Baker, Nevada. People from all over the world: the Netherlands, Ontario, Bejing, the East Coast, the West Coast, even two couples from Rochester, New York! We wrote our reflections and retired for the night, it had been a long day driving. This morning we concluded that Wilda, our host, was what made Baker so special. Every person had raved about her hospitality — whether it was her stories, her understanding of different visitor’s necessities, or her famous cranberry loaf — every guest had written that they wanted to visit Baker again to see Wilda. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Despite Baker’s small size, Wilda had built a community whose borders extended far beyond the small little town we visited. Thanks for your hospitality, we’d love to visit again.