Imagine a vast waveless ocean stricken and dead and turned to ashes.

Imagine this solemn waste tufted with ash-dusted sagebrushes.

Imagine the lifeless silence and solitude that belong to such a place.

There's not the faintest breath of air stirring.

There's not a merciful shred of cloud in all the brilliant firmament.

There's not a sound, not a sigh, not a whisper, not a buzz or a whir of wings or a distant pipe of a bird,

not even a sob from the lost souls that doubtless people the air.

On the salt flats, every shot is the same. The ball sits on a stiff white carpet of salt crystals, so you tee it up and hit the driver.

The ball flies off toward the mountain and then drops and disappears into the lake.

It looks like the shore of the Great Salt Lake, but it's a mirage.

You walk toward the shot and the shoreline stays 100 yards in front of you.

The ball is always there

sitting on a stiff white carpet of salt crystals

so you tee it up and hit the driver.

And so on for miles and miles and miles.

The mountain in the distance is called floating island.

Up high there are animals, trees, and fish.

But down here, nothing.

No rocks or bushes, no ditches.

There are no real hazards, except for the bombing range,

which is big but easy to avoid, and the mental hazard of being spooked by the emptiness.

It can make you feel uncomfortable,

...