“Water, water everywhere, nigh a drop to drink,” the ancient mariner lamented.

Salt traces empty the wind-swept patches of vegetation, while hardy species like saltbush and saltgrass thrive in this saline desert. Meanwhile, saltbush, with its rustling, papery seeds, flourishes in the same conditions.

In this arid realm, vast water bodies like Pyramid Lake shimmer azure, fringed wetlands grace Lahontan’s basin, and the dry lake beds, or playas, like those in Black Rock, echo a flatness that once held water. Once part of a sizable water system, these now dry lakes stretch like glazed saucers to the horizon, the epitome of flat.

If they are dry, they are favorable for walking. If wet, they imbibe footwear and decent dispositions.

It was at Ash Meadows that I encountered the Washoe Zephyr, a wind Mark Twain described as “manufactured on the mountain top for the occasion, holds office hours from two in the afternoon until two in the morning, and for these twelve hours walker has to allow for it or he will bring up a mile or two leeward of the point he is aiming at.”

Nevada’s winds sculpt dunes, like the elusive Tonopah Dunes, which I stumbled upon after dusk, and against local advice about camping, I did anyway. Though discouraged by night, some fat, round resident pill bugs began nudging themselves from beneath the sand into my sleeping bag, boots, clothing, and tent. Hidden during the day, they maraud the dunes in the late evening, siphoning moisture and finding enough nibbles to support their minuscule diet.

Sand Mountain, near Fallon, is starkly opposite, visible from afar, alive with dune buggies buzzing up and down its slopes. Its sand, once part of Carson Desert, forms majestic 400-foot mounds, reshaped ceaselessly by the wind. Each step on these dunes evokes a musical hum, contrasting the day’s mechanical roar.

Nearby is the Carson Sink, a desolate expanse avoided by westward-bound pioneers, where only saltbush and winter-fat grasses flourish amidst alkali soil. Marshes once vital to Lahontan tribes now attract birds like white-faced Ibis and snow geese, sustained by modern drainage systems.

Then there are Nevada’s hauntingly beautiful playas, flat as far as the eye can see, once part of an aquatic network now parched. Dry, they invite leisurely walks; wet, they ensnare footwear and spirits alike.

Once, I ventured onto a glistening playa, intrigued by a mistaken belief that I was looking at fish bones gleaming like icicles—long, skeletal salt crystals. Attempting to tread lightly, I sank ankle-deep in muck, then struggled and lurched back to dry land, feeling like Prometheus crossing Frankenstein’s laboratory for the first time.

Nevada’s mercurial seasons evoke sagebrush scents, the tang of deer weed, and the expansive western sky—a tapestry of endemic landscapes. It is a visceral experience of this natural world—the solidity of the earth beneath one’s feet, the fragrance of sagebrush, the symphony of sights and scents, captivating the soul and beckoning one back.

Nevada nudges the mind as the wind stirs the tules. Long live the wind.