I had a notion one Spring to live out in the middle of nowhere. Not the metaphorical middle of nowhere, mind you—I mean the honest-to-goodness, map-gives-up-on-you kind of nowhere. I found a spot on a forgotten trail west of Winnemucca where the sagebrush grew tall, the jackrabbits outnumbered the tourists (easily, I might add), and the only sound was the wind making low conversation with itself.

My plan was simple: park the truck, pitch the tent, and become one with the desert. My goal? To write a book or at least a chapter, or maybe just a paragraph if the spirit moved slow.

But the desert, a lean and hungry place, didn’t care for my ambitions. It wanted to test me first.

The first night, I discovered that the desert floor, while beautiful in its dusky glow, was about as comfortable as sleeping on a sack of old horseshoes. Every joint in my body developed a strong opinion.

I woke up feeling like I’d been in a bar fight with a tumbleweed. That’s when I remembered I’d forgotten my sleeping pad, and possibly my common sense.

By day two, the wind picked up. Not a gale, not a storm, just that persistent desert breeze that licks at your ears and makes your coffee taste like dust.

I sat there trying to write, but the page kept flipping itself over like it was trying to escape whatever I was about to say. I took it as a sign.

The third day brought ants. Not your average backyard picnic raiders—these were organized. Military discipline.

They must’ve smelled my beef jerky stash because they mounted a full-scale assault on my tent, my food bag, and even tried to carry off my left boot. I’m not exaggerating. I watched one little fellow drag it three inches before realizing he was overqualified.

Still, I stuck it out. Why? Because the silence out there has a voice. It doesn’t shout—it hums. Sometimes it sings.

The stars spill over the sky like someone dropped a bag of sugar across a black countertop. Coyotes croon at the moon, and even the rocks seem to whisper stories if you’re patient enough to listen.

I lasted a week. Not quite Thoreau, but better than most.

I came back to civilization with a sunburned nose, three tick bites, and a renewed appreciation for running water. I didn’t write that chapter, but I did scribble down a line I still like: “Sometimes the land don’t give you gold—but it’ll give you clarity, which might be worth more in the end.”

So if you ever get the itch to head out into Nevada’s lean places, take a full canteen, a thick sleeping pad, and an eye on your boots. The land might be hungry—but it’s honest. And that’s a kind of wealth the fat lands can’t offer.