We came in peace to Planet X Pottery, a world unto itself located a few miles outside Gerlach, just off Nevada State Route 447.

Our arrival was not accompanied by a supernatural soundtrack, and I failed to spot Rod Serling lurking in the sagebrush. We were greeted by a curious hummingbird, who levitated with a blur of wings before darting off to check out the Smoke Creek Desert's fleeting spring green.

We weren't exactly strangers in a strange land. But speaking of otherworldly sightings, the last time we were at Planet X the grounds were dotted with Jerusalem crickets, whose bulbous heads give them a certain not-of-this-universe creepiness.

That morning, my wife, Sally, and I came to wander through the remarkable world built by potter and painter John Bogard and his wife, Rachel. It's an off-the-grid oasis shaded by cottonwoods with four galleries and a pottery studio on the site of an Emigrant Trail homestead. It's a testament to Bogard's passion.

It's something I wanted to ask him about, but I'd heard he wasn't much for interviews. Cantankerous? Maybe just a little.

When I made the request, Rachel smiled and replied, "Well, you can try."

I did. The interview lasted about eight minutes.

I was reminded several times that people sojourn to Nevada's deserts for many reasons. Some come to make their fortune, others to seek solitude far from city lights. Bogard came from California's Central Coast to the Smoke Creek more than a half-century ago, in part to save money on rent.

"I started in Santa Cruz, but the prices were going up even back in the early '70s," Bogard says, remembering a time when scraping up $45 a month was a chore. "We weren't selling pottery a lot, a mug here and there for a loaf of bread. I needed to keep my overhead down.

"Rent had gone up to like, 45, 50 bucks a month in Santa Cruz. Girlfriend kicked me out. You know, the usual crap. And I'd been coming out here to the hot springs since '67.

"Some cowboy guy said, 'I know this place for rent.' And he brought me out here, and it was just the old house, trees and a lawn. So, I rented this place, 35 bucks a month."

This place, I learned, spreads out over 250 acres. Bogard eventually bought the homestead. He built kilns with fire bricks and materials from the Empire gypsum plant and gradually added rustic buildings as galleries and studios for his pottery and paintings.

"I just continued to work," Bogard says. "I worked, you know, possessed."

In time, he went from selling his pottery at art shows to welcoming discerning fans of his work and curious travelers from around the world at Planet X. Most go home with fine porcelain, stunning stoneware and landscape paintings — not to mention a story about the character who curates the place in the middle of the Nevada desert.

It wasn't all work, though.

There were more than a few parties, and John and Rachel still enjoy the company of a wide and eclectic circle of friends and fellow artists.

For a moment, I thought I detected a slight smile, perhaps a memory of those years when energy seemed boundless, from Bogard. "We had the band and all that," he says, warming himself in the easy spring sunlight. "We were rockin' and rollin' back then." After a pause, he adds, "Not anymore. I'm done."

A gathering in 2024 to celebrate the 50th anniversary of Planet X remains something of a local legend among those who attended, and Rachel says she's planning a Memorial Day show for visitors to their world.

Now, about the name. Originally, the place was to be named after nearby Smoke Creek, which didn't have much of a ring to it, Bogard says. "But a friend of mine said, 'This place looks like Planet X.' I said, 'Fine, that'll work.'"

The night sky in real Nevada is world famous, and many have sworn they've seen UFOs dancing around the stars. It's also a place where mystics and soul-searchers have gone to discover their own life's meaning.

So, I asked the gentle ruler of Planet X what the magic of a Nevada night sky means to him.

"I don't know," he says. "That's a little too philosophical. When it's dark, I go to bed."

John L. Smith is an author and longtime columnist. He was born in Henderson and his family's Nevada roots go back to 1881. His stories have appeared in New Lines, Time, Reader's Digest, Rolling Stone, The Daily Beast, Reuters and Desert Companion, among others.