Article and Photographs by Todd Matthews

Area 51: the name alone evokes a sort of mystery and romance deeply steeped in popular culture. Do aliens exist? Have UFOs crashed to earth? Is the government covering up an Extra-Terrestrial conspiracy? These intriguing and entertaining questions crossed my mind as I descended Hancock Summit into the Sand Springs Valley of Nevada. I was traveling along Highway 375 toward the town of Rachel—a locale synonymous with Area 51 and a Mecca of sorts for UFO enthusiasts.

Area 51 is part of the sprawling Nellis Air Force Range, a diagonal mass of land founded in 1941 and located 180 miles northwest of Las Vegas. The base is rich in history and lore. Atom bombs were exploded there during wartime. U-2 spy planes . . . H-Bombs . . . stealth fighters . . . and alleged alien autopsies—this is where clandestine projects no one is supposed to know about exist. The military complex is massive, stretching nearly to Death Valley and the California border. It covers 3.5 million acres and shares a border with the Desert National Wildlife Refuge.

Rachel, Nevada: Population . . . Humans 98; Aliens ??? (photograph by Todd Matthews)

The trip to Area 51 is long and straight and flat. But that is not to be mistaken with dull and boring and pointless. I have long held a fascination with the open road, and leaving Las Vegas—first traveling north on Highway 93 through Alamo, an old Mormon town, then connecting to Highway 375 (officially named the 'E.T. Highway' in the spring of 1996 by Nevada's Governor Bob Miller)—my fascination with road -- tripping through Nevada was realized. It was me, a black strip of two-lane highway, a yellow dotted line, and distant buttes. The entire panorama was capped by a blue sky that seemed to swallow the horizon. The 40-mile stretch to Rachel, Nevada—the nearest town to the famed Area 51, located 27 miles to the north—was marked by leopard-spotted hills covered by sage brush and Joshua trees. Neapolitan-colored bands of strata painted the mountains in the distance. The landscape morphed the further I drove: rust-colored, rugged, and almost otherworldly at times; smooth and wheat-colored depending on the particular stretch of highway. Yellow signs warning of 'free range cattle' dotted the landscape—nearly outnumbering the tumbleweeds and road kill.

A Martian–like landscape riddled by cows? The stories of aliens abducting cattle in the dark of night started to add up . . . sort of.

The desert drive was illusory. Twenty miles of flat and open road lay ahead. Yet, no matter how far I traveled, the distant mountains never seemed to pull closer. The flat expanse of desert was perpetually in front of me. Moreover, descending into the town of Rachel is not unlike descending into a painting. The horizon has a blue glaze. Raisin colored mountains loom in the distance, like rumpled comforters. Simply put, driving toward Rachel and Area 51 is like driving into the heart of the classic American West.

The town of Rachel was formed in the 1970s. The Union Carbide Company opened a mine at nearby Mount Tempiute, and the small trailer town blossomed. By the early eighties more than 150 people lived in town. However, when the mining company folded in 1988, the town's population dropped to less than 100.

Though mining endeavors died, the town of Rachel lived on. For nearly two decades, people reported seeing and hearing 'paranormal' things in the skies above Rachel: extraordinary noises… hovering lights… celestial bodies that suddenly changed direction and moved at great speeds… and flying objects. In addition, a man named Merlyn Merlin claimed he was an alien and subsequently reported contact with extraterrestrials in the area of Rachel. And many people believed that aliens landed near Roswell, New Mexico in 1947; the aliens and their craft were housed at Area 51. Finally, one alleged worker at the Nellis compound claimed that he had seen the flying saucer—repaired and flying at the military base.

One of many Area 51 signs in Rachel, Nevada (photograph by Todd Matthews)

The United States government denies these events, and even goes so far as to report that Area 51 does not exist. Yet, many people have made the trek to Rachel and climbed the nearby peaks of Tikaboo, White Sides and Freedom Ridge. They returned with photographs of the 'non-existent' Area 51: a paved main runway nearly six miles long; a hangar more than one hundred yards long; a large control tower; radar installations; oil tanks; and personnel housing.

All of this information is recorded at Rachel's Little Ale'Inn (a bar, restaurant, hotel lobby, and souvenir store). Over a sandwich and a Pepsi, owner Pat Travis told me about the town's history of UFOs. "We get a lot of tourists out here," she told me, "based on the phenomena that takes place in the sky." She recounted some of her recent "craft" sightings, and reported that one "as wide as three hay trucks" hovered overhead for twenty minutes.

The Little Ale'Inn is a museum of sorts for Area 51 memorabilia. Tchotchkes are plentiful and rich: Area 51 coasters ($7.99); alien jewelry ($1.99); alien guitar picks ($3.49); UFO stress balls ($.99); Area 51 beer cozies ($2.49).

After perusing the shelves, I asked Travis if there was a road leading to the base. If so, how would I access that road? Travis replied, "This is the best thirty five cent investment you will ever make." She produced a one-page flyer with a rough map of the vicinity. I quickly learned it was a guide for getting as close as legally possible to Area 51. "Please be careful," Travis told me. "Make sure you watch for the 'no trespassing' signs. There are guards in the hills, and if you cross the boundary, they will arrest you."

Travis appeared genuinely concerned. Did she think I was some UFO zealot willing to break the law to uncover 'the truth?' Or did she think I was a dumb tourist passing through, haplessly wandering into the hills and onto the Nellis Air Force Range? I wasn't sure. But it did seem clear that she wanted to go on record as having warmed me not to trespass: 'Yes, officer, I did sell the map to him. But I also told him not to get into any trouble.'

I returned to the E.T. Highway, heading south for twenty miles, per my instructions on the map. I reached "the mailbox" -— a white box on the side of the road, and a gathering spot of sorts for UFO enthusiasts. The mailbox belongs to a rancher named Steve Medlin, whose property skirts the government border. I turned right and traveled another four miles along loose gravel. I reached a mound of dirt with a water tank on the right and a corral on the left. Less than one hundred yards past these landmarks, the road split three ways. To the right? Medlin's ranch. To the left? A circuitous road leading back to the E.T. Highway. Straight ahead? The road toward Area 51. I continued straight for less than a mile before connecting with the wide and unpaved Groom Lake Road.

The Medlin Mailbox: a gathering place for UFO enthusiasts (photograph by Todd Matthews)

The road I traveled was a straight shot toward Area 51, according to my map. I continued along, kicking up a sizable dust trail in my rented car. The further I drove, the bumpier the road became. Major potholes violently shook the car. Clunking through the desert in a maelstrom of dust, I was "advertising" my arrival to any security guards who may be monitoring the area. Sneaking into Area 51 by car was impossible (note: I would later learn that the government set up sensors on the side of the road, alerting guards on base and in the hills whenever someone was traveling Groom Lake Road, headed toward the military base).

Nine miles along this road, and Medlin's cattle suddenly appeared. They roamed free along the road, and stopped long enough to stare curiously at my shiny red car. Another three miles and the road steadily climbed between two small hills. I rounded a corner to find two bright signs on the side of the road: USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED. Photographs were not allowed. Trespassing was strictly prohibited. Fifty yards away, parked at the top of a hill, I spotted a gray Ford pickup truck with government license plates. The guard inspected me as much as I inspected him. I swallowed hard, feeling suddenly alone and in the middle of nowhere. The road behind me was around the bend. I felt as though I had reached the end of the world. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was doing something terribly illegal. What if the guard felt like arresting me? I was not trespassing, but it was the guard's word against mine.

Goom Lake Road: the path to Area 51 (photograph by Todd Matthews)

I turned around and headed back along Groom Lake Road. When I reached Medlin's cattle (the bovine still incredibly bored by my arrival), I looked behind to see a trail of dust headed toward me. Vehicles were leaving Area 51 and heading toward the highway. I checked the clock on the dash. It was 3:50 p.m. on a Friday afternoon. I recalled reading at the Little Ale'Inn that an employee bus leaves the base each weekday at 3:40 p.m., transporting people to a park-and-ride near the I-93 and E.T. Highway junctions. I parked the car and waited for the bus. It lumbered toward me, windows tinted, seeming to glide over the bumpy surface of Groom Lake Road. The bus reached the highway, stopped, and then turned right, back toward the town of Alamo.

I thought about the town of Rachel during the drive back to Las Vegas. Do aliens really exist? Are they being housed at Area 51? Is there such a thing as Area 51? I did not know the answers to these questions. Nor did I feel that Rachel knew the answers. The answers, I thought, were undoubtedly inside that bus—a vehicle that had come directly from the Nellis Air Force base. That was about as close as I would get to Area 51: watching a clandestine employee bus race past me in a cloud of dust.

This article originally appeared in Tablet.