day 17—luck of the drive

You never know what you’ll encounter near the Nevada state line—casinos, emptiness, or, if you’re fortunate, a desert oasis.

In Wendover? Count your chips. It’s not Vegas, but we struck it rich.

Wendover sits closest to the salt flats, though it’s far from bustling. Pawn shops, motels, gas stations, and casinos line the streets in a way that says, “Congratulations, you’ve been to Wendover.”

Yet, even in its lackluster charm, there are glimmers of personality like the 63-foot-tall cowboy, Wendover Will, tipping his hat to the town.

Still, the only gamble we were willing to take was whether this so-called oasis was worth the trip.

Trent spotted it first, scrolling on his phone in the Miller Travel Center parking lot.

“There’s a lake about 30 minutes away. We could have lunch there,” he said.

A lake? In January? I wasn’t convinced, but at least it would be nice to look at.

We drove south on US-93 for 20 minutes before taking a sharp left onto a dirt road. Rippling ridges jolted the van every few feet like we were surfing a giant washboard. Everything rattled—our bags, the dishes, even Charlie, who gave us a look that clearly said she was rethinking this whole van life thing.

Dust kicked up behind us, clouding the windows and blurring the landscape. Gravel crunched under the tires as we inched along, trying to keep the van intact.

Eventually, we arrived at a small pond. Two men were fishing on the bank, another perched above them on a hill, with trash scattered across the ground between them. No cars were nearby, and no one waved—just blank, questioning stares.

“You have arrived at your destination,” announced the van’s GPS.

“What? This can’t be it,” I said, my stomach knotting.

Google Maps confirmed otherwise: we were still a mile and a half away.

Relieved, we put the van in reverse and continued. The next stretch of the dirt road was even worse, with ruts deep enough to make potholes seem like minor inconveniences. But finally, I spotted two trucks and a larger pond.

“This looks more promising,” I muttered, half to myself.

A wooden boardwalk spanned the parking lot, leading toward two makeshift docks where five or six people of all ages were gathered. They turned toward us, just as surprised as we were.

Well, this is awkward.

The scene clicked together in my mind: the men fishing earlier, the scattered trash, the lone truck.

“Do they…live here?” I whispered to Trent.

“It’s kind of looking that way,” he murmured back.

But after all the bumps and dust, we weren’t about to turn around without checking it out.

Charlie, blissfully oblivious to the awkwardness, bounded ahead toward the dock. The water was pristine, so clear you could see the bottom. Curious, I crouched to dip my hand in. Surprisingly, it was warm.

In the middle of the desert? In January?

“It’s warm,” I said aloud.

Trent crouched to feel it too. “It really is,” he said, as Charlie strained against her leash, desperate to jump in.

But the tension was untenable. It was time to leave.

Once we were out of earshot, we agreed how cool it would be to swim there if we had it to ourselves.

“Maybe they’ll leave soon. They can’t actually live out here, right? There’s no shelter,” I reasoned.

“Or we could come back tomorrow?” Trent suggested.

That felt like the better plan. The dirt road rattled us all the way back to camp, and I couldn’t help but smile.

See you tomorrow, oasis.