Ever Wild

EVER WILD

bombs, bullets, radiation, and shocks

by The Old Trailmaster

Death Valley … it has been called a lot of things. Everyone has an opinion … many being unenthusiastic. One thing is clear though … no one can call Death Valley ordinary. There is nothing ordinary here, including the people drawn to it. Some come for a little while. Some come for a lifetime. Regardless of who they are or how long they stay, they come for a reason … because this is a place for the rest of us. A wild place of freedom from a world that we choose to leave behind – at least for a time in our minds.

There is shelter here – a wild place that, because of its alarming reputation, remains a feral retreat from the profound social injustices and brutal atrocities of a sophisticated world gone awry. Cultured society looks upon this vast land as uncivilized and undesirable, a spot of lonely emptiness that scars the map of human progress. The rest of us however, look at this void on the map and see the magnificence and mystery of the land, and realize that, like a tapestry, this diverse land weaves a beauty not understood lest one becomes immersed within it. So we come here and immerse ourselves, free from the hypocrisies of life, and are thankful that the masses choose to remain distant. In our minds, their loss is our gain.

Aldo Leopold, well-known outdoorsman and naturalist, has told of wilderness destruction, and hints at the reasons humans have such a need to alter what nature has created. He has been happy to have the wild country in which he could spend his life, and realized that the blank spots on the map are precious for genuine enthusiasts of nature. Fortunately, enough have spoken in America that special preserves are set aside as areas where the natural world will continue free from the modern artifacts of seemingly inevitable human development – places such as National Parks and wilderness areas that provide refuge for folks who find communion with them essential.

The territory in and around Death Valley National Park is as wild as it gets, and due to the ruggedness of the environment here, this Park provides an ambiance of seclusion quite different from its cousins like Yosemite, Teton, or Glacier. Since visitor counts are less here, this wild place truly does offer superb asylum from the rigors of what most people see as indispensable. In addition to the Park’s ninety-six percent wilderness, there are a dozen designated wilderness areas bordering or in close proximity. It’s easy to lose yourself here, both emotionally and physically.

These qualities are precisely what draw me to the Death Valley territory.

On each visit into the secluded wilds of this vast country, I make mental note of locales worthy of further exploration, for every trip seems far too brief for me to appreciate the land to the degree I desire. The National Park alone is roughly the size of Connecticut, and that does not take into account the immediate surrounding regions that I find equally intriguing, the totality of which I call the Death Valley territory.

There is the Panamint Valley to the west, for example, that includes access to quite a few areas in the western Panamint Range that provide outstanding views of Death Valley. Telescope Peak is the highest elevation in the Park, yet traditional access to the summit is far from many popular tourist attractions. The historical region around Gold Mountain and Oriental Wash, on the northeast side of DVNP, is also outside the boundary, yet to truly understand all the olden times that have influenced the valley’s legends, a visit to this area is a must. All around the periphery are other numerous calls to explore, so, my wish-list of destinations seems extensive.

At this point in my life though, there are far more places in this territory that I have experienced than those I have not, so I am making notable progress. Only a mere handful of unvisited areas exists for me now. Once I have been to and explored, at least in a cursory manner, nearly every corner of DVNP and the nearby out-of-Park areas, then I figure I can examine a particular locale in an even more thorough manner. Often, I will map out quite a long route that covers three hundred miles or more, with overnights along the way on a journey that would look like a long snake if viewed from above. I visit a superb area that would be an obvious choice for two or three days of in-depth exploration, but I go on, meaning to return sometime in the future for a longer stay.

That point of longer stays is near. To look at the territorial map now, it is difficult to find spots where I have not been, so this trip will take me to them. I also plan on revisiting a few places that I have not seen since the 1970s, to get more photographs and refresh my aging recollection.

Entering Death Valley National Park through customary access points is not my style. Virtually anyone can do that, and most of the million-plus visitors each year get their first glimpse of this striking land via the normal paved routes. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I prefer the road not taken, always have. Therefore, if you ever see me coming into the region, you’ll probably be out on some remote dirt backroad in your dusty four-wheel drive rig or on your bicycle, and we’ll most likely stop to talk a spell because seeing other people is a rarity on these excursions. I certainly enjoy visiting with kindred spirits of the wild nature kind.

Plans are good to have, and I have a plan for this trip, yet I realize that in the backcountry, plans are always subject to change. In fact, I expect plans to change ahead of time, because, as I’ve always maintained, the only certainty about Death Valley is uncertainty. In any event, my idea for the itinerary this trip includes an entrance on the Harry Wade road so that I can see the extremely remote southwest corner of the Park in the Owlshead Mountains. From there, I hope to also gaze down upon Wingate Wash, a place of legend where the Twenty Mule Teams used to haul borax, but is now off limits due to military and Park closures.

I also wish to visit Johnson and Trail Canyons on the eastern slope of the Panamints. Other locales on my agenda are Oriental Wash, Gold Mountain, Cucomungo Canyon, and the legendary State Line Mine, where history reports an office with golden walls was built in a carved out section of the quartz-filled mountain. I have never visited the Big Four mine, near the Panamint Dunes below South Pass, so it could make its way into my safari, yet it is of a lower priority. Lee Flat, which I have been across, makes for some fun exploration, and the Cerro Gordo mining camp, down the mountain on the western side, I will definitely do too, perhaps this trip. I haven’t been up Cottonwood and Marble Canyons for many years, and would like to have a recent experience there again. And the Tucki mine south of Tucki Mountain summit, near Telephone Canyon, has not seen my presence for thirty years now. See what I mean? Where does one start, with so much natural world just waiting for your arrival?

Since the distances in this territory are deceptive, it is also vital to plan on fuel stops when preparing a route. Sometimes fuel will not be obtainable at all the normal stations in the Park and peripheral vicinity. I have learned the hard way that calling ahead of time for petrol availability should be a routine procedure, especially at Scotty’s Castle, for that can be the jumping-off point for the most remote areas. Nearly all long trips in this territory can be done on one tank in a rig that gets good mileage, but who doesn’t get nervous as the needle begins its downward slide on the left half of the gauge? Never have I run out, or even come dangerously close to it, yet my sense of preparing for all scenarios keeps me vigilant … perhaps too much so. I think this worry sickness a curse, that perhaps may dissolve more as I grow older. For this trip, there is no fuel available at Scotty’s, and knowing this ahead of time removes at least one surprise.

Checking the National Park Service website for Death Valley immediately prior to my departure, I learn that all roads are open, which is rare this early in the year. March often will find locales like Hunter Mountain impassible due to snow and deep mud, yet this year it is reported as passable, with the proviso of 4wd necessary. I call the Park Service to learn the status of another area I wish to visit, called Indian Pass in the eastern Funeral Mountains. It is a road that enters the Park from Nevada’s Amargosa Desert, and dead-ends near the mountain crest.

The Ranger is not aware of this road, probably due to its extreme isolation and lack of visitation, but after putting me on hold briefly to check, returns to the phone and advises me that there is no closure of Indian Pass, either physically or administratively, so it remains on my itinerary. He also tells me of a newly printed backcountry road map produced by the National Park Service, and says to ask for it when I check in at Furnace Creek to get my visitor pass. I am excited to see this new map, for the standard issue map that all visitors receive upon entering the Park does not reveal many of the dirt backroads within the Park.

The BEV is ready to go, with a full tank of fuel, and all fluid levels are up to snuff. The fully synthetic engine lubricant that I use instead of petroleum motor oil is right on the full mark, and appears bright in color as though it has just been installed, even though it has been lubricating the internal parts now for nearly 3,000 miles. Tire pressure is fine, all my essential gear for a couple of weeks on the trail is loaded, and my itinerary has been dispersed among a few trusted souls with enough interest in me to call out the troops should I not turn up at the end as anticipated. I am, as the popular axiom asserts, good to go!

Day One – March 07, Wednesday

As has been my standard practice for several years now when visiting the Death Valley territory, I begin my much anticipated trek from my mom’s residence, which is only 135 miles from the southern-most entrance to DVNP – this entrance being the one near Saratoga Spring, north of Baker, California. The Desert Gypsy and I had a nice visit for a couple of weeks, and I was able to perform some upgrades to her dwelling, which included the installation of a living room ceiling fan to circulate the air once summer temperatures begin to creep in this year. Since she accompanied me a few years back on one of my safaris, she has fresh recollections of the type of terrain I’ll be exploring this trip. She requests a phone call upon my safe return from the hinterlands, and I promise to make that happen. We say our goodbyes, and I’m off!

Traffic north and eastbound on Interstate 15 is light midweek, so my mind contemplates the wild places I am soon to behold, with stirring instrumental music filling the interior of my small BEV as the miles roll by. This grand land invigorates my spirit, and I look off towards the direction of my secluded destinations in the distance.

Plans call for about ten days of backcountry exploration this time out, enough time to really immerse myself in all the natural world settings that I am called to discover. Like always on my trips over the decades, the call of the wild takes hold and draws me like an invisible magnet. I am powerless to resist, and, of course, I have no desire to … I love this land, and return to its wild side again willingly and enthusiastically, bringing forth yet another chapter for both my life and this journal. Sharing my terrestrial love is a passion that I am glad to have nurtured.

I must be home by the nineteenth because on the twentieth of March I have a routine dental cleaning scheduled. Seeing as how my dentist is a likeable and popular fellow, bookings occur long in advance, so I cannot afford to miss my appointment. The time frame is sufficient for a relaxed expedition, and I could not be happier at this moment.

Zzyzx Road is approaching, according to the odd sign posted on the Interstate approximately ten miles out from Baker. Certainly, this must be one of the most unusual road names in this country of ours. I have never seen one that is more bizarre. Being the atypical chap that I am, if I lived in this region, I would welcome a residence on a street of such curious designation. Thousands of people pass this sign every day as they travel to and from the Las Vegas and Los Angeles areas, and all must wonder how the name came to be. Perhaps someone out here just wanted to stir motorists’ curiosity, and affixed the name for the sake of controversy. Someday, after the completion of this journal, I will investigate its source.

Heck, why wait? I’ll do it now as I pen these words! All right, I just returned from the Wikipedia website, and gathered this information: the name Zzyzx “was given to the area in 1944  by Curtis Howe Springer, claiming it to be the last word in the English language. Springer made up the word’s pronunciation. He established the Zzyzx Mineral Springs and Health Spa at the spot, which was federal land that he had no permission to use. He used Zzyzx until 1974, when he was arrested by the United States Marshals for misuse of the land as well as alleged violations of food and drug laws, and the land was confiscated by the government.” I also found out from another writer that there is a palm tree spring at one end of the short road. And get this: there is even a Zzyzx road website for all us who just have to know the rest of the story. Enough of that!

Back to the safari. As the small desert town of Baker appears a few miles ahead, I am passed by two eighteen wheelers, each of their trailers carrying an M1 military tank. Interestingly enough, just a week ago while at my mom’s home, I watched a television special that toured the factory where these behemoths are built, and now I am actually seeing two in person. Yes, they are huge. It would be nice however, to live in a world where such machinery would not be necessary. It saddens me to consider the ongoing conflict of the human animal.

If you wonder why I am passed on the Interstate by such heavily loaded rigs, it is because of my practice of only driving 55 miles per hour, in my personal effort to produce the least carbon emissions per mile as possible by using the least fuel to get from point A to point B. It’s better for my lungs, the environment, and my meager pocketbook. I am financially rewarded for this habit when I fill my rig at the local fuel station in Baker, California, where calculation shows that my average fuel economy during the past 104 miles has been 24.27 miles per gallon. I like these  numbers at a time when prices are skyrocketing. It sure beats my prior BEV, and makes my wild adventures quite a bit more affordable! I am happy to do my part to preserve the clean air of the wilds, even if it means irritable motorists who find my speed intolerable.

The tank gets topped-off here in Baker because I have a long way to go before I arrive in Furnace Creek in a couple of days. My itinerary involves many miles more than a straight shot via pavement like most folks do. Exploration of the Owlshead Mountains alone will consume roughly a quarter tank by my estimation, and that is with my conservative driving habits. As I have said before, the Death Valley territory is enormous, and those little lines drawn on maps fail to give sufficient clue as to the exceptionally long distances to be traveled out here. Always take every opportunity to refill your rig – what if you get lost and have to drive extra mileage to find yourself?

Actually, I’ve been lost for most of my life, and am still looking for myself. Although nowadays, I prefer to align my thinking to the catchy quote authored by an anonymous spirit, who said, “Not all who wander are lost.” I do a lot of wandering. In fact, if you were to watch my progress on these safaris from a helicopter, you might think I don’t know where I am going, but I do. I know both physically and psychologically where I’m going out here … I go to physical destinations to answer psychological needs, as you may recall from the chapter, Six Days In April. This wild land is invigorating for the spirit!

Today, my first destination is the microwave tower at the western edge of the Owlshead Mountains, a place that I have never visited before. It is accessible, according to Tom Harrison’s onboard map, by a thirty-mile graded dirt road that cuts off the Harry Wade road. It should be an easy and uneventful drive, but will cost me 60 miles to see this far-off bit of isolation. From this elevated piece of ground, it appears that I will be able to gaze northwesterly into the Wingate Wash below, and see from a lofty vantage point the route that the twenty-mule teams took to exit Death Valley on their way to Mojave’s railhead where they off-loaded the borax for shipment. So, this first stop will be a step back into history for me that I eagerly await.

Off of Highway 127 twenty-nine miles north of Baker, I turn onto the Harry Wade road, marked by the Harry Wade Exit Route commemorative sign, built with rocks and a metal plaque. This road is easy to drive, being wide and well-graded, even though some maps may show it as questionable, and this is usually the case all the way to Ashford Junction where it hits pavement again about thirty miles to the northwest. A four wheel drive rig is usually not necessary. Notice I say usually – never count on absolutes in this land.

Twelve miles from pavement, I come to a main fork of the road. Straight ahead will take me to Ashford Junction at Highway 178, and this will be the road I take after I make my side-trip into the Owlshead Mountains. But now, I turn left on the Owl Hole Spring Road, which is actually the wider of the two roads. This road initially heads southwest, but eventually turns more towards the northwest after it rounds the southeastern wing of the mountains. I pass the turnoff to the right that goes about six miles north to the Black Magic Mine, and wonder if I should explore that area on my way out, attempting to estimate if my fuel allotment will allow for it. I put that thought on the back-burner as I head farther west. I am now outside the Death Valley National Park boundary again, and am aware that to my south is a military zone called Fort Irwin according to Tom’s map. So far, I have seen no trace of military happenings .

Eleven miles or so from the Harry Wade road, I see a gate up ahead, across the roadway. As I approach and slow to a stop on the dirt byway, I notice a plethora of signage, so I extinguish the engine and get out to have a look-see. It’s lunchtime by now, so I figure to eat soon, but first I have to determine what these signs are trying to tell me; someone went to a lot of trouble to get a message out to the rare traveler who makes way through these parts.

I’ll describe the scene. There are two parts of a chain link gate barring further westward travel, yet the gates are not secured in any fashion, and there is no indication of any kind of locking device anywhere. The gates are stand-alone, in that there is no other fencing to either side. The barrier apparently is not meant to keep out a determined individual, only to post notice of some sort that you had better pay attention to something important. The left half of the gate is propped wide open by a rock.

On each half of the gate, there are identical white signs with bold red lettering, reading as follows:

DANGER

Visible or invisible Laser Radiation – Avoid eye or skin exposure

to direct or scattered radiation – Class 4 laser

Okay, well, being the health nut that I am, someone now has my attention to be sure! There is no indication on these metal signs affixed to the gates of what organization posted them, but I am sure it must be official. I have no idea if a Class 4 laser is really dangerous (is it worse than Class 1?) or what type of harm it would do to me, but I have no access to the internet right now to research the subject. I don’t even know how many classes there are to the laser scale for that matter. Class 4 could be minimal for all I know, and the sign could be expounding one of those mandatory warnings that is typically overdone to be on the safe side.

The sign does not say to keep out, and since the gate is open, I momentarily think that passage might be allowed. But then I see another sign on a post just off to the right of the gates, so I walk to inspect it. It reads as follows:

WARNING

The area behind sign may be contaminated

with unexploded military ordinance

The next level of concern is now within my brain. Yet, this second sign still does not prohibit further travel on the road, but the whole thing is getting a little spooky to me now. As I peer past the gate, I see yet a third sign posted about 40 yards farther on, and since these first two signs do not forbid entrance, I decide to walk past to read the next sign along this somewhat unnerving road. Under a completely clouded and darkening sky, which only adds to the ominous feelings, I arrive at sign number three, which reads:

THE AREA BEHIND THIS SIGN CLOSED

TO ALL MOTOR VEHICLE USE

This sign actually has a listed authority as its source – the United States Department of the Interior, Bureau of Land Management. Why it stands forty yards behind the gates is a puzzle, but at least I now know that I cannot drive my BEV any farther west on this road, even if I were to completely disregard the health warnings of the previous two signs (which, of course, I have no intention of doing). Well, it says no further vehicular travel allowed, but it does not restrict travel by foot, a transportation mode of which I am extremely capable, so I walk on to see what’s over the rise in the hill ahead.

Curiosity now has me firmly locked in its grip. They say curiosity killed the proverbial cat, but since I am another life-form, I figure that perhaps a little additional investigation of this area may be something I can pull off and live to tell you about it. Onward, I vigilantly place one foot in front of the other, wondering what I will find.

The reason for my continued westward travel is that up ahead I can make out the tops of a titanic collection of those bulky freight containers you see on tanker ships and railcars. What’s this all about? Didn’t I come out here to find refuge of the wild places? How can anyone just plop down what appears to be a massive pile of discarded items on the pristine desert to deprive enthusiasts of the natural world their delights of wilderness scenes? This is not something that I enjoy beholding, even if it will never be seen by 99.9 percent of the human population in this area. It is here, but it is not natural. Of course, neither is my vehicle a natural creation, and it too is here. Perhaps the size of things influences me?

I crest the top of the hill on the road, and now within full view is a sight that I would rather not have ever seen out here. By counting the exterior units of the colossal cubical monolith and multiplying, I reckon there to be a sprawling mountain of at least 75 of these huge steel containers, most painted an orange-red color, spanning a very large piece of ground. They are stacked three high, and give the appearance of large buildings rather than storage containers. To the north of these are some old military vehicles of many sorts, that are no longer in service. Then still farther north and west are yet more of the metal shipping containers. Who knows how many more exist just out of my view on the other side of this hill, but I will never find out.

Legally, I am not in violation of any signage that I have passed. As a United States citizen, I am lawfully looking at what seems to be a disposal sight of the Fort Irwin military establishment. Ahead of me a few feet is now a fourth sign that is so long in its text that I have no desire to write it all down, as I did with the other three signs. Besides, my notebook is back in the car, and after reading the sign, all I want to do is get the heck out of this forbidden landscape. This sign is not one to disregard, even for someone who is not worried about radiation or buried bombs.

This sign is roughly a quarter mile past the gate, and it makes my blood run cold. It is a message to me from the Secretary of Defense of the United States of America, and in no uncertain terms, it demands serious consideration by stating that any entry of citizens, taking of photos, drawing of pictures, etcetera, is strictly prohibited. And here is the clincher: This sign informs me that the use of deadly force has been pre-authorized by my government should I decide to progress farther west past the sign!

Okay … that’s enough for me! One more step and I will technically be at risk of search, seizure, and death – this is not my idea of what a wild safari should be like. I enjoy adventure, to be sure, but not this kind. I dearly love exploring, but not finding these human-inspired artifacts and warnings. Yes, Mr. Secretary, you have my attention, and I totally respect your power and wishes, for there are thousands of square miles out here that I can explore without bringing down the wrath of the war department upon me. Hence, I will peacefully take my leave of your forbidden zone and be on my way … way far from here.

Back at the truck, I break out a little grub, for now I am ravenous in appetite, and need to reconnoiter my progress. There is a secondary road that heads northwest off this main road, just a few feet before the gates, and it is the one that eventually ends up at the microwave tower 19 miles farther on, but considering that it roughly parallels the road with all the threatening warnings, and bearing in mind that there is a lot of unspoiled land far away from this questionable area, and taking into account my penchant for doing that which is legally correct, I opt to save the fuel and just quietly slip away from here as quickly as possible. If there is unexploded military ordinance on the main road, who is to say that a bomb or two didn’t make its way on over a few yards towards the secondary road?

Call me overly cautious if you will, but this area is not a high priority for my exploration at this point. I don’t like bombs, bullets, and laser radiation – these things are not conducive to my idea of productive longevity! This natural area is not too natural anymore, so I shall take my leave.

A quick lunch is consumed, all the while imagining that at any moment some stealth fighter jet will buzz overhead and report back to headquarters that troops should be sent to my location to apprehend a suspicious unknown hanging out at the gate. My imagination is primed, so after brushing my teeth, I turn around and slowly head back to the safety of the Harry Wade road, trying not to make any dust from my tires on the road that would signal the military to investigate. I still have my law enforcement badge from retirement, but I don’t know how much weight that would carry with the boys in olive.

At least my conscious is clear, I have followed all laws, and remain to this day an upstanding citizen on whom my government can count for compliance.

Upon returning to the intersection with the Harry Wade road, I have a compelling urge to void my bladder, a combination of the vegetable juice I had for lunch being jostled around while traveling the backroad and a relief of my fear from the experiences I just encountered. I feel like a dog who has the pee scared out of him from a strike of lightning. That taken care of, I turn northward on this wide open road, cross the Amargosa River (not visible above ground today), and approach the site of the old Confidence Mill about five miles south of Ashford Junction.

As I round a curve and hill in the road, I get my second surprise for the day …

To the left side there is a man standing in bicycling attire, his bicycle resting against a creosote bush, and his helmet and pack sitting on the ground near the bike. He is eating a sandwich and appears to be enjoying his surroundings. I slow from my usual 35 miles per hour to a crawl so as not to spread any dust on this stately looking gent (and his sandwich), who is equally surprised to see me out here in the middle of nowhere, and come to a stop to say hello.

I tell him of my surprise to find anyone this far out in the middle of the week, especially on a bicycle, as I step out of the BEV to shake his hand. Immediately there is a look of recognition in his face, and he asks if he knows me, to which I reply that I don’t think so. Then he inquires if I’m the fellow who has that extensive website about Death Valley on the internet, and this gets my attention because I do have such an information site online. He speaks specifically of certain articles I have written, and now I am positive that he is referring to my site, and knows me from my photo there. This is absolutely inconceivable that I should meet someone here today that has actually read my articles! What are the chances?

“Death Valley Backcountry Safaris, right?” he queries, while taking another bite of his sandwich. Yes, that is correct, I tell him. We introduce ourselves, and I learn that he is Doug Slakey from San Mateo Bay near San Francisco, California. He has taken a week’s solo trip in his German luxury sports sedan to see this territory first hand.

Doug parked his set of wheels at the pavement of Highway 178, about five miles north where the Harry Wade road ends, because he was uncertain whether the dirt road would allow him to travel it via automobile. He also has Tom Harrison’s map, which indicates that this road can be classified as rough, although it has always been my experience that it is not.

Doug is interested in visiting Owl Lake, and asks about taking roadless Through Canyon to get there. I inform him that it would take a couple of days on foot or bicycle, but it is possible. After learning that the Harry Wade road is okay for his sedan, he decides to retrieve it to travel farther south in a quicker manner – it has taken him over an hour to make it this far from his car, even though he is in excellent physical condition, because the sandy portions of roadbed slow down his progress.

I am still having a difficult time believing that I should happen across a man from the Bay Area, on the Harry Wade road on a bicycle, in the middle of a quiet week, hundreds of miles from civilization, who has read in depth the contents of my website. There is not another human around for who knows how far. In contemplating it as we speak, I feel both honored and humbled by these facts, and Doug and I have a good time conversing. We discuss the area, and I answer his questions to assist in his itinerary. He grants me permission to use his name in this journal.

Talking is something that I can go on and on doing, and eventually I realize that it would be unfair to Doug to take up any more of his time today since he still has to return to his vehicle and consider where he will set up camp for the night. Although it is only early afternoon, he has a long ride ahead of him, so we bid farewell. I encourage him to email me of his trip details, and then I start the engine of my backcountry exploration vehicle and head north once again. Too bad we are heading in opposite directions, I think to myself. Then again, with his low-slung sedan, he would not be able to access the same roads I’ll be traveling, so I suppose it’s just as well.

Every now and then on my drive north, I can see the bicycle tracks in sandy areas. In the sand, the narrow tires of the bike wandered left and right, so I know that it is a real workout for Doug to traverse these isolated miles. Of course, he is certainly receiving more cardiovascular benefit today than I am!

Once the Harry Wade road ends at Highway 178, I turn left and head north on pavement, but it’s only for about four miles, and then I turn left again on the West Side Road, which skirts the Death Valley salt flats to the west of the valley. Finally I am feeling secure in the refuge of these wilds once again, now far removed from the artificial restrictions of earlier this morning. The majestic Panamint Mountain Range soars to my left, and I have been keeping an eye on Telescope Peak for many miles now. The snow up there seems minimal from down here, but I know that if I were up there, it would be another story, probably prohibiting me from hiking the trail to the sky safely.

To the right across the valley floor is the equally majestic Amargosa Mountain Range, with this southern portion called the Black Mountains. The western side of the Blacks are extremely rugged and steep, and make for an imposing sight. Clouds in the sky continue to keep the temperatures comfortably cool, and while this time of year is traditionally pleasant, recent heat surges have brought unusually warm days when the skies are clear. There are no dust clouds to be seen anywhere around, so I figure that no one else is currently driving in the southern portion of the valley today – typical for a Wednesday in early March. The peace and solitude of this feral world is finally beginning to settle in.

Three miles in on the West Side road, I pass the Warm Spring road on my left, which heads up into Butte Valley territory, home of the awesome Striped Butte. This is the only dirt road left where one can travel from Death Valley, through the Panamint Range, and directly into Panamint Valley. It used to be possible through Trail Canyon via the Aguereberry Point road, but weather damage sealed the fate on that route years ago. I look up the Warm Springs road as I drive by and think of all the beautiful country to be experienced up there, but now set my sights on Galena Canyon for today’s travel.

Almost eight miles farther on, I pass the road to the Queen of Sheba mine, a short road that is as straight as a ruler. Just past this road is Galena Canyon, where I turn left and head up the alluvial fan into the mountains. This road only allows access for about five miles from the West Side road before it ends in the steep canyons. There are auxiliary roads to mine sites once in the canyon, with plenty of exploring for the adventurous. It is a mild 4×4 challenge – actually, two wheel drive high clearance is all that is needed in here today. It is a class-2 roadbed.

Finally, the road is no more, and I come to rest along side a huge wooden ore bin that used to be part of the White Eagle Talc Mine on the side of the mountain to the south of the wash. It appears that literally tons of talc still sit in the hoppers, ready to be loaded into the transport containers of wagons or trucks. It is very peaceful here, and nature is slowly reclaiming the area as the wood deteriorates over the decades. Eventually, these old ghost mines and towns out here will no longer exist unless historical preservationists restore them to hold up under the pressures of weather and time.

There is ample area for primitive camping here, but the sun (what I can see of it through the cloud cover anyway), is still high enough for additional travel. Besides, I want to hike to Hungry Bill’s Ranch first thing tomorrow morning before the weather might heat up, and to do that, I should position myself in Johnson Canyon for tonight’s camp.

On Saturday, three days from now, the time changes to daylight savings by order of the government, but I have gone ahead and set my BEV clock ahead early for this trip so I don’t have to adjust out here. This is the first year that it comes three weeks earlier than always before, so I benefit with a longer evening. This is why today there is no hurry pressure anywhere within me. All is totally relaxed, and I am feeling the splendor of the refuge found in these wild places. My thirsty soul drinks up the loveliness of the world that engulfs me now … I am home once again!

Back down the short Galena Canyon road I go, left on the West Side road, and on north to Johnson Canyon, a short drive of about five miles. The National Park Service has all these canyons and sights well-signed, so it is difficult to get disoriented or lost out here as long as you have a map. Even without the modern-day marvel of Global Positioning Systems (GPS),  I know where I am. I prefer the old fashioned methods of navigation anyway, so just give me a map, the Earth, and the sky to figure it out.

Johnson Canyon road allows for much deeper penetration into the Panamints than does Galena Canyon. The alluvial fan is longer here, and then once in the canyon proper, the road climbs to much greater heights than Galena. About seven miles up Johnson, the road drops dramatically into the wash to the right. For a while now, I have been riding along the edge of this wash, but now it’s time to get down in it.

The road has been an uneventful class-2 so far, and remains so for a while, but a few class-3 sections begin to pop up the farther up-canyon I travel. By nine miles from the West Side road, the Johnson Canyon road is all class-3, with rocks becoming more proliferate, and slowing down progress. This is fine with me however, as I know that fewer people continue in these conditions, although for an experienced backroad explorer, this road is no great challenge today, requiring only attentive maneuvering to avoid rocky surprises.

After nearly eleven miles of adventurous driving, this backroad comes to an end, with high mountains around in every direction. The salt flats are no longer visible far below since I am this far up and have gone around so many bends in the road. A heavily flowing stream is making its way down this canyon past where I have parked. This will be the most perfect place to spend my first night of many more on this safari in this untamed land.

A dozen or so giant trees, full of thousands of green leaves, add to the wonderful ambiance of this unique natural setting. Perhaps they are Cottonwoods, but I don’t know for sure. I am not here to name the flora and fauna, as is customary with so many of the human species, rather I prefer to just enjoy it as it is. Nature has not named these trees, and I, a part of nature, shall follow this lead and simply appreciate all that is displayed before me on my planetary home. Names are insignificant to me, for it is the feeling that I get as I begin to explore this area that resonates strongly within my essence. I do not have to know the name of these pretty flowers to know that they bring peace to my spirit. The multitude of croaking frogs all around me this evening do not know any names, and do not even know that they are called frogs, but does it matter to them?

Sometimes intelligence and classification get in our way of living fully!

With many hours of traveling having finally ended today, I just stand and soak up with all my senses the habitat in which I now find myself. Balmy breezes gently ascend the canyon from lower elevations, and my face delights in their feathery caresses. Fluffy clouds dance among the powerful mountaintops above, allowing a few scattered rays of the sun’s happy sparkle through every so often. Crystal clear waters flow from the early Spring snowmelt of the summits above, cascading over many rocks and boulders, forming intriguing waterfalls and providing the masterful music for this harmonious blend of natural wonders. Frogs add their own marvelous vocals, from nearly every direction it seems, a notable experience of many pitches in full stereo delight.

Not to be outperformed, crickets sing along, hidden in the nooks and crannies of the rocks, trees, and wild brush. Birds also chirp their peace-giving songs, and can be seen alighting hither and yon in the trees.

As the evening moves towards night, my friends the bats silently appear, using their radar to feast upon any mosquitoes that may be lurking about with ideas of dining upon me. I love these delicate little creatures, so small and so cute. Once, one whose radar system must have been momentarily deactivated, flew straight into my chest, striking with a soft gentle thud, and then flying away, probably wondering what that was. As I look westward towards the towering Panamint peaks, the sky has become a fiery red and orange, simply the crowning sight that pulls this nirvana all together this evening, and makes living so worthwhile for me!

I could wish to be no place else on Earth right now. Truly, this is the epitome of experiencing the refuge of the wild places. It is wild and natural. It is a world away from … well, that other life of artificial and mundane happenings that imprisons the collective society from which I sprang over half a century ago. I have broken away to this secret garden of nature, to know what the real world is, to get a feeling for what life was like when the first people of this land existed in this very spot ten-thousand years ago, and to seek that which is important to my emotional survival – the serenity of learning how I fit into the order of things.

I am not superior to all that surrounds me here. I may have the ability to metacognate, to think about what I’m thinking about, and analyze beyond my other animal friends’ more limited talents, yet it would be arrogant to believe that I am better. For, in reality, I am also but a finite and fragile creature upon this planet, who breathes the same air, sees the same sights, and attempts to survive with the beats of my heart while avoiding dangers.

We are all here together. How many of us in the cities ever come to realize all that is so plentiful beyond the fringes of urban sprawl? How many of us really even care? For most, life seems to be burdened with a million little details as deemed appropriate by our advanced society, like achieving financial greatness, impressing the neighbors, having the best insurance plan, and blah, blah, blah. It really is all blah when compared to the sensual delights and profound realities of the natural world.

I have personally heard many times in my life, both in person and on television, where someone with a home overlooking a massive metropolitan area, will comment at night that the sight of all the lights is so pretty. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful sight?” they will ask. I submit for your consideration that we have come to a place in history where our definitions of beauty are now warped to bring us peace while in the clutches of a mechanized world that continually gobbles up more and more of nature to conform to a new characterization of what life really should be.

As fast as our culture speeds towards more sophisticated modes of living, I head in the other direction, preferring a simple life. My life insurance and health policies for living a long and vital life are not to be found in unaffordable documents obtained only with a high paying job. No – my formula is living a more natural existence, exercising daily, living in an area that is not choked with smog and pollutants, performing daily routines that do not bring the strangling yoke of stress upon my psyche that tears down so many from the inside. I eat as close to nature as is practical, stay current on medical science that allows for people to easily surpass the centenarian mark, and attempt to bring joy and smiles to all whom I meet. I am a part of nature … the carbon within my body came from supernovas … and I have no desire to destroy that which has given me life. Nature is all around me. Nature is within me. I am a microcosm of the Universe.

Tonight is a special time for me. These wild places of the Death Valley territory have once again provided the bedrock upon which I anchor my peace. For me, this tranquility cannot be found in concrete surroundings, overpopulated by humans seeking all that the convenience of metropolis living brings. I drift off to sleep early, the last sounds heard being the chorus of frogs, crickets, and flowing stream.

Day Two – March 08, Thursday

Since I went to sleep so early last night, I awaken prior to the sun’s appearance. I enjoy these predawn times, which allow me to stretch out in my sleeping bag, glance around outside, and contemplate my happiness out here. Mornings are always a good time for me, as everything seems fresh and new, like a new beginning to life.

The temperature is pleasantly cool. Once up, I put on a light jacket for a while during the time that I break down my sleeping arrangements and prepare for breakfast. I am hungry, and my organic oat, raisin, and cinnamon granola is fully satisfying, complemented by an eight ounce serving of organic soymilk in a small cardboard-like box with a straw. Eating well, I think about today’s hike to Hungry Bill’s Ranch, about a mile and a half up the canyon. The distance is not far, but the terrain may throw in some challenging surprises on the way.

Croaking is still abundant, having never really stopped during the night. I wonder when they sleep. Maybe some are sleeping while others are awake and talking, and then they take turns. Anyway, I again enjoy the pleasurable communications of my frog friends around the springs as the sun comes cascading about the bend in the eastern canyon, and falls upon my solitary camp. The jacket comes off and preparations are initiated for my crisp morning hike.

An industrious entrepreneur named William Johnson had a fruit and vegetable ranch up here when the silver miners were going strong in Panamint City on the western slope of the Panamint Range in the 1870s. He would haul his food over the top of the mountains through Panamint Pass for the miners to purchase. Johnson made steady money, maybe more than the miners themselves. After the boom died out, Johnson left, and a Shoshone Chief named Hungry Bill moved into the area to homestead a claim. Evidence of this ranch still remains today, so I must go see it for myself. I have never made this hike before, so it will truly be a morning of discovery and adventure.

Taking the thin footpath through the rocks, around the cliffs, and over the stream, I notice excreted evidence that burros or bighorn sheep must frequent this area too. I suspect that it would be burros because last night I heard at least one braying on occasion, far off in the distance somewhere. I make no claims to be a wildlife expert, able to determine an animal by its droppings; all I know is that the animal must be fairly good size based on what has come out of it. Over the many years that I have visited the Death Valley territory, I have seen many burros in the Panamint canyons and elsewhere, but so far this trip, none have made themselves visually known to me. Perhaps I’ll wander across one or three on the way to Hungry Bill’s spread.

Going to the ranch is all uphill, some of which is across open terrain populated by sage and creosote bushes. Soon however, the canyon walls close in tightly in some spots where solid rock cliffs tower on the sides. These areas tend to be heavily laden with abundant plant growth, vegetation that has matured to large proportions and defies passage for hiking humans. This is where the trail circumvents the impediment by switchbacking high up on the cliff face, and really gets your cardiovascular system fully operational if you maintain the same pace as on regular ground. The feeling of all this exercise out here in the natural world sure beats walking mindlessly on a treadmill while watching television in a gym back in the city. The sun is providing ample warmth to sustain a good temperature for hiking, even though I only have a lightweight long sleeve shirt.

Yesterday’s clouds are a thing of the past. Today will be much warmer I suspect. I am glad to be hiking this trail in the early morning hours, for reports the past couple of weeks have shown Death Valley to be close to 100 degrees on a few days. Seems like warmer weather is embracing the area sooner than normal this year. Often, mid and late April bring much cooler temperatures, sometimes requiring a jacket, especially in the mountainous regions.

This hike is most clearly working off my breakfast calories at a fast clip. I keep a steady pace, round many canyon curves, and am fortunate not to get lost off the trail. There are forks, but I stick to what appears the main canyon and it always proves to be right. Sometimes I get off the trail and end up trekking cross country, but I always happen to find the path again, sometimes on the other side of the full flowing stream, which requires numerous crossings on rocks to keep westward progress towards William Johnson’s fruit, vegetable, and nut ranch. Gee, what I wouldn’t give to have this food farm in operation today, so that I could barter or buy a delicious fruit upon my arrival. Guess I’m about 130 years too late!

Nearing the ranch site, I notice rock walls built in strategic locations along the streambed, for what specific reason I do not know. Arrival at the ghost ranch is marked by many such rock walls, about three feet or more tall, and stretching off for many yards. These are augmented with fences and wire. The entire enclosure is quite expansive and full of trees everywhere. How I would have enjoyed living and working here in this setting, far away from the crowds! And just think – this is extremely remote country in 2007; Imagine how remote it would have felt (and been) in the late 1800s! I have been so indoctrinated by today’s standards that I believe this to be secluded, but it would have really been off the map of the known world back in Johnson’s days. Mind boggling!

Two liters of water and a couple of energy bars have accompanied me on this walk. The water I am freely imbibing due to the increasing warmth of the air, but the bars are still not needed. A brief sojourn under a tree with my hat and pack off bring a prompt cooling due to the nice up-canyon breeze that still exists from last evening. Then it’s off back to camp, on a trek that proves quicker and easier than getting up here. First of all, I now know the trail better, and generally speaking, it’s downhill, except of course where the trail bypasses the tight spots over the high cliffs, and then it’s strenuous even going back. One thing is certain: these mountain goat type trails are no place to slip off the edge of the narrow footpath.

Occasionally my shoes get damp from the frequent stream crossings, but the remarkably low humidity and warming air quickly dry them before any moisture makes its way to my socks inside. I feel totally invigorated upon my return to the BEV, and now put away my hiking gear so that I may head down to Death Valley, the West Side road, and my next destinations.

On the drive north to Trail Canyon, a notable wayside exists, a place where some folks back in 1849 experienced many days of agony. It is where the Bennett-Arcan group camped while they waited for help in escaping the valley (yet formally unnamed). Depending on which reference you read, Arcan is sometimes spelled Arcane – I use the Arcan spelling since noted Death Valley historian Richard Lingenfelter does, and if it’s good enough for him, it works for me. If you read a lot of books about this region, you will find that there are many instances in DV history where spellings and facts are not readily agreed upon, hence the material for legends is born.

If you disagree with any history I present within this journal, read a few more books about the area and eventually you’ll find evidence to support my rendition. Same goes for spelling of many locales out here … there is disagreement even among the experts. Overall, most historian type folks who write books agree though, which is a good thing.

In any event, this unfortunate party of gold seekers found themselves stranded on the valley floor, near what is now the West Side road, about five miles south of the current road into Hanaupah Canyon. They sent two of their strongest men, named Manly and Rogers, to fetch help from the settlements over 200 miles away to the southwest. Twenty-six days later, the young men returned with supplies, and twenty-three days after that, the group was safe once again. On their way out, through the Panamint Mountains, one of their party is reported to have said, “Goodbye death valley” as they gave a final glance to the land that had nearly claimed all their lives. Legend now has it that this is how the valley earned its dreadful name.

These ill-fated events of near-death came about because groups of folks had heard of a shortcut to the California gold fields, but apparently that shortcut was never tested by its creator, so when the forty-niners who broke away from their main group on the Old Spanish Trail tried it, they found themselves in this unexplored valley where I am now standing. One group called themselves the Jayhawkers, another the Bugsmashers, and a third became known as the Harry Wade group. These folks were advised not to leave the tried-and-true Spanish Trail, but in their eagerness to find their gold, they opted to take the chance. It all makes for some pretty fascinating history, and as I stand here at the Bennett-Arcan-Long camp, I can see why they thought they were doomed. Fortunately, the two young fellows who went for help stayed true to their mission of rescue and came back with necessary supplies to get the group out alive (one unlucky guy didn’t make it though).

Well, after a few moments to contemplate all this and take a photo, I head north again towards the Trail Canyon side road, about eleven miles from here, still on the West Side road. I pass the site of the Eagle Borax Works, the Harris-Dayton graves, and Tule Spring (all three of which I wrote in the chapter On The Roads Not Taken).  As I pull up to make the left hand turn to the west up the alluvial fan of Trail Canyon, I notice a man sitting on the ground at the intersection, and a motorcycle parked across the road, so I shut off my engine to check and see if he needs any assistance. There is no one to be found anywhere near.

He tells me that he is waiting for his buddy, also on a bike, to return from a quick foray up Trail Canyon. He also comments that he is from Mt. Shasta, California, and his friend is from Medford, Oregon. This man then relates the story of how he just bought his new backcountry motorcycle, and isn’t quite up to the skill level of his friend, so he opted to wait here for him. We chat for a bit, he asks for a good area to explore tomorrow, and I tell him that they might really enjoy all the fun roads around the Chloride City and Chloride Cliff area. He thanks me for my descriptions, says they are staying at Stovepipe Wells tonight, and will try the Chloride area tomorrow. Then, I head off in the direction of the mighty Panamints once again, remaining vigilant for another motorcyclist coming down so that we don’t meet up the hard way.

About three miles up the alluvium, I notice a BEV heading my direction. It has just exited the main canyon, has its lights on, and is creating a dust trail, so it is visible long before we meet. As we come together, the driver stops, and I slow to a crawl and stop alongside, with our windows even so that we can speak. A burly blonde-haired man is the driver, and a fit blonde-haired woman with sunglasses is the passenger. The woman smiles a lot but does not speak. The man speaks volumes, in a strong accent from a foreign country. He tells me that they are visiting from the Netherlands.

I find this so exciting to meet folks from all over the world on these travels out here. They are in a brand new BEV, and the driver spends quite a bit of time telling me that this $33,000 vehicle would cost far more in his country, to the tune of about $80,000 after some 20% import tax and some other fees to bring a rig like this back. My jaw drops, my eyes widen, and he just smiles and says, “Yeah man, can you believe it?”

Makes the 26k that I paid for my wheels seem insignificant by comparison. As we prepare to part company after about ten minutes of sharing, here comes the motorcycle down the canyon road, so now we have three vehicles in a rare Death Valley traffic jam. Amazing. I say a quick “hi” to the motorcyclist, tell him his buddy is still down there waiting, and say goodbye to everyone and head on my way. They are all coming out, and I’m going in. Guess I’ll have the canyon all to myself now.

Just prior to entering the canyon proper, I stop for a bite to eat. No trees or shade anywhere, but I opt to eat standing because it feels so good to stretch. A quick brush of the teeth and I’m on my way again, eager to see the Tarantula Mine at the end of this road. Of course, little did I know that I was about to be in for quite an unpleasant surprise. Remember that the only certainty in the Death Valley territory is uncertainty.

This road is fun to drive, and just enough challenge for the average backroad explorer with 4wd. It is mostly class-2, but as with the four main drivable canyons to the south, it begins to change to occasional class-3 in the wash where water activity has stirred things up a bit during the year. Still, it is much easier going than the last time I drove up Hanaupah Canyon next door, where that road was as rocky as you could imagine, and very slow going towards the end. When I get to the end of this road, I plan to set an early mid-afternoon camp and go for a hike up towards Aguereberry Point to see where the road washed out years ago. I figure that after the hike, I’ll be starving and tired, so dinner and sleep will be welcomed. It will be a nice ending to a long day of discovery.

About a mile from the road’s end, all is going well, or so I am thinking until my nose offers evidence that I might be incorrect in that assessment. Guess I shouldn’t have thought how well things are going because Murphy must have heard me and brought his Law to bear on me for being overly confident. Okay, now what’s going on here? Silly me! Have I made an error of some sort? Maybe I should have stuck to pavement like everyone else does! Nah, no way …

I have been traveling about twelve miles per hour due to the numerous rocks and gullies flexing the vehicle’s suspension to the max, just normal fare for backroading, right? I begin to smell a hot liquid, which, of course, is not a good thing when one is out in the middle of Death Valley! Being the astute and thorough guy that I am, I immediately apply the brakes, bring my trusty steed to a stop, shut off the engine, pop the hood, and exit the truck in apprehensive anxiety. How could a virtually new car with only 9,000 miles on it, a car that I keep in pristine condition no less, be leaking something? I know this smell spells trouble, and a potential end of my safari.

Still, I hope for the best, while expecting the worst.

Everything under the hood checks out fine – what a relief that is! No fluid sprayed everywhere from the fan or any other tell-tale signs of disaster, yet the odor is strong and continues to inflame my nostrils and elevate my despair. Now, I know it is time to get down and dirty on the rocky and dusty two-track road so that I can scan the underside for difficulty … it has to be somewhere, no doubt about that. It is just a matter of finding the source.

Starting with the front of the underside, all the skidplates look fine, and nothing is dangling. As my vision approaches the rear axle area, the disabling issue rears its ugly head. Dark oil is dripping profusely on the ground and being vaporized as its splatter on the exhaust pipe is producing the unwanted nasal sensations. The right rear shock absorber is leaking, and is covered with a sticky mess. Closer examination reveals that it isn’t a simple leak however. The piston and main chrome shaft have pulled entirely out of the shock body itself, leaving my shock in two distinct pieces … one attached to the frame (the plunger shaft), and the other attached to the axle (the bright yellow shock body – only now it is no longer bright or yellow, but dark and dirty).

Hmm, what to do? Trying to remain upbeat and positive, I realize that obviously this is good news in that I can still drive and function, albeit with some lack of control in the rear. Maybe if I drive carefully back to Furnace Creek tomorrow after my hike, I might find a cheap get-by shock to slap on it so that I can complete my entire action-filled itinerary of ten days. But at second thought, perhaps it will be most prudent to return to the lowlands right now and not tempt Murphy’s Law any more by driving the extra mile or so to the Tarantula Mine today – the road only gets rockier. Yes, that sounds like a solid plan! Fix it first while I can, before I get into more trouble.

So, I turn around and head back down to the salt flats towards Furnace. But, alas, this is not to be my day, for within a mile, disaster strikes yet a second time. Gads, Mr. Murphy, why me? My BEV’s rear end begins bouncing up and down like a baby buggy rolling over bowling balls, and a new round of warm stench now fills my senses. Surely the other shock hasn’t followed suit, I think to my self aloud! Again, I stop to inspect.

Well folks, my hunch is correct, unfortunately, and to my utter disbelief and dismay, the driver’s side rear shock absorber has suffered the identical fate, and is now in two distinct pieces, with oil gushing Earthward and polluting the wonderful ground that I have driven so far to behold. Here I am, Mister Environmental Guy (MEG), leaking petroleum distillates all over the Trail Canyon road. I am stupefied, speechless, and shockless. I am watching my trip go up in smoke right before my very eyes! I think about all the advice I constantly give folks who email me about backcountry travel, and how they should always go in groups for safety in the event of disaster. Yet, here I am alone, with a now semi-crippled rig that is not too capable anymore in the control department. Can I even safely drive this thing at this point? I have no rear shocks whatsoever.

Furnace Creek has no auto supplies, and tells me that Pahrump, Nevada is the closest full-service town. Heck, they say, I can drive the hour to get there, put on new shocks, and be back in Death Valley by nightfall. It is a plan, but it doesn’t work. The nice mechanic over here meticulously calls every parts house in town, and none carry such a replacement of that size. Out of luck, with no brand dealer anywhere close, I throw in the towel and head home on secondary highways to avoid traffic. Even so, at one point on Highway 95, an eighteen wheeler pulls right up on my pathetic bouncing bumper, lays on his air horn, and keeps flashing his lights, even though I have my emergency flashers on. Hasn’t he heard of sharing the road? This is not fun anymore, and downright dangerous. Still though, it’s a beautiful late afternoon out here in the hinterlands.

Driving a BEV with no rear shocks is a new learning experience. Every bump causes the rear of the rig to uncontrollably bounce, and cornering is a thing of the past. Hit a bump in a corner and the gig is up, and you’re soon to say hello to the side of the road. It is a long trip home, crippled, demoralized, and creeping along at 50 miles per hour in 70 mph zones. I sleep along side the road at 3:30 AM when I can no longer keep my eyelids elevated sufficiently to allow my retinas to function. Imagine, the rear of the truck all mushy and me swerving around the blacktop each time my eyes shut. The combination screams for me to sleep, so I do, under a nearly full moon casting strong shadows on the snow-covered mountains behind me and illuminating Tum Tum lake in front of me across the road.

Two hours later, still dark, I leave for home sweet home. After stopping at a local auto dealer that specializes in my brand, and being assured that they will fully warranty the problem (the service manager is absolutely dumbstruck when he witnesses the shocking situation), I roll on in to home base, eat a huge dinner, and crash in my bed for twelve hours of much-needed shut-eye. I must drive back over to the dealer in a couple of weeks to have the work done because the parts are on extended back-order. And while I would rather switch to another brand shock absorber after this unsettling experience, I realize that I need to keep the cash in my own wallet so that I can market this journal for publication, and I will therefore go with the dealer’s free warranty-covered solution.

One thing is certain about my slow 50 mph trek home on the paved byways of Nevada at night – it allowed the rig to achieve a respectable 24.78 miles per gallon fuel economy (a good thing).

Well, so here I sit writing this story and reflecting on the matter. I could get all bummed out as I realize that my ten-day safari was cut short after two days, but that is counter-productive. Being a foundationally positive thinker, and attempting to see the good in all things, I realize that I did get home safely, nothing was really wrong with the rig itself, it will be fixed at no cost to me, and there is always tomorrow when I can once again return and visit all those little secret spots that I missed this trip.

Best of all, I am happy to have had such a marvelous evening on Wednesday, where the natural world showered me with an overabundance of its wonderful workings, a night where my senses were kindled in overdrive, with frogs, crickets, bats, birds, streams, waterfalls, clouds, clean air, and the ultimate tranquility. How can I be upset? It was a beautiful time, what there was of it, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything! Truly, this is a land of striking contrasts and surprises.