I first sauntered into Wells, Nevada, while commuting to northern Utah for the Bear 100 in 2012. I just wanted a cheap place to crash for the night, and the Wells Motel 6 was a full $10 cheaper than the one in Elko. At the time I still had a blah view of the I-80 corridor and Northern Nevada in general, but Wells won me over with chicken dinner at this homestyle restaurant that reminded me of the Tour Divide, a boisterous older lady who talked me into buying locally produced cheese curds at the convenience store, and a vast swath of open space that only expanded as I drove north and east. Since then, I've made an effort to stop in Wells every time I roll by on the Interstate.
Since I started engaging in this California/Utah commute, I've become more enamored with Nevada. The view from the highway corridors reveals a seemingly endless ripple of stunning mountain ranges amid the wide-open space of the basins. There's just so much out there, largely under the free-ranging jurisdiction of the Bureau of Land Management and the National Forest system, and I'm convinced Nevada has to be the most underrated outdoor destination in the United States. I must explore it! But I never make the time. I just zip through during drives between Utah and California, just like everyone else.
After topping off the tank, I pointed the car south and found a single road heading into mountains. I figured I'd just find a place to park and run on the road, since I didn't have any knowledge of trails in the region, and figured they'd be largely inaccessible this time of year anyway. A large barrier and a "road closed" sign blocked the road after five or so miles. I parked the Subaru, hoisted my backpack — which was still stocked with all the same stuff I hauled up Gobbler's Knob including four-day-old water — put on the Hokas, and started running.
Oof, I struggled. Without acclimation I find myself getting noticeably more winded above 6,000 feet, and it's often the worst after a week (after which acclimation starts to kick in, and then it gets better.) I was shuffling and coughing as an "April 26, 1992" earworm taunted me. Eventually there was enough snow on the road that I had no choice but to hike, and finally stole chances to breathe and look up.
I turned around after four miles. The snow was now knee-deep and reduced my "running" pace to a 35-minute-mile trudge. I put on spikes and once the snow cover diminished some, I embraced the power of gravity and let go, bounding down the hill like one of the many deer whose tracks I could see in the snow. The road snaked down the steep hillside, opening up invigorating views of the treeless basin and my tiny Subaru parked almost directly below. I ran and felt completely free, far away from the deluge and traffic that awaited once I crossed over the Sierras. 1:20 up, 0:40 down. A beautiful way to kill two hours in the midst of a thirteen-hour drive.
I have this idea to plan some kind of traverse of northern Nevada, maybe pack-biking style with mountain biking across the basins and backpacking over trail-less regions of these ranges. I could even plan to route to cross through Elko or Winnemucca so I could get a $7.99 New York steak and maybe drop a few bucks on the roulette table before heading back into the wide-open expanse. Who knows when and if I'll make this happen, but I'm already looking forward to my next visit to Wells.