The Long Light of the Great Basin

5:10 a.m.

The motel key is cold in my hand. I lock the room, stand a moment while my eyes clear, and slip the key into my jacket pocket. I cross the dark lot. The desert begins at the edge of the asphalt; a strand of barbed wire leans on cedar posts, and behind it the sagebrush goes on until the dark folds into the hills. I get in the car and pour coffee from the thermos. The steam smells of the plastic cup. The headlights catch a fence post, a stack of tires, the beginning of the long grade. The heater blows cold for a minute, then warm. The stars are thinning. On the passenger seat the map lies folded to the single road, and I don't open it. The gas gauge reads half. The dash thermometer's needle is down against the pin.

6:45 a.m.

The sun comes up behind the car, and my shadow runs long ahead. The valley opens, pale and wide; dry grass stands along the shoulder, and the pavement is still cool in the low light. A pickup truck pulls onto the road ahead, towing a trailer; brake lights blink, then the road is empty. At the gas station across the crossroads I fill the tank and wash the windshield. The squeegee drags; water streaks the glass. A hose hangs on a rack beside the building, and a tire with a broken rim lies under the pump. The man inside nods toward the pump. A dog sleeps under the counter. The needle has lifted a finger's width off the pin.

9:30 a.m.

The heat begins at the windshield. The air shimmers over the asphalt, and the road ahead curls into a pass. Cut slopes rise beside the road, their rock faces dusty. I drink from the bottle; the water is already warm. The road climbs, and the engine labors, then eases. In the next basin the light is even and hard. The white line has worn away in long patches. A hawk sits on a power pole, drops, and is gone. The radio finds a voice and loses it. I turn the air conditioning off to see if the engine cools; it does not. The back windows are dusty, and the sun lights every scratch on the windshield. The needle has moved a third of the way up the dial.

Noon

The sun is overhead; the car's shadow is a short black puddle. I drive with one arm in the light and one in the shade. The road runs straight into a mirage. A tire lies on the shoulder, then a plastic bottle. At the fuel stop, dust devils move across the lot. The pump handle clicks. I stand in the shade of the awning and eat a sandwich, watching the heat rise off the concrete. The bread is dry; the mustard has soaked in. A car passes on the road, windows sealed, tires hissing. A line of mountains runs ahead, flat-edged and blue. The needle rests near the top of its arc.

3:20 p.m.

The light turns thick and yellow. The road climbs into low hills, past a windmill, a dry tank, a corral with no stock. The radio goes scratchy with the rise. Heat comes through the vents like a hand. I stop at a pullout and walk to the edge. The pullout's gravel is white and fine. The basin below is brown and silver; the roads crossing it are faint. On the slope, an old truck bed lies on its side, rusting. The breeze that reaches me is hot and carries the smell of dust. A raven sits on a fence post, letting its wings hang. A truck passes on the road below, trailing dust, and the raven drops out of sight. When I get back in, the seatbelt lies hot across my chest.

4:50 p.m.

On the next ridge the wind arrives. It comes across the basin, hard and dry, and the car moves in it. Dust lifts off the shoulder in long streaks. I slow on a stretch where the pavement has turned to gravel at the edges. A fence line runs beside the road, posts leaning every which way. A weatherworn sign fixed to one post has lost all its paint. A dry canal runs beside the fence, its banks cracked. The radio is all static now. The needle of the dash thermometer has begun to drop from the top of its arc.

6:05 p.m.

The sun is low behind the car; my shadow is long again. In the mirror the road is a dark line through gold haze. I turn onto a two-lane road; the pavement ends, then begins again. A motel sign stands at a crossroads, its vacancy light on. The motel is two rows of doors with a pool at one end. The office window is dark; the vacancy light hums. I stop the car in front of the office. The engine ticks. A paper cup lies on the floorboard. The dash thermometer's needle has come down from the top of its arc and hangs just past the middle of the dial.

7:30 p.m.

I carry the bag to the room. The door opens into cool air. The window faces the basin; the light comes in flat and gold. I stand at the window; the pool is empty, a leaf moves across its surface. The room smells of dust and cleaning fluid. The air conditioner shakes the window frame. A towel lies folded on the foot of the bed. I run the water until it is cold and drink from a paper cup. I take the key from my pocket and put it on the hook by the door. It hangs there, its plastic tag against the painted wood.