BARRY LOPEZ HAS WRITTEN that the Great Basin—the topographical area that makes up nearly all of Nevada, plus small slices of Utah and Idaho—"is one of the least novelized, least painted, least eulogized of American landscapes." In other words, I was on my own when it came to finding role models for a long, rambling road trip through Nevada, one that would encompass both its nullity and its undeniable and still-mysterious somethingness.

But that approach works fine, too. In his introduction to Stephen Trimble's The Sagebrush Ocean, a rich natural history of the Great Basin, Lopez also says the only way to really know Nevada is to spend long days driving its highways and hiking

Nevada covers nearly 111,000 square miles—that's more than 14 New Jerseys. As I set out to explore it, my main worry is whether I'll get any sleep at all.

its deserts and mountains, letting your imagination go to work on the landscape—and letting the landscape work on you. It helps to apply the same kind of footwork to learning about the state's people, who've been forged by the harsh, exposed rock, endless sagebrush, and green alpine peaks. Cowboy. Gambler. Mormon. Transplanted California hipster or eastern adventure seeker. These and other types bounce around like teenagers crammed into an old pickup as it skitters down a Nevada dirt road, with the bright lights of Las Vegas glowing in the distance.

My vehicle was a late-model Ford Bronco. It ran on unleaded, while I ran on little cans of Starbucks DoubleShot espresso. My main worries during several weeks on the road: not getting any sleep at all, trying to cover too much ground (the state is nearly 111,000 square miles—that's more than 14 New Jerseys), succumbing to the magic-poppies effect that driving through long stretches of desert can induce, and forgetting to fuel up at that last town and running empty 100 miles from the nearest gas station.

In Las Vegas, where I stayed the night before heading out, I spoke to a local—a casino waitress with a tattoo ringing her biceps—who didn't think any of it sounded good. "Me?" she said. "I never stray from Vegas and my boyfriend's party boat on Lake Mead. I have no idea what's out there—and I don't really want to know."

That's one way to look at it, because Nevada is terra incognita, a place where a person with four-wheel drive and sturdy boots can actually explore, seeing and doing things that have never been seen or done before. And since about 90 percent of the state is owned by the federal government, most of Nevada's wonderlands will always be accessible to the motivated explorer.