An isolated high-desert plain with Joshua trees and hovering buzzards registers near-total quiet, broken by summer wind and wandering burros. A solitary pay phone stands along wooden power poles, 14 miles from the nearest paved road, and rings often, sometimes dozens of times a day. Callers from across the globe and varied backgrounds place calls at all hours, drawn to the booth's remote presence. The booth sits along a treacherous dirt road accessible only by four-wheel-drive; summer temperatures can reach 115 degrees and cattle occasionally wander nearby.
With only the lazy Joshua trees and hovering buzzards out here to bear witness, this isolated expanse of high-desert plain could well be among the quietest places on the planet. By day, the summer heat hammers hard and the dull whistle of the wind is the only discernible noise. Come nightfall, the eerie silence is often pierced by the woeful bleat of a wandering burro.
Along a line of wooden power poles running to the horizon in both directions, 14 miles from the nearest paved road, a solitary pay phone beckons with the shrill sound of impatient civilization. Then it rings again. And again. And yet again, often dozens of times a day. The callers? A bored housewife from New Zealand. A German high school student.
Here comes a curious caller now: "Hello? Hello? Is this the Mojave Phone Booth?" asks Pher Reinman, an unemployed South Carolina computer worker. Told by a reporter answering the line that he has indeed reached what cult followers call the loneliest phone booth on Earth, he exclaims: "Oh my God, I can't believe it! Somebody answered! There's actually somebody out there!"
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