High Water

VACATIONS, HIGH WATER & LOST SOULS

A few true tales of what can happen in the backcountry

by Matt Jones

First and foremost, the incredibly remote and seldom traveled regions that encompass Death Valley National Park demand the respect of all backcountry travelers. Many of us start out during our younger years innocently enough, giving nary a thought to mishaps or hazards, yet if just the right set of circumstances ominously falls into place during an expedition, the “perfect storm” can result, and leave us in dire straits. These stories I now tell, in hopes that the unforgiving experiences might be avoided by future greenhorns who enter the Death Valley region.

These three tales, two with happy endings and one without, unfolded primarily in the southern reaches of Death Valley. So as to orient you to the region, on your map locate the names that will appear: Harry Wade Road, Ibex Springs, Ashford Mill, Warm Spring Canyon, Butte Valley, Anvil Spring, Mengel Pass, and Ballarat. These locales provide the backdrop upon which I have been a party to, and aware of, a few hazardous miscalculations. Living life is learning lessons, learning them well enough to be able to return again in the future so as to behold the marvelous grandeur of this wild country.

PANAMINT TRAVERSE

My first experience with the “Valley” occurred Thanksgiving weekend, somewhere around 1987, when my girlfriend and later to be wife, Maggie, and I found ourselves entering the mouth of Warm Spring Canyon just as the shadows crossed the canyon floor.  In retrospect it could have been disastrous:  no supplies other than a cooler full of beer and no idea where we were actually going. The silence of the canyon was overtaken by the low-pitched growl of our tires as they wrestled with the road. The headlights fought their own separate battle with the darkness, revealing brief encapsulated views of a harsh but beckoning desert.

Through the bouncing beams of our headlights appeared a cluster of mustard colored buildings, although a prominently displayed NO TRESPASSING sign prevented further investigation. Later we learned this was the Warm Springs Talc Mine. Through the darkness our Samurai 4×4 vehicle moaned an over-revved song as we climbed the slight grade leading to Butte Valley. We could see no farther than the headlights, except for skyward where an occasional shooting star accompanied a growing blanket of stars. We pressed forward to a small rock strewn pass.

At the pass the Samurai grasped for traction, first spinning one wheel and then the other, hopping from one rock to the next. There was a lag of forward motion, then as the tires grasped and caught traction a sudden explosion of forward momentum. This was replayed several times before clearing the pass, all the while the cross member screamed in anguish. Forging forward into the darkness, the road narrowed and the canyon walls grew steeper and higher until their tips were no longer visible except for their contrasting blackness against the night sky. Overwhelmed by this surrealistic scene, I grabbed the camera and snapped a photo, knowing it could never capture the true essence of what we were witnessing. With a few twists and turns we were clear of the canyon and into a valley.

We had no idea of our destination, off to the left a watery refraction of the stars above and to the right a solitary glowing beacon (Briggs Camp). We soon came upon a sign, a 2×4 painted white with black lettering, facing the opposite direction of our travel. It proclaimed Goler Wash & Death Valley. We may not have known where we were going but at least we knew where we had been! The road curved around the edge of the mountain until we reached a small encampment with a number of glowing campfires. Our Samurai came to idle just long enough to read a monument stating this was the fabled mining town of Ballarat in the Panamint Valley. We followed the dirt road west, met with the highway, and then wandered through Trona and on into Ridgecrest, California.

While this particular trip may have been over, our destiny with the “Valley” had just begun. This was the precursor to being stranded a few months later in the brine waters of the legendary Amargosa River – luckily it was in February!

WALKING THE HARRY WADE

Slowly trickling through the alkali encrusted soil, the Amargosa River meandered, babbled and scorned the sunken wheels of my Suzuki Samurai. Truly the valley ensnared us in its clutches, proving its beauty and lethal seriousness. Calmly beautiful, weaving under my vehicle like a long slithering snake with no end, it continued its journey. I realized that as I jacked the Samurai up with my bottle jack, I could see less and less of the top of the tool box I was using as platform, but could not render a single hint of daylight under the rear wheels. Worse, as I attempted to lift the rear of the vehicle, the front, as if out of spite, sank yet farther into the murky primordial ooze.  No longer were the locking hubs visible!

Somewhere after the top of my tool box was no longer in sight, and most of my bottle jack joined it on its downward journey into the deep reaches of the miring little stream, I felt I had just enough clearance to put something under the tires for traction, but what? Miles of sage brush were plainly in sight, but it would take a great number and more time than I thought I wanted to spend to cut it.  A not so brilliant idea flashed through my head: Samurai doors are only held in place with Philips Screws! At least I had enough foresight to take some of tools out of the box. Proud of my new idea, I jammed the doors under the rear wheels, lowered the jack and jumped into the cockpit. For sure we were getting out of this now. My hopes were quickly dashed as the first slight dump of the clutch rendered no movement. A little more gas and a little more clutch, much to my chagrin, sent the doors into the depths.

I turned to Maggie and said,” I am sorry for getting us into this mess. I hope we don’t become a statistic.” A possible headline flashed through my head. It read “Couple Never Returned from Back-County Trip in Death Valley, Search Continues.” My never ending search for ghost towns and the road less traveled brought us to the vicinity of Ibex Springs and an old Jeep track heading west. Vaguely understanding our location, I knew all we had to do was cross this little stream to reach the Harry Wade Road. A slight miscalculation of the capabilities of my almighty four wheel drive had us promptly beached.

If we were stranded, we were stranded in that life giving substance water, I mused. I understand that people can go for days without food but without water doom is near at hand. Yuck, argh, my God, that is the most foul tasting salty substance to have ever touched my lips! Now what to do? Visions of ominous doom appeared on the horizon, it was only the setting sun casting its last ray of warmth towards us, but darkness soon enveloped the area, and with it any hope of unsettling the firmly entrenched Samurai. We settled in for the night. February nights in the valley can be long and cold. I gathered the semblance of my mud disguised doors and hastily reattached them. Mud encrusted, they only seemed to transmit the cold through their water soaked skin. With a quick twist of the wrist the Samurai roared into life, overshadowing the soft serenity of the river. Blub, blub, blub, complained our muffler, fully under water, as it also created on odd booming noise resonating in harmony with the blub, blub, blub. However, soon the interior was filled with warmth and provided a mild respite for our aching muscles and water savaged toes. Sleep temporarily held all anxiety at bay.

It seemed my eyes only shut for a fleeting moment, and then as if in a convulsion I felt that I suddenly sat straight up in my seat. What about carbon monoxide and this muffler with a gigantic hole in it right under my feet? Many had fallen into eternity as carbon monoxide is a colorless, odorless gas that takes its victims without a fight.  Was it beckoning us to sleep just to kidnap our souls? In a rushed panic I reached for the ignition switch. Soon the sounds of the river had taken back the night and all that was natural was back in accord, but cold dampness filtered its way to our bones.

In most situations a flowing stream and the soft music it sings would invite rest, and be ever so relaxing. Although my body, pushed well past its physical limitations by the day’s task, was worn beyond the need of sleep, my mind would not stop. Visions and nightmares of all the horrific things that befall the unprepared traveler danced in my head. It was like watching an old black and white horror picture. It lacked the realism of all the Hollywood gloss and glitter, but it was all too real.

Anxiety now turned to desperation. We sat staring at the night sky painted brilliantly; low flying planes made their appearance and bounded from sight. Maggie asked, “Why don’t we try to signal them?” and I replied, “Well I would but I don’t know SOS.” Fortunately, Maggie, a HAM did know Morse code. The only problem was she could not recall if SOS was … — … or —…—. Alternatively we tried …—… and —…— to no avail. In retrospect anyone seeing this display would have probably been more likely to think we were merry pranksters who had consumed more than our fill of intoxicants, rather than someone in true need of assistance. Sleep never set upon us again that night.

As the welcomed morning sun crept onto the playa, casting its long shadow of the day just begun, it brought us needed warmth.  Frigid and slow moving, we crept out of the Samurai and once again set foot into the timeless waters of the Amargosa River. Maggie noted that “we know this river intersects with the road because we’ve driven the so called treacherous crossing that bore no resemblance to this before.” She thought that all we had to do was head north and we are sure to hit the road. Most prudent advice says to stay with the car, but in this case it would have been a while before anyone knew we were missing and even if they did, the only word we left with anyone was that we were headed simply to Death Valley. It is a mighty large area to search for a little jade green Samurai! Yes, we had broken many Cardinal Rules.

Gathering all the ice from the ice chest into a canteen hastily formed out of an empty can, we clamored up the steep bank encaging the Samurai and out of the pit of despair, making a mental note of orientation, with the hills to the east, in hopes it would be recognizable on a return trip to free our rig from its submersion. Proceeding north, after a long hike on the salty banks, we finally came to the worn intersection of the Harry Wade road and the Amargosa. Here there was evidence of a multitude of unmitigated crossings. Tire imprints of thousands of different treads bore silent witness to those that had so many times uneventfully crossed this section of river! Here wilderness and man collided. Was it the river ceding to man’s road? Or was it that man’s road had to deal with the river as it passed its course. Really no matter; from our perspective of survival it was a good sign. Any sign of travel brought hopes that a vehicle would be passing our way.

Our aluminum skinned water vessel filled with ice amounted to about half a can of water. In the afternoon sun we sought the shade of the largest creosote bush we could find and took turns sipping our precious commodity. Maggie, a little dizzy from the lack of breakfast, suggested that we wait out the afternoon, resting under the little shade the desert provided.  Sitting in the calmness of the desert brings an entirely new perspective. The slight rustling of the brush singing in the afternoon breeze overcame the sound of dead quiet, although I never really experienced total silence as there was always an accompanying hum with the complete lack of sound. I contemplated for a minute whether or not this hum was occurring in my head or was some greater mechanism of the Earth. In this contemplative state, slowly creeping on the wind, I noted a new sound, one distinctly different than that of nature. It was not a plane because the rhythm was not steady. Brought playfully to my ears in the afternoon breezes it would first appear and then disappear. Unmistakably, it was the groaning of an engine but from where was it coming?  Was the breeze funneling echoes of a distant canyon?

Soon the groaning overtook the breeze with a certain harshness only mechanized travel can bring. Now, in company with the changing pitch, I distinctly heard the sounds of rocks as they not so caressingly kissed the underside of a metal frame. My full focus now on the sound, I shook Maggie, a car! Hastily I ran my fingers through my hair (coursed with a dried muddy mousse), dropped my baseball hat back into place, tucked my unkempt shirt in, and tried in vain to brush off the mud clinging below my knees and down onto my shoes. After all, I did not want to give the appearance of vagrancy to whomever was traveling this desolate road. I stepped onto the side of the road. A car appeared in the distance as if spawned by a demon, encompassed in a billowing cloud. Its glare in the afternoon sun was making other details hard to discern, the vapor trail left in its wake billowed for miles behind as it ate road and convulsively spit dirt and rock from the rear wheels.

Waving my hands frantically I now could see there was only one occupant. Clearly, I could be seen, for I could see the driver now, and while not standing in the middle of the road, I was well into it. Watching as the vehicle veered to the far side of the road opposite of me, I detected a subtle change in engine pitch as if the engine were asked to give a little more. My heart sank as the vehicle’s smoke trail slowly settled chokingly around us. Hope gone, I thought what kind of a person would leave two people in obvious peril without even turning his head in acknowledgment? Onward we marched towards our never ending destination.

In retrospect it was probably best that we did not know it was approximately 10 miles to the highway or our ambition would have waned and we would have fallen by the roadside. Tuned only on my internal discord over the situation, thoughts of stupidity, anxiety over getting to the asphalt, and how to free the Samurai, it came out of nowhere. It was as if it just materialized behind us; a slow moving white pick-up. I turned and found such a proximity that I could easily discern two occupants seated in the cab. We stepped to the side of the road as the white Ford rolled to a stop with a minimal amount of dust drifting around us. No sooner had the dust settled than the window shuttered down. I don’t remember the facial features these some 20 years later but I still remember, “Y’all all right?”

Embraced by my own sense of shame and stupidity, I explained our plight. He said, “jump in the back of the truck I will take you as far as Furnace Creek.” We drove just several hundred feet when the truck abruptly came to a stop. Sliding the back window open the woman seated next to our rescuer asked if we would like some water. She undoubtedly could tell by the looks on our faces at the mention of it, for she passed a gallon jug without a further word. My confidence now restored in my fellow man, I sat back in contemplation of what would happen next; elated at being given a ride but also wary of what was to come. We were not out of the desert yet so to speak.

Our knight’s truck rustled and hitched a little as the wheels met pavement. It was as if someone rolled out a magic carpet. I never noted how smooth a paved road was before, even one mocked with pot holes. Soon we traversed some 45 miles, passing Mormon Point, Badwater, and Mushroom Rock arriving at Furnace Creek a little before sunset. Thanking them, knowing we owed them a debt of gratitude, so absorbed in our own dilemma, however, we never asked for their contact information, something I regret to this day. At the last goodbye and thank you we shuffled into the lobby of the Furnace Creek Ranch.

Standing there, waiting our turn in line, we undoubtedly invoked images of Charles Schulz’s Peanuts character “Pig Pen” to anyone viewing.  A blowing cloud of dust followed us in the door and with each step a little dried dirt from my shoes and pant legs would drop onto the carpet. After toiling on the muddy banks of the alkali encrusted sink, hiking a number of miles, and then riding a windblown sojourn in the back of a pickup, we were a little worse for wear.  I met the counterperson’s gaze. He was indifferent to my appearance. I explained our plight, and the need of a room. He replied that an improved room with a phone ran about $100.00 per night.

I passed the American Express Card to him. He explained in a slow monotonous way that we needed the services of the four wheel drive tow truck. The tow truck company was closed but if we would call the office in the morning, towing could be arranged.  Sleep was fitful at best, even after a long hot shower soaked my aching bones. We were now physically safe, but how would we free the Samurai? What if the four wheel drive tow truck could not do it? Morning came fast enough, and putting on our well worn dirty clothes was a mental setback. We were told the cheapest place to eat at the ranch was the cafeteria.

We headed that way immediately after placing a call to the front desk. On the other end of the phone, a new voice once again heard the recounted story of the submerged Samurai and the mention of the four wheel drive tow truck service. “No problem … come to the front desk after breakfast and we will have someone drive you over.” We hungrily ate the cafeteria food and soon were at the front desk waiting. In a few minutes a clean white van appeared and we were shuttled to an overhang opposite the Furnace Creek Inn. Here we were met by a friendly, affable gentleman with graying hair.

I will call him Dan, not so much to protect the innocent but because my memory is more than a little hazy. Dan brought out a map, and to the best of our knowledge, we pointed to an approximate position on the diagram. Dan said, “Well based on the mileage it would cost  $250.00 up front with no promise of delivery.” Seeing no other option, I handed Dan my now melting credit card. He quickly swiped it and handed me the slip to sign. He said, “Let’s get started.” Maggie jumped in the middle, and with a groan the big truck roared into life.

In reverse order this time, we passed Mushroom Rock, Badwater, and Mormon Point, but instead of heading south on the Harry Wade Road, we headed east towards Shoshone. Our travels took us past Shoshone and its cemetery to a point overlooking Ibex Dunes and a repeater antenna on the west side of the road. Here we exited the highway and headed west on the dirt roadway.

Casual conversation brought out that Dan was not the usual driver and the other driver was suffering from some kind of health concern. Dan was cruising the big truck over the washboard at a steady speed and the truck’s long wheel base comfortably absorbed the shock. Several miles into the road, Dan brought the truck to a stop in front of a series of rocks strung across the road. I knew what lay behind them but had not mentioned it at the overhang for fear of being turned away. Dan stepped out and lit up one of his Camel smokes. He surveyed the precipice before him. Heavily damaged, the road bore the scars of a flash flood. The flood carved a pit approximately 20 feet deep and maybe 40 feet wide. It was heavily laden with sand at the bottom and had a steep approach angle on both sides. Dan looked at me, taking a long deep drag and said “If we get this thing stuck we’re in a world of hurt. It will take a really big truck to get the tow rig out.”

I explained to Dan that really, it was no problem. After all, we had just crossed it in the Samurai a few days ago. He retorted, “Well, where is it now?” I replied, “Good point but, really just give it a little gas at the bottom so you don’t bog down in the wash.” He looked unbelievingly at me and said “Alright.” Low range, first gear produced an unusual high pitch whine as we headed straight for the bottom. In unison we leapt with sudden weightlessness and just as quickly were set back in our long bench seat as the truck’s front bumper hit the bottom of the ravine.  A loud jab of the accelerator plowed the front wheel slinging sand into the wash. A sudden thud occurred at the back of the truck as it cleared the hill behind. Dan did not lift, hitting the opposite bank at a full run, first smashing the bumper into the opposite embankment and then grading the approach with it. With a loud roar the truck reached the top and settled in at the smashing of the brake pedal.

Dan, a little pale, looked over and lit up another smoke, proclaiming, “I hope the rest of the trip is not going to be like this.” I promised that it would be less eventful. Heading west around a small hill, we followed an old Jeep track for quite a distance. Marking the middle of the road, a blistered, sun faded, white sign with red lettering sheepishly proclaimed ROAD CLOSED. On both sides of the sign there was evidence that it truly was not a heeded warning to most. Deep tire tracks in both directions were clearly evident. It was as if this was a tiny island in a stream that  the water heeded only long enough to pass. Again, Dan reached for his pack of Camels. He said, “Look I am really sorry about this, but I can’t go any farther. We just received  a ticket and really did have to get  a tow company out of Baker to come and pull our truck off the salt flat around Badwater. We were trying to reach a guy who sank his car and we sank. Not only embarrassed us, but the National Park Service cited both of us for being out there. I just can’t do it seeing that sign, road or no road.” Our hearts sank as he turned the rig around and headed back out.

Dan said, “Look I really wish I could give you your money back, but it would mean losing my job. You seem like really good people, but I just can’t.”  I told him we understood. We headed east approaching the precipice from the other side and a familiar line of rocks warning travelers. Dan brought the truck to an idle several feet before the rocks, lit up yet another smoke, jumped out of the truck and said, “You drive.” “What?” I asked. “You drive – I’m not going to do that again.” Maggie looked over, jumped out of the truck and said, “I don’t want to be in this thing either.” With a no-confidence vote from both of them, I was left to face the chasm solo, other than the hard cold steel of the truck as a companion.

Dropping into four wheel low, I edged the beast towards the grade, letting it coast down, hitting the bottom, bumper first, with a thud. Pushing the front bumper through the sand like a plow for the first few feet, I gradually gained miles per hour. I did not want to gas it hard enough to spin the wheels but I also knew I had to drive straight up the other side. I felt I had the right combination of momentum to stay on top of it, but also not so much to hit the other side with a bang, so to speak. Again the front bumper pounded in the abuse from the hill side. As we approached there was a slight lag of movement, which I responded to with a little hammering down on the pedal. In a fraction of a second my head hit the roof of the cab bouncing a few times before stopping. At the same time there was a loud bang behind the truck and a loud clanking. I smashed the brake down bringing the truck to a screeching stop. By the time I opened the door and the dust had settled Dan was a ways back picking up the remnants of a shattered tool box and scattered tools, all the while puffing on a cigarette.

My hand found the growing knot on my head, which I was busily rubbing when Dan approached. He said “ I have never seen nothing like that. You had at least three feet of daylight under the front tires of this rig. If anybody finds out about this I am in deep trouble. OK, I’ll drive again.” and he took the wheel.

Not a word was mentioned on the way back, as yet again we passed Mormon Point, Badwater and Mushroom Rock arriving at the overhang late in the afternoon. Dan said again, “Look, I am real sorry about taking your money. Why don’t we go over to my trailer and have some lunch? After that we will go up to Cow Creek and see if anybody will lend a hand.” We accepted his invitation, and ate a fine $250.00 dollar meal in Dan’s trailer. We were not unhappy, food was welcome.

After our meal we drove to Cow Creek, where Dan tried to convince a few four wheel drive owners that our plight was worthy of attention. There were no takers, however, and we left without a hope. I can’t blame anyone for not wanting to get involved as it was our own foolishness that got us into this mess. Late afternoon, Dan dropped us off at the front desk of the Furnace Creek Ranch. Still wearing the same clothes, I handed my now melted card to the counterperson for another $100.00 swipe. We reached our room dejected. Our hand had been played, with the exception of one card … the one everybody said to avoid at all cost: The National Park Service.

I called the visitor’s center. After being put on hold several times I was asked about the position of the vehicle. I explained and was told “that seems like a BLM issue.” I persisted, “No it’s really in the park!” “Well maybe we can help.” Back on hold again, then yet another voice, “Where are you?” I explained where the car was again, “NO” the voice responded, “where are you now?” “Oh, at the ranch.” “O.K. then, “ meet me tomorrow morning in front of the phones near the store. You should bring food and water for the hike.” “What hike?” “Well you don’t think we are going to drive out there and get it do you?” “Ah, okay, but I tried for the better part of the day to dig it out.” “Just be at the phones tomorrow!” the now annoyed voice said. “How will I know who you are?” “Look for the truck with the red and blue lights on it with the lettering stating Ranger. That will be me.”

Another sleepless night over the distress the park service was going to inflict. Sun up, we were already awake. We waited outside the general store for it to open. In it we each brought a box of Pop-Tarts and a large bottle of water. A white truck with red and blue lights featuring green lettering proclaiming Ranger soon arrived. He stopped and opened the door. Much to my surprise he was very jovial. We headed south once again passing the all too familiar land marks. I thought this guy seemed alright. He put my apprehension at bay, until our conversation led to the stuck Samurai. He revealed why he was in such a good mood. He said to me, “No, I am not going out there, I am just giving you a ride. We are going to meet up with Wayne at the junction of the dirt road and the highway” He went on, “You don’t know how happy I am that I don’t have to deal with this. I hate vehicle recovery!” My mind now raced, Wayne? This sounds bad.

As prescribed we met another similar truck with red and blue lights and green lettering clearly displaying Ranger. Wayne looked us over with a cold eye. He motioned for us to get in his truck. I opened the door to let Maggie in and a harsh cold voice bellowed out, “Are you sure she can make it?” “YES” I responded, “she will be fine.” “Alright get in. You’re going to have to show me where you think your vehicle is.”  We slowly crawled down the washboard road. Wayne explained that washboard roads were caused by people driving too fast and of course we were going to feel every bump and contortion the road had to offer instead of contributing to more washboard.

Since we had plenty of time, I tried to engage Wayne in a conversation only to be met with one word answers. He then explained that the consequence of our actions would land us in front of the Federal Magistrate. We or I, since I was driving, would have to appear in Independence and pay a hefty fine. It was hard to tell if he was playing the part to scare us, since it appeared to be that there was an underlying kindness. It seemed as if Wayne rightfully thought we should be taught a lesson for our act of stupidity, but also had compassion. We reached a point where my mental note corresponded to the adjacent hills. Wayne asked, “Are you sure?” “Well as close to being sure as I can be.”  With a minimal amount of rustling Wayne produced a shovel from the back of his truck and handed it to me. My heart sank – I already tried in vain to dig the Samurai out but I didn’t contradict him. On into the salt marsh we marched.

The Amargosa River in this area cut deep banks; there would be no hope of seeing the Samurai until we were on top of it. To my surprise our direction led us to the bank directly peering down into the abyss that held the Samurai. There it was in the murky, muddy clasp of the river. With the one shovel, I was instructed to dig. Under Wayne’s watchful eye I shoveled with due diligence. I moved one pile of mud after another from under the Samurai. Wayne seemed to be amused as he watched the Amargosa fill in what I just removed and level out what I set aside. For a while he watched and Maggie joined him as I toiled in the alkali water. Then a command, “You keep digging. I’ll be back.”

I did not dare stop in this futile attempt, as I felt if I did Wayne would appear from behind the brush. I kept at it growing more blisters. As I worked, a shadow came over me. It was a strange configuration. It appeared as a man with a large lump on his shoulder and a long extended appendage attached to that. I turned, squinting into the sun, a  scene as if from High Noon appeared; there stood Wayne high on the bank with a roll of carpet on his shoulder, held down by the largest jack I had ever seen in my life. “O.K, you can stop now” he boomed.

Wayne made his way down the embankment to us. He commanded, “Step aside.” Dropping the jack in the mud, he found the tow hook and slipped the jack in it. Within minutes the front wheels were out of the mud and daylight  clearly could be seen under them. In the mud the jack wavered a little, jostling the Samurai a few inches in either direction. Wayne paid no attention as he unrolled the carpet, dropping it into the mud under the front tires. He said, “O.K. you get in.” as he lowered the jack a little. “Put this thing in reverse and don’t let up until you are clear of this mess.” Quickly I jumped in, and within a fraction of a second the sound of the exhaust roared. Onto the carpet the Samurai front tires fell, while simultaneously I feathered the clutch and the gas. To my surprise when I let off the gas, the Samurai was sitting on the east side of the bank, free at last!

We were elated but Wayne remained expressionless as he rolled up the soggy carpet. At first, he peered into the Samurai as if looking to put the soggy oozing mess inside, and then to my relief, he decided to place it between the spare tire and the rear window. He wedged the carpet far down while it oozed a muddy plant entwined mess onto  the tailgate. He then placed the jack in the back seat. Heading the opposite of the setting sun we made our way towards the highway, encountering the well worn ROAD CLOSED sign from the opposite side now. Wayne asked, “Did you ignore it?” I said, “No, actually we never saw it until the tow truck driver did.” He said, “Well there are several roads that lead to this and not all of them are marked.” Still heading towards the highway, we turned south, bypassing the precipice and the scene of the great tow truck jump. Bouncing about, the Samurai’s short wheel base made itself apparent, but I did not want to contribute to the washboard so I kept the speed well below 25 MPH. It seemed like an eternity to reach Wayne’s parked truck at this speed. We finally arrived just before dusk.

Fearing the worst I joined Wayne and his ticket book at the front of his truck. His demeanor changed slightly. He asked, “So how much was the tow truck and two nights at the ranch?” I told him, “All totaled not including meals and food, it was about $450.00, plus undoubtedly, I will not get paid for missing two days work.” “Hmm, okay. Have you learned your lesson?” “Yes sir, I believe I have.” “Well alright, I am going to write you a ticket you can mail in. It will cost you $50.00. I think you have paid enough so far.” With a word of warning, “Don’t let me catch you in this situation again.” Wayne jumped in his truck and disappeared into the setting western sun, just like the movies. We turned south and headed towards Baker on the Interstate.

We must have been a sorry sight at the agriculture inspection station, our car covered in dirt and mud, as well as our tattered clothes. After a quick question, “Where have you been?” and the response “Death Valley,” we were waived through into the darkness of the freeway. This lesson taught a good many things. We were very fortunate in a number of aspects. Others have not always been so lucky. Some have forever and mysteriously disappeared into the mythology of Death Valley. One such group was visiting from Germany, and this is their sad tale:

SUMMER 1996 – FOUR GERMAN TOURISTS DISAPPEAR

Mesmerized, we sat looking out of the wavy glass window of the small stone cabin. In the window, the only sign of life, was the buzzing of a fly as it bounced off the glass. As with most summers in the Valley, the mercury attempted to push its way out of the glass confinement. Not even a flutter of a wind provided the slightest relief, only the shaded interior of the cabin. From this vantage point we could see a vehicle headed for Anvil Spring Canyon in Butte Valley. Wondering who it could be, we watched as it climbed the small hill leading to the spring, and then disappeared from sight.

Later, a vehicle belonging to a rental car company and carrying four German tourists was recovered in this canyon. Strangely, if they had chosen this weekend for their venture, they easily could have been rescued. I thought we were one of the few desert rats that would be dim-witted enough to brave the heat this weekend, but we had company in this small side valley.  Already an eerie tone set this trip apart, as we encountered what appeared to be an abandoned two wheel drive, having suffered the consequence of rolling over several times. It was located below the last small pass entering Butte Valley from the Panamint Valley side.  I remember this is because this was the week end prior to July, 23. 1996, a date when four German tourists sadly met their fate with the Valley.

Egbert Rimkus (34), his son George Weber (10), Cornelia Meyer (28), and her son Max (4), left their last known message. It read, loosely translated, “We are going through the pass.” Most believe they were referring to Mengel Pass. Though what lead them the opposite way southeast towards Anvil Spring Canyon no one can be certain. Disorientation with the desert was probably a contributing factor though. What is known is that they visited the stone cabin we were previously occupying the weekend before, because found carefully hidden under the rear seat of their 1996 Plymouth Voyager, was the American Flag belonging to the cabin. Some 6 miles away, down Anvil Spring Canyon their vehicle was spotted on October 26, 1996 by park ranger Dave Brenner. When inspected, three flat tires were found, although the spare was never touched. Approximately a half-mile down the canyon an empty beer bottle was recovered in the sand. It was part of the same lot recovered from the vehicle.  There are more questions than answers.

I have been told that somewhere after the group left their last known entry in the register at the deserted mining camp of Warm Spring, and before the vehicle was discovered, a sleeping bag was recovered by a ranger on the road leading to the old salt mine.  One of the things reported missing from the vehicle was a sleeping bag. At that time, it was not known that there was an abandoned vehicle some 30 miles north, waiting to be discovered and there was no reason to believe that this bag was anything more than a luckless camper’s loss. It was thrown away.  Most experts say that they never could have made it that far but experts have been wrong many times. They were stranded close to Squaw Springs. From personal experience, Squaw Springs is an oasis in the desert, spouting forth large amounts of life giving water.  If they had the remotest idea of survival, they surely knew that water was their salvation. One wonders though, why they kept venturing in that direction if there was safety, shade, flowing water and even food at the stone cabin? There are a number of possibilities; maybe they thought that they were still heading to Mengel Pass, maybe they wrongfully assumed there would be more resources; any number of theories fit, but none can be proven.

A number of attempts and expeditions have been made into the canyon without a single clue yielding what took place. At one time I asked a friend, desert rat and former Los Angeles County Sheriff, his thoughts. He responded with “The Germans are one of the great mysteries of life.” I asked him how he would go about finding them. His advice, “Start at the last known position and circle your way out.” It seemed very sound and logical. He also told me of an old Indian trick. He said “Give me a bottle of ‘Jack’, let me drink it and I’ll tell you which direction they went.” Now I thought, we’re talking a little desert rat snake oil and I am just being conned out of a bottle of Jack Daniels. Sometime later we decided to search for the missing party. Our search would be via horseback though.

I think it was almost 10 years later that we set out on our first incursion into Anvil Spring Canyon since the road officially closed. It rained that year for what seemed like an eternity so it must have been the relentless winter of ‘05. Finding a brief window in the weather, we packed the horse trailer with all the needed supplies for a few days in the backcountry. Our one-ton truck was to maximum capacity, carrying our camper, horses, and five water tanks. Our biggest concern was whether or not the West Side Road on the floor of Death Valley was open. There were varying reports coming from the four wheeling community. We decided to take our chances and see.

Driving the downhill grades resulted in odorous emissions from the brakes. With the load we were carrying and livestock to boot, keeping the truck speed down was imperative. Reaching Ashford Mill at the south end of the Valley, we found the gate at the West Side Road wide open. Wow, it was our lucky day, that is until we reached the crossing of the Amargosa. She was running fast deep and wide. Now as you know, we have a long history with this river.

I did not wish to repeat the same mistake close to twenty years later. Stepping out of the truck I could see fresh tracks from a recent crossing. Water sparkled in the sunlight for quite a distance in the direction of the canyon, providing evidence someone passed this way. I surmised there must be another vehicle not too far ahead. I also knew that this truck was equipped with a locking differential, although we were pulling an 11,000 pound anchor behind us that could shift at least 2000 pounds at will! I didn’t know how much appreciation the horses were going to have for the kind of driving it would take to get through this. I factored in a number of things; at least the road was legally open, a friend  would be driving up tomorrow, if worse came to worse we had two of the finest four hoofed drive all terrain vehicles money can buy, and I didn’t really want to drive back after coming all this way.

In my mind the discussion was over.  I lightly brought my foot down on the accelerator keeping an even pace and cutting across the river diagonally. We reached the other side uneventfully. I did note, in the side mirrors, the cascading water shooting out horizontally from under the trailer. I wondered if the horses were getting their hoofs wet as water could conceivably come up through the drain holes. This thought was quickly placed elsewhere in the back of my mind as we made a very slow transition to the mouth of Warm Spring Canyon. Driving with horses is a slow going process; that is if you want them to arrive undamaged. Having two separate vehicles one with a long wheel base and one with a short wheel base, the only speed our vehicles would endure on washboard roads was ultra slow. Speeds that were comfortable in the truck ultimately led to the trailer bouncing and unhappy horses. Of course speeds comfortable for the horses would jar your fillings out in the truck.

Climbing slowly but steadily, we encountered a truck coming in the opposite direction. It slowed a little and gave us a wide berth. Two people occupied the cab, but both had a strange look much like the cat that ate the canary. I thought it was odd but also thought that they really would not have expected to see a horse trailer climbing the grade to Warm Spring. At the mouth of the canyon there is a small road that leads to the south. We made camp here on previous occasions as we would again. It was a perfect spot for exploring the lower confines at Anvil Spring Canyon. The horses settled into their portable corrals. As they ate, a constant crunch, crunch, crunch echoed through the valley. Occasionally there was a brief lull as one or the other would stop and peer into the distance and then go back to eating.

Morning soon came and with it brought our friend and his wife. We chatted a bit and I explained the general game plan to him. We were going to head up the bottom of Anvil Spring Canyon looking for clues that could resolve the mystery of the four Germans. After breakfast, we proceeded to saddle up.

Our adjoining road to the canyon, previously severed by a torrent of water, created a straight drop of several feet to the wash below. Shod hooves jumped the small gap as if it were the Grand Canyon. Gravel and sparks flew as the shoes made contact with the hard stone.  Grabbing reins and leather we headed forward into the canyon. Portions of the old road, from a bygone era when this was the only road into Butte Valley, made a stark contrast against the growing foliage. Some ten years later we were on the now cold trail of the party that vanished into thin air. Out here in the desert, people seem to evaporate into the sands of time without a trace. Some however are released from their sandy graves and are discovered. A few years back a geology student found the remains of a hiker in Hanaupah Canyon. His fate was not known until many years later, but someone at the right place and time made a discovery, giving him his proper testament. Hopefully we would provide that to those that were stranded in their mini-van is this desolate canyon.

Traveling west with the sun at our backs, we found and explored a lengthy mine shaft with no ghostly prospector to guard it. We separated the horses to cover more ground. We were disappointed as we did not find any sign of human passage, but we did find a pit carved into the sandy wash. Judging from the small hoof prints all around, it appeared burros created it to reach the water below. Here we let the horses drink their fill. If our weary misplaced European group came this way, would this water hole have been available to them or was it freshly made? The burros had quite a bit of work in digging this.  With only small hooves as shovels it would have required great tenacity. Burros have adapted to this environment well and seem to be able to bring forth the water from the ground and endure the relentless summer heat. Would our missing foursome have known to do the same? Would this water be safe enough for them to drink, or would it have caused other consequences?

On a bluff above this area there appeared to have been a large Indian Camp. Would their spirits turn their backs and let nature keep the souls of the lost a secret? Today the spirits appeared neutral with our arrival. Perhaps their connectedness with the horses let us pass in peace. We examined the area in great detail, but it did not reveal a solitary clue. With the smell of horse sweat and leather we ventured farther west into the setting sun. We came to a point where the canyon opened up into a small valley. With the sun falling upon the crest of the Panamint Range, we decided to turn back. Darkness overcomes these canyons quickly and coldly on short winter nights. We were empty handed with this search but new ideas were populating our minds.

My premise was this: I think they headed south following a jeep track once used by the caretaker of the Myers Ranch. I remember before the road officially closed we drove to Squaw Spring and I noted a jeep track heading south, apparently into Wingate Wash. Standing at this location, the road, if it could be called that, heading east through Anvil Spring Canyon, appears to be nothing more than a sandy wash. The jeep track to the south appears to be more promising. I believe that at least one member of the party headed this way.

Rumors abound of course, and facts are sparse other than what was found in the van and immediately around it, little true indication of what really happened is at hand. We do know however, that a sleeping bag was retrieved on a road south of here. As with most experts, I wonder if they are truly correct in their assumptions of survival. One consistency of humans is their consistency of proving and experts wrong. No one can accurately gauge the tenacity of the human spirit, especially when not only are their own lives in question, but also the lives of their children. I do believe they succumbed to the desert, but I don’t believe they were given proper credit in their attempt to escape.

I don’t give much credit to possible accounts of murder, as those psychics predicted, especially the one feeling a sense of cold. Why, as it was pointed out to me by a friend, after ten years, is there not a single rumor from anyone. It seems criminals like to brag, and yet not a murmur. Of course most would discount UFO abductions, but I guess anything is possible – but why, if choosing humans to abduct, take four tourists from their vehicle, set it up with three flat tires and provide a mystery? Even with a morbid sense of humor it does not seem probable.

Somewhere in the future I hope their whereabouts will be disclosed; perhaps by a hiker in the remotest of wilderness or perhaps by someone searching deliberately. As it stands, the mystery is yet to be solved. When I get off my complacency, I plan to saddle up yet again and head out into the backcountry and search. This time I think I will head up through the wilderness from the south and drop into Anvil Spring from that direction, anyone interested in a true adventure is welcome to ride!