Six Days

SIX DAYS IN APRIL

a remote backcountry journey

by Steve Greene

The exquisite call of the wilderness, flowing softly and patiently through trees backlit by the awakening sun, invited me to dance. It was such a personally influential beckoning that I could no longer disregard the yearning. It always exists within me, and necessitates attention on a recurring basis, yet this time, my siren’s song was manifesting itself with a very unique implication.

Somewhere along the way of my life’s journey, I had unwittingly crossed a threshold into a chapter of the book that it appears we all must experience. Whether a full-blown crisis or not, I had entered midlife, and this unfamiliar mental outlook took me by surprise because my active lifestyle was not in keeping with the ominous view that it’s all slipping away too fast. But sure enough, there I was, realizing that my finiteness must be maximized, not wasted on the trivialities associated with daily rote living.

Yes, I had been aware that my viewpoint of the world was slowly changing, evolving through an enlightenment that I needed inner peace in my existence. Who I am, where I am going, and how I fit into the overall scheme of things were questions that ever more pressed me for answers. Knowing that comprehending the matters of life, which have steadfastly vexed humankind since its inception, shall forever elude me, I had to find comfort in my own relevant way. It was obvious where this cerebral transmutation was going to lead, for my entire life had been largely spent on a course that was not in keeping with the mainstream of our culture, and that path would now do its part to escort my restless mind into nirvana. Or so I hoped.

Although people generally become more cautious as they age, and the impetuous daring of youth is replaced by the wisdom of our fragility, this midlife symptom called into being a need to go beyond my usual mundane activities, including my adventures into the wilds of this land. Weekends were nice, and of course, they fit into the American five-day week quite well. Two days of backcountry exploring and hiking, along with one night spent in the wilderness used to do wonders when it came to facing Monday morning with an upbeat mood.

But now I needed more. Life is short. There is a lot of territory I have never roamed. I don’t want to miss being a part of it. I had to tenaciously grasp opportunity and make things happen; waiting around was no longer an option. I had to plan and execute the preeminent excursion, one that would challenge me on multiple levels. One that would infuse a sense of risk needed to make me feel alive. Life had become too easy, and that was now about to change.

When I was in my twenties, there was always a buddy or two with a four-wheel drive rig who would happily partner-up for a long weekend on the earthen roads and trails of the Mojave Desert or Sierra Nevada Mountains. We lived for the adventure of meeting nature on its own terms, and then triumphantly would recount it for all our normal death-fearing friends that following week. It was the adrenaline rush mixed with the bravado of early life that fueled our intrepid exploits, and pushed us to go explore anywhere that ordinary people wouldn’t dare tread. We became masters at navigating grueling primitive roads, hiking exhausting trails, and overnighting in inhospitable conditions. We feared nothing, for there was strength in numbers, and we were going to live forever. We were Monday morning heroes. We were also immature characters who lived on the edge of sanity and luck; of course we didn’t know that then.

But this is now. Then is gone. I had a goal to accomplish: to confirm that I still was a viable fellow, still able to have high adventure as exciting as thirty years ago. No … that’s not good enough now! My feral side needed more than that. I had to establish that what I did fresh out of college was a mere prelude to that which I was now capable – after all, I was getting better at self-direction, I reckoned.

Certain things had changed over the years, as they usually do during the human maturation process, and my appreciation for the wilds of nature were now at an exalted point in my existence – my need for natural communion with this Planet was powerful. For it was this need that is the key to my inner feeling of peace with my life. From the elements of the natural world, stars, and universe I came, and back into that reality I will eventually go.

Not today however, because I have a trip to take. Not just any commonplace trek that ordinary people take, but one that will distinguish me (in my own mind at least) from the run of the mill Terran. One that will firmly trounce the midlife anomaly, and at the same time, get me closer to nature than I had ever been. Actually, I am nature myself, so I guess I don’t need to get closer, I just must to remove myself from the unnatural influences of modern humanity by journeying to the areas that are devoid of as much human authority as possible. I knew just the spot to make that happen!

Death Valley first felt the pressure of my little feet at age four (my age, not the Valley’s). Since that time, my love of this secret spot of Earth has grown immensely. Mom and dad got me started. Dad has now gone back into the elements, and mom still is drawn to the place that he took her back in 1947 on the rear seat of his Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

As a kid, I figured it was out past the edge of the known world, full of mystique and danger, a place where lines of laboring mules pulled colossal dusty wagons loaded with white minerals in the unrelenting and desiccating heat. So, it would be that Death Valley received my vote for a protracted safari to ease my middle-aged mind. The die was cast.

Much of the region I had visited during my life, yet certain parts of it remained but an imagined terrain in my mind, parts I knew only by what my precious maps showed me. I love to read maps, and can literally do so for hours. These papers with odd symbols and lines on them provide me a challenge to visualize the land before I ever actually see it. And where I have been, the maps allow me to relive in an instant all that I have experienced there.

On the Automobile Club of Southern California map of Death Valley National Park (the best map I had at the time), I could see most of the primitive backroads in the Park. Some were not shown, but those that were provided enough intrigue for me to map out my impending expedition. In particular, there was one road in the northwest section of DVNP that pulled on my psyche so hard that I am surprised I didn’t fly right out the window of my living room.

It had a label affixed to it on the AAA map that read, “very rough road” and on the official DVNP map was typed, “deep sand.” That was enough to keep 99.9 percent of the human population out, but it only demanded my exploration. As if that weren’t enough, under the “deep sand” part, it read, “Road conditions require experienced 4-wheel drivers.” Okay … that did it! Without any doubt, yet with a certain amount of fear, I knew that this road was definitely going to be mapped-in as a portion of my route. What was out there? What secrets are freely there waiting for me? I had to know.

You might think that the trepidation I just mentioned was due to the softness that sets in as we age, yet such was not the case. You see, nowadays, unlike thirty years ago, finding others to go on a safari is not so easy. All my old friends had jobs, families, and commitments that prohibited their participation, especially on anything other than a weekend. And my plan necessitated more than two days to accomplish. In fact, this trip was setting up to be about a week long, so who could do that?

My alarm came from the knowledge that what I was planning would entail a week alone in the most remote of remote locales in Death Valley National Park, a section so unbelievably secluded and difficult to get to that even the Rangers rarely make it out that way. In other words, this was no place to have any kind of trouble with your vehicle or body, because there was no help available in any proximity that would be of use. Rescue from the road between the Eureka Valley and Saline Valley, via Steel Pass, was just as remote a possibility as the land itself.

A couple of times I thought about altering my idea, as the fear gripped strongly when I felt too civilized to endure the voluntary risk involved, but then I answered back by asking myself, “What better place to depart this world than in the embodiment of the wild outback?” A challenge I needed, and a challenge I had charted. Others advised against it, but just like a mountaineer who climbs “because it is there”, I will make the trip because the land is calling to me and the road allows it.

Of course, that portion of the safari would be but one component of the grand trek through Death Valley that I envisioned. There was more on my mind! I also desired to climb Telescope Peak, the highest elevation in the Park, at 11,049 feet above sea level. Just that 14 mile hike alone would take nearly an entire day, and practically necessitate two nights at Mahogany Flat primitive campground. And I wanted to visit Rhyolite ghost city in Nevada, which I had not seen anytime recently, along with Titus Canyon, Scotty’s Castle, The Racetrack, Hunter Mountain, and Cottonwood Canyon.

Oh yeah, I also wanted to drive the Pleasant Canyon/South Park Canyon loop, south of Ballarat ghost town. For years with my friends, I had traveled and hiked the area around Panamint City in Surprise Canyon, but that road was destroyed and not rebuilt years ago, plus the government made it illegal to drive up the canyon anyway, due to environmental concerns. So, the closest counterparts in the area were Pleasant and South Park to the south.

I did not know just how long all this exploring would take, so I left it open-ended, with no set departure date from the Park. The only thing certain about Death Valley is uncertainty, nothing turns out exactly like you plan it, and everything always takes longer than anticipated. Of one thing though, I was certain: I was about to embark on the most ambitious solo journey of my life, through country that has become known to the public at large as the surest place to go if you are tired of living. People still die out here on a regular basis, some of whom were just like me: adventurous explorers who enjoyed taking extreme treks in extreme locales. Sobering!

April would be the month, a time when temperatures are mild, and the warmer floor of the Valley actually can feel good. Snow and mud usually still exist at the higher mountain elevations in April however, so I could only speculate whether or not I could make it to certain areas. That conjecture is one of the incredible highs that comes with a trip through this sometimes foreboding land.

Here are some of the key components to such an excursion that keep me coming back for more: 1) love of the area and natural world, 2) the fun of mapping the route and activities, 3) the uncertainty of what will happen, 4) the anxiety that occurs on the morning of departure, 5) the incredibly awesome beauty of the land once on the trip, 6) knowing the human and geological history of the land through which I pass, 7) sleeping in the wilds as if it were a hundred years ago, 8) meeting new animal friends along the way, 9) meeting a rare human traveler on occasion along the way, 10) cleansing myself of the emotional debris that accumulates from living in a pressured society, and 11) the elation that fills my being once the trip has successfully concluded.

All right, that’s certainly enough of my introductory thoughts. Heck, I’ve been typing for a few hours and haven’t even begun the trip. So, without further spouting off at the mouth about my thinking behind the trip, let’s just get on with it! Here’s what happened that April, day by day:

Day One – April 16, Friday

I have been visiting with my mom, in the southern California town of Claremont, and spent the past two days making sure everything is in order with my supplies and backcountry exploration vehicle. It is an older rig I named Old Red, rear seat long ago removed to make room for a futon bed atop a plywood platform that allows for copious storage of gear underneath. My continuing goal is to make this rig the ultimate and most reliable backcountry crawler I can, because I plan on keeping it for many more safaris.

Thirteen gallons of water are onboard, along with food that can last up to a month if need be. Mom has my proposed itinerary, as does Rich Colley, an old 1970s exploration companion. If I get in over my head, Rich will hopefully come and bail me out. He doesn’t have his old rig anymore, but his new stock BEV will get the job done in a pinch. I have done all I can in preparation, so when the pre-dawn alarm sounds, I am up to eat breakfast and get on my way.

Mom bids me a fond farewell, perhaps wondering in the secret reaches of her mind if I will meet with disaster somewhere out there, and her emotion begins to erode my progress, but I stay the course and back out of her driveway. The morning is easy on the 210 Freeway eastbound, and then onto Interstate 15 northbound over Cajon Pass. Morning traffic is all going the other way, commuters engaged in their daily grind, as I happily motor along on the uncrowded side of the center divider. Once into the Mojave Desert near Victorville, the Interstate begins to head more easterly, but I exit onto Highway 395 northbound, a relaxing drive on a two-lane byway that leads eventually into some of eastern California’s most spectacular mountain scenery.

At Four Corners, also known as Kramer’s Junction, I make a quick stop at the Dinosaur juice station to refuel my rig, not because I am getting low yet, but due to my philosophy of keeping the tank full at every opportunity. This is lonely and secluded territory into which I am heading, and without wheels, a person can perish (many have). Not only that, but as I progress farther and farther into the hinterlands, where gasoline stations do exist, the prices get increasingly more expensive, sometimes by a dollar per gallon. So, the trick is to fill up in those final areas of higher human habitation, where prices are more reasonable. I will refill again once I reach the mining town of Trona.

Red Mountain begins to grow in visual size as I progress northward on 395. It, along with Johannesburg and Randsburg, are towns in which I had spent a fair amount of time with my dad while I was growing up. He loved this area, so we came to know it well. As I roll through Red Mountain, I see that the old Mohawk gas station is now just a storage building for some new resident. Slim, the 6’8” weathered pioneer who used to own and run Mohawk, has long since died … he was in his 80s when I was a teenager. I’ll never forget the sign he had posted in his office where you paid for your gasoline after filling up! It read: “Helen Waite is our credit manager … If you want credit, go to Helen Waite.”

During my teen years, I sometimes explored the area east of Red Mountain with my dad. It was mile upon mile of open desert as far as the eye could see, with dirt roads everywhere. Cuddeback Dry Lake was restricted by the Air Force as a gunnery and bombing range, but other than that, a modern-day explorer could really spend a few days out here.

Nowadays however, the Grass Valley Wilderness area has closed a huge portion of this area to vehicular travel, and the Golden Valley Wilderness Area has partitioned off another substantial region to the northeast of Red Mountain. To the east and north of the Grass Valley Wilderness lies the Mojave Range B of the China Lake Naval Weapons Center, which restricts to civilian travel thousands more acres, so at this point in history, there are few options left for anyone to see this vast expanse of land. It’s certainly too far to walk for virtually anyone, so now I just look at these lands from the outside of their boundary zones, unable to appreciate their natural beauty from within.

Things sure change over time. The Twenty Mule Teams from Death Valley used to make their runs southwest down the Wingate Wash in the southern Panamint Range, across Cuddeback Dry Lake, and on to Mojave. Now, fighter jets drop bombs and bullets on the dry lake. Can you imagine what a teamster and swamper (the two guys who piloted the borax wagons) would think if they were buzzed by one of these warbirds?

What I wouldn’t give to drive the Twenty Mule Team route from Mojave to Furnace Creek now, reliving in my mind the epic saga of early mineral transport! I love this piece of history, yet I am not allowed to even walk the route for all the closures. Even Wingate Wash has been closed to vehicles by the National Park Service. I’m just happy that there remains so much that is still open to exploration!

About a mile north of Slim’s old Mohawk station, I turn right onto what is called the Trona Road, which has no cartographic numeric designation that I have ever been able to find on any map. Seldom will you ever see another auto out here. Twelve miles farther, on the distant ridge of the Summit Range, I slow to a near stop, and pull off the pavement onto a class-1 dirt road that heads off east along the mountain’s crest. I never thought it had a name until recently, when I did see it on a map listed as the Savoy Road. I am going to take a side-trip this first day out, and this dirt road is going to get me near a very special place in my heart.

During my younger years, this area was pretty darn near the edge of the civilized world in my limited view of life. And anything beyond the Slate Range northeast of Trona was off the map of my comprehension. My earliest memories of Death Valley as a child were of a place that existed in some other dimension of reality, a bizarre netherworld that could have been on another planet. It was scary, but dad knew what he was doing, so I didn’t worry.

My destination today was inspired out of my love of my dad, who died when I was only twenty-six. One of his favorite locales in this region was a certain area of the Summit Range, which he called “God’s Country” due to the vivid beauty of the hills during the late afternoon and early evening. In 1977, after his death and subsequent cremation by my mom, I saw to it that a few of his ashes were scattered here in the place he loved. Today saw my second return in the 27 years hence. A year prior to this trip, I brought a few of dad’s old friends here to make the visit. It requires a 4wd vehicle to drive the final portions of the journey.

These hills are a maze of small tight canyons, some with roads, and others with only motorcycle trails. Despite so many years of absence from this isolated mountain, I still successfully recall and read the landmarks necessary to guide me back to dad. After a few miles of slow crawling in all kinds of conceivable backroad conditions, I make it to the main canyon that heads to my unique place. I will camp in the canyon immediately below the ridge where dad always commented on the beauty, primarily because the wind is blowing hard and the ridge top offers no protection. Also, the road to the top is extremely steep and soft ground, and would get torn up if I tried to drive up – it is meant to come down, not up.

The day is young, with many hours before sunset, but that’s okay because I just want some quality time alone to contemplate my old man’s influence in my life. I find a reasonably level spot to park, and then grab a bite to eat before I hike up to the ridge above me. For this trip, I had refurbished an old well-worn pair of his Bone-Dry boots that he used to wear, and although he wore a size smaller than me, I had the boot repair guy put a little stretch on them. They are snug, but seem to work reasonably well so far for driving. I will see how they do at steep hiking very soon.

Mojave Creosote bushes are plentiful out here. My dad also referred to them as Greasewood bushes, but Roger Mitchell, in his book of Death Valley SUV Trails, makes a distinction, so I will defer to his expertise. Various cactus plants cover the hillsides also, and require me to keep an eye out, lest I find one the hard way. Actually, with dad’s old high-top leather boots, I need not worry about the low-lying needles as I would with my own boots.

Once I get to the crest of God’s Country, standing becomes a tenuous matter due to the intense southwesterly winds. There is nothing gentle about them, and I would guess, based on my windsurfing experience, that they exceed a sustained 40 miles per hour. I am taking video of my dad’s beloved land, and to document it verbally, I must scream over the wind (even so, my voice was obliterated entirely during certain portions of the video).

Being a very sentimental fellow, I have prepared a note memorializing my father, and I carve out a small hole in the earthen ground in which to place it. My emotions are running high in this environment that today I will more succinctly describe as not quite so Godly due to the “knock-you-down” air movement. I stand here for the longest time, fighting the forces that conspire to topple me, so that I can look around, remember my dad, and perhaps in some way, let him know that I am with him. This is my wish anyway, though my scientific and logical mind lean elsewhere.

Back down at the BEV, in the protected and confining canyon, it is calm as can be. Here, I finally realize that dad’s boots are causing some painful spots on my feet that will probably blister, but I want to keep them in service. I brought a backup pair of my own boots just in case, and consider that tomorrow may require a change. It’s hard to hike if the feet say no. An early dinner, some more video footage, and then into the back of the truck and onto the comfy futon I rest my bones for the night. The darkening desert sky, silhouetted landforms, and magnificent quiet are a far cry from the city’s urban chaos. I fall fast asleep, content with the proximity to my father’s memory.

Day Two – April 17, Saturday

One thing I like when living out of my vehicle in the wilderness is that I go to bed and rise with the setting and rising of the sun. It’s wilderness time rather than city time. The first hint of daylight brings a totally refreshed feeling to me after a good ten hours or more of sleep. It sure as heck beats the alarm clock paradigm that unfortunately dictates most of our society’s caged 9-5 lives. The wind is no more, although it blew robustly all night, and as I get out of my rig for a morning stretch, I marvel at this superbly striking land at 6:45 AM. The wild smells invigorate me. I again take a few minutes to climb up the ridge so that I can scout my route for this morning’s drive to Death Valley National Park.

This climb though, does impress upon me the necessity of abandoning dad’s boots in favor of my own, a poignant thought. So, on will go my own well-hiked boots when I return to the camp below. My feet will be happy with the exchange, which will make it a 100% happy body and mind for day two.

From the ridge top, I can again see the Trona Pinnacles, odd other-worldly spires that jut high into the air and are visible from miles away in all directions. They are calcium carbonate in composition, and used to come up through vent tubes in the sea that once was here. Now solidified, these pinnacles are a popular attraction … at least for people who dare come out this far from their easy twenty-first century world.

The area below me that stretches to the pinnacles is now part of the Spangler Hills Recreation Area, and as such, is open to unrestricted motor vehicle travel. Knowing this, I use my binoculars to locate some well-worn motorcycle trails on which I can proceed partway to the calcium towers. Satisfied on a potential route, I bid my father a final farewell, proceed back down to the BEV, and head out. Since I got an early start, my breakfast will wait until the pinnacles (if I can hold out that long). At 7:15, I’m on my way

Once out of the hills, and after about three miles of motorcycle trail travel (talk about bumpy), I reach a class-2 dirt road that will take me down towards Trona. Across sandwashes it goes, and it even becomes quite sandy at times. Glancing back at God’s Country, I will remember this trip always. Seven miles farther on this road, and it crosses another, wider class-1 road that heads south. I know this crossroad goes to the entrance of the China Lake Naval Weapons Center (not a place I wish to venture).

Also at this intersection, there is a sign posted by the US military that states civilian travel on the road that I have been taking from the Summit Range is prohibited! Gads, there was no sign from the direction that I had come, but apparently I may have been in violation because I had indeed emerged from behind the sign. Oh well, whatever the case, I was now in front of that intimidating sign, and heading east, so I guess I won’t be shot anytime soon by an F-16. I’m just hungry now, so it’s off to my rendezvous with breakfast.

A few more miles of easy class-1 road and I reach the Pinnacles. As I approach the giant monoliths poking at the sky, I recall the portions of movies filmed here, most notably Plant Of The Apes and Star Trek. In the Star Trek movie, the Pinnacles were used as the location for the center of the Universe where God supposedly existed. The place where the Klingon Bird of Prey, piloted by Lieutenant Spock, rises above the low area between two massive Pinnacles to confront defenseless Captain Kirk, is locatable for any genuine Trek fan who comes here to see it firsthand. I park at its base and eat a bowl of granola with soy milk, a pretty mundane thing to be doing considering that the Klingons and God had been here. Oh well, I’m hungry by gosh! No alien ships anywhere to be found today.

By nine, I’m fine … fully satiated. Time to return to Earth.

Rolling into the ever-dwindling town of Trona in the Searles Valley, and on the shores of Searles Dry Lake, I notice that it has been 66 miles since filling with fuel at Four Corners. I top off at the Texaco station here before heading over the Slate Range into the Panamint Valley. Gasoline is expensive here, to be sure, but it’s cheap compared to the stations I will encounter from here on out. Seven dollar bills satisfy the clerk at this self-serve station, and after using the last normal restroom I’ll see for awhile, I’m cruising north off the edge of the known world.

There is a neat overlook where you drop down from the Slate Range into the Panamint Valley. I usually stop here just to take in the immensity of where I am about to travel. From here, you can see the Remi Nadeau Shotgun Road, so named because it was straight as an arrow. Mr. Nadeau built it because he was a freight line owner who made his living hauling all the ore that others had mined. While the miners were losing their money and lives attempting to get rich, Remi was making a fortune from their attempts.

Atop this paved pass, is also visible the old ghost town of Ballarat. They call it a ghost town, but at least one person still calls it home. I don’t know if it has ever really been totally deserted. The Panamint Flat Dry Lake is a prominent landmark that can’t be missed from here, and if you come in the early autumn of a wet year, this normally dry lakebed can actually be a wet lake, which, by the way, will rust-out the underside of your vehicle if you drive on the wet Wingate Road and don’t wash the underside sometime soon thereafter.

The pavement switchbacks tightly down from the pass, and then straightens out. I finally come to a very wide class-1 dirt road heading off easterly the right, and, believe it or not, there is a normal street sign out here that says Ballarat. Three miles across the Panamint dry (lucky for me) lakebed, I reach Ballarat.

There is a humorous sign outside at the intersection of two dirt roads, at the town limit line, that reads, “Population: More or Less” and it causes me to chuckle. People can camp at the town for a small fee. Several old earthen buildings still stand from yore, including the general store and jail, but the weather over the years is slowly returning them to the ground from whence they came. This town served the mining activities up Pleasant Canyon in the late 1800s and early 1900s. My itinerary includes visiting some of those old mining camps today.

If you do visit Ballarat, beware of any reported gold ore samples they may have for sale at the time in the store of the current proprietor of the campground. Documentation exists that attests to certain unscrupulous persons who have, in the past at least, faked gold ore samples and put them out for unsuspecting tourists to purchase. As soon as you leave the premises and are safely out of earshot, you can imagine the laughter at your expense. As you read this, there may well have been a reformation of any such devious practices, so don’t automatically assume that current store attendees are guilty of what others may have perpetrated in earlier years.

Pleasant Canyon begins almost due east of Ballarat. I would instead venture up Surprise Canyon today because of my personal history in that canyon, but it has been judicially closed, not to mention that the roadbed no longer exists over seven dry waterfalls in an extremely narrow portion of the route, so I seek out more southerly destinations. Pleasant Canyon is, well, more pleasant for the average backroad driver. It is a tamer version of Surprise Canyon, but still has its obstacles here and there.

In the lower reaches of the canyon, bushes have grown closely around and over the class-2/3 dirt road in places where it follows the streambed. On the surface of my now-dusty BEV, these branches leave what many veteran backcountry travelers call desert pin-striping. There are little branch marks in the dust, that generally don’t ruin you paint job if you just drive by slowly. I don’t mind this free natural artwork, as it is something that lets me know I am in an environment that I prefer to civilization. Nature is my friend regardless of how it affects me or my ride.

This is now the Panamint Range into which I am ascending rather steeply. I am outside the boundary of Death Valley National Park, but this road will take me into the Park near the top of these mountains around timberline; it does not go through though into Death Valley proper. The road doesn’t seem steep as I drive up it, but occasionally when I glance back towards the Panamint Valley, I see that it is quite a bit lower, and it becomes obvious that serious elevation is being gained.

The DVNP official map of this road writes: “Road conditions require experienced 4-wheel drivers”. As anywhere in this territory, conditions can vary drastically from year to year, so it is a good warning to have on the map, but today the road is passable to even less advanced four-wheel explorers. For me, it is just right, and I am having loads of fun as I visit my natural world.

Up ahead, there is a slow moving line of three vehicles, consisting of three backcountry exploration vehicles. As I approach, they pull aside to let me pass, a common courtesy on these backroads. I exchange a little talk with the lead driver, and then proceed. A couple of motorcycles pass me going down canyon. This canyon is crowded today because it is a Saturday, and the road is easily accessed from the city centers south of here. Even so, it is a quiet and pleasant drive.

I even passed a burro back about two miles ago, stopped and talked to him (may have been a her, I didn’t notice), and watched as the curious and docile creature perked up an ear and seemed to be listening to my chatter. I have heard and read that the NPS prefers not to have burros in the Park because they are not indigenous to the region, and that at one time burros were free for the taking.

Seems rather odd to me though, that the burros, which were brought in by the miners, are seen as unnatural to the natural area, but the old mining operations that still occupy the Park are seen as acceptable. The aged, abandoned, and dilapidated wooden and concrete buildings are certainly a large tourist draw, and most folks I know love to see the feral burros wandering about the region. Neither were native to these lands, yet one is seen as expendable. It may be because some Park officials feel that the burros are eating resources needed for the small bighorn sheep population.

Hunger finally catches up to me yet again as midday arrives, so knowing that Clair Camp is not far, I wait. This camp was headquarters and mill for the Radcliff mine on the mountainside on the south side of the steep canyon. The miners lived in Ballarat and rode wagons to and from work each day the six miles up here. Talk about ruins all about – Clair Camp is so full of old buildings and mining equipment that you can spend hours here if your are a history buff. Be careful though not to get hurt.

I pull off the road, and grab a bite to eat, which consists of a high-calorie energy bar and a can of vegetable juice. While eating, the group that I passed earlier arrives and also stops for a lunch break and exploring the old camp. I talk to a few of the folks as we all walk around and examine one of the best-preserved mining operations in the Death Valley region.

Thirty minutes after arriving, I’m off for the top, and enter into the Juniper and Pinyon forests not far up the road. The road is now class-3 quite often, and is rather narrow in places, but nothing to frighten most drivers because it is still in the canyon, with no drop-offs. By early afternoon, after passing the World Beater mine and the Porter mine road, the road terminates at the spine of the Panamint Range. Further forward travel is not possible due to a steep mountainside immediately ahead. A road goes left to the north, and right to the south. At this intersection is a sign, cut into a steel plate with a welding torch, that reads precisely as follows:

Rogers Pass

El. 7140

Wm Manly & Jn Rogers crossed this pass on the way to get supplies for 49ers trapped in Death Valley. Later as they led the Bennet & Arcane families to safety, they came here to view the land ahead, looking back, one said, “Goodbye Death Valley!” The date was Feb. 14, 1850. It is believed they crossed the Panamints via Butte Valley & Redlands Cy. They crossed the Slate via Fish & Isham cy’s, then to Providence Spring at Great Falls in the Argus Range. UP Wilson Cy & across the valley to Indian Wells Spring on the way to a Spanish ranch near Newhall. All this party survived. Erected Jan ’92 ET Conf. Trona Chapter

This sign is hard to read because I can see through the letters (cut out) to the sky and trees on the other side. If you are one who reads history books of the Death Valley territory, you will also notice that spellings are often different depending on the author. Arcane is generally accepted by many, and pronounced with the ‘cane’ sound, yet authoritative accounting shows it as Arcan, and pronounced with the ‘can’ sound. Bennet sometimes has a double ‘t’ at the end. It really doesn’t matter though, because folks who love this land are here for the land, and the history serves as an adjunct that gives it a little more meaning. Whether Town Pass should really be Towne Pass is unnecessary to know, unless you happen to be a historical perfectionist. It doesn’t matter that Goler Canyon is not Goller Canyon either, any more than … well, I had best shut my trap before you think that it really does matter to me. Let’s get back to the safari, shall we?

I love to explore the wild places, and so do I love to sleep in them. I find myself debating whether I should spend the night up here somewhere tonight, for I like it here. So, I head up the northern hill on the very steep road that cuts off to the left from the metal sign. Maybe there is a good place for a primitive camp. The road drops off on either side, pretty much goes straight up the ridge, and becomes increasingly more rocky and problematic as I get higher. Two wheel drive would definitely not make it here! The land eventually levels out about a quarter mile up, on a nice clearing surrounded by pines on three sides, and open to westerly views down Pleasant Canyon. This would make a very nice overnight!

But the road, if you could call it that, goes yet farther past this clearing, ever higher into the trees. I’m one of those folks who just has to know where a road goes – it’s one of the elements that makes backcountry exploration so exhilarating for me. So, after checking out my potential campsite, I get back in my BEV and head up. After a couple of tight turns through the hillside forest, the road immediately deteriorates, and is nothing but a large and horrible rock-field on a steep hill, yet tracks are still visible.

This road used to go down the eastern side of the Panamint Range, past Arrastre Spring and into Warm Spring canyon and Death Valley, but the Park Service has placed a portion connecting the two sides off limits to modern travel. This portion I’m on is still open to drive, but requires all the skill I can muster to keep the truck making progress. The steepness, combined with huge rocks under all tires, causes the rig to wander around, and is unnerving at this angle. At the top, it makes a sharp right, becomes quite off-camber, and abruptly ends. Ever try turning around in conditions like that? It’s certainly not much fun!

Well, I get back to the open area and relieve myself off to the side (too much daring excitement). Looking down past the metal pass sign below, the road that heads south from Rogers Pass clearly goes on for several miles, winding around over the ridge tops towards Middle Park and South Park (Parks, for those of you who may not know, are expansive areas of rather flat land in the mountains). It looks like a great drive with spectacular views off east to Butte Valley, but I’m still debating on whether to take it or not. Always something to wonder about.

My indecision comes from how to proceed from here to tomorrow. Remember, I am traveling alone up here in this wild country, in a ten-year old vehicle that I keep up as well as I can, but with no other companions should I break down. I want to go down South Park Canyon, but since I have never been down it before, and since I have read accounts from the Internet of a couple of hair-raising spots in it with potentially fatal consequences, I am hesitant, and that is why I may camp right where I am right now in this clearing.

Also, if I get down in there, and have to turn around because the road is too dangerous, where does that leave my fuel supply? In four wheel low range, fuel gets sucked up rather quickly, especially in this larger V8 engine. Trying it would add many more miles if I were to eventually exit back down Pleasant Canyon. That could be a mistake, or force me to drive directly to a gas station and miss other places I definitely want to go.

Yet, I just have to know what is over that way, even if I choose not to venture into South Park Canyon, so I head back down the steep road to the pass summit sign, with the intent of going a little ways to check it out. There are clouds in the sky that intermittently get heavier and then disperse for sunshine. Temperatures are mild and pleasant (of course they are -silly me-, I’m at the top of Pleasant Canyon). This road is exciting, with just enough challenge to make it fun, but lacking the giant rocks on the other side from where I just came. The views are top notch. I can see southwest into Middle Park, a vast level area of many square miles. I come to a fork in the road, where straight continues along the ridge, and right drops down the mountainside into Middle Park, so I get out and hike around a little as I try to determine my best option.

As I get back to the BEV, that party of three rigs I passed before lunch is coming down the narrow ridge top road. They stop and we all chat a bit. These folks are from Ridgecrest, and it is apparent that the lead driver is familiar with these parts, while the people in the other rigs are not. I learn that they are going to exit back into the Panamint Valley via South Park Canyon, which is music to my ears because maybe I can just tag along behind them, thereby answering my safety concerns. They seem to have no problem with this idea. It’s not my intent to be a nuisance to them, but it doesn’t seem to be an issue, except maybe to the end driver, on whom I cannot get a read. He’s just straight-faced, but seems friendly enough.

We head on south along the ridge. I let them get far enough ahead so that the end guy doesn’t feel me breathing down his neck. They lead me by about an eighth mile. On a high flat area they stop, and discuss setting up camp themselves. A couple of modified rigs with lift kits, large tires, and throaty exhausts stop and talk. These two just came up South Park Canyon, and informed us that the end fellow in our group (driving a lower-slung BEV) may  not be able to make it over a place termed “Chicken Rock” because his rig is so low to the ground (I’m sure he didn’t like to hear that). A few minutes later, my group leader decides to not camp here, but to go on and get down the canyon this afternoon. So off we set yet again.

Gee, this road is inexpressibly spectacular up here! What views in all directions! After descending what appears an impossibly steep hill, where the really long stretch of road curves all around at dizzying angles, we stop at a huge flat area that has splendid views of Striped Butte and Butte Valley to the southeast. I feel alive like never before, the grand vistas of the Earth all around and below me, the majestic sky above, like some renowned artist has created his most stunning masterpiece of all time just for me.

I am at peace in nature, and could not ask for more.

The group heads on down into South Park to explore some old wooden structures and mines from a bygone era. Flashlights in hand, we all walk into one solid-rock tunnel, until it eventually ends. There are steel ore cart tracks going to nearly the mine’s terminus, and at the other end outside is an aged rusty engine that apparently performed some milling work for the miners. This mining profession was brutal work in anybody’s book. Most of these guys out here never found their imagined fortunes, but if they enjoyed seclusion with few rules, then they had it made. Back in those days, no one in their right minds came out here to bother them. An airstrip, that more modern-day miners used, crosses part of the terrain up here also.

My new Ridgecrest buddies are ready to tackle whatever the impending road reveals, and the three rigs head out across the flat towards the canyon. The ground is soft up here on this easy class-2 road, so a large plum of dust trails along behind them. Being the last vehicle in the line, I decide to stop for a few moments and let it settle some so my engine’s air cleaner won’t choke on it. Apprehension of the unfamiliar that lies ahead in South Park Canyon also has brought upon me the need to pee, so I take this opportunity to do so – I don’t even think they know I have stopped because they can’t see anything in their rear view mirrors but dust.

Once in the upper reaches of the canyon, where the rock walls begin closing in tightly on either side of the road, and bushes fed by snow melt-off proliferate, I catch back up with my companions. The road seems easy enough, even with the rock steps and intermittent boulders we must negotiate. Then, as the trail begins to hug the southern cliff in sort of a shelf-road feeling, and the bottom of the canyon begins to drop away precipitously, everyone ahead stops, bumper to bumper. Everyone gets out, and walks forward, around a tight bend to the left. I cannot see what’s ahead due to the cliff blocking my view, so after shutting down my rig and making sure the brake is on securely, I stroll on up to the lead vehicle. The road is so narrow that walking around the trucks is awkward.

Before I even have a chance to ask anyone what’s going on, my eyes send vital information to my brain that I had better pay close attention here. This is the infamous Chicken Rock, of which I have heard, and circumvention requires a studied solution. It is not possible to turn around here – to change one’s mind about forward travel would necessitate backing up a great distance on a slim piece of earth posing as a road, that was hacked out of the mountainside by miners. We seem committed.

Chicken Rock is so named because it strikes panic in almost any rational person. Here is the picture: The road is barely wide enough for a full-sized truck. There is solid rock on the driver’s side that is vertical, which allows no room for maneuvering. On the passenger’s side is an undercut vertical drop of a few hundred feet, the kind of thing that you don’t really want to look at very long. And then comes Chicken Rock in the middle of all this, where the road narrows even more.

It is a large outcropping from the upper cliff side that encompasses about three-quarters of the road, leaving only enough room for the outside tire to pass on flat ground. It is about two feet tall, and rounded, so you can drive up and over it. As if that’s not frightening enough, here is the really bad part! Right opposite the rock, the road has fallen completely away in the past sometime, and all that your outside tire is moving over is a cluster of smaller rocks that people have wedged into place to plug the breach, and then held there by chain link fencing somehow. What all this means is that just at the very time you are crossing this horrible nightmare, your vehicle is pitched at a side angle enough to unnerve nearly anyone. All you can do is hope that those folks put the rocks in there well enough to hold the weight of a vehicle.

But we are in a group! And remember what I thought about groups when I was in my twenties? Back then, I figured we could do anything and be all right. Today though, it is obvious that if any of us make a miscalculation, it could be fatal. There is nothing but huge boulders at the bottom of the canyon on which you would land if your rig went over. I want to ask one of the other people in the group to use my video camera to capture my crossing, but I realize that video is unimportant now. I need to talk to myself a bit to mentally prepare.

The lead vehicle goes over first. He has the most experience of his group. All the passengers in each vehicle have opted to walk across and watch from the other side. Each rig is piloted only by the driver. There is not much talking going on. The first driver guides the other two across, in a tediously slow process. The fear that grips the drivers is subdued by their need to concentrate. All three have made it, including the fellow in the low-slung BEV, although he did a bit of underbody scraping in the process. The path is clear. I am the only one still on the upside.

My strategy is simple. Since I have driven so many miles over the years out here on my own, I will not use a spotter. I prefer to make my own decisions. With window open wide, I hang my left arm out so that I can pull myself to where I can visualize my left front tire, which is the key to my survival here. I must keep it tightly against the cliff the entire way in order to keep my passenger side tires as far away from the makeshift ledge as possible. The other three rigs are about a foot narrower than my truck, which here makes a big difference in the safety margin. I don’t even worry that I might scrape the rims.

I doubt that I’ve ever had more intense concentration for such a short period of time in my entire life. My eye is glued to the tire. Everything else in my visual and intellectual periphery is undetectable. This is a place where someone with a locking rear differential would clearly not want to have it locked, for the two tires must rotate at different speeds in order for the vehicle to remain secure over the rock – the distance that the inside tire must cover is roughly 70% farther than that of the outside tire. At last I’m over, so I park and shoot a little video footage of the class-5 obstacle. Everyone chats for a while to relieve the tension, and then we’re off again for the Panamint Valley below.

But the test of South Park is not over yet. A quarter of a mile, more or less, west of Chicken Rock comes another, albeit less severe, travel anomaly that spooks most people. There is more than one story about it, but I will present the more interesting one. A number of years ago, a disgruntled miner who felt that this was his canyon and region alone, became tired of having adventurous folks in their 4wd rigs driving through. Well, he took care of his dilemma simply enough by blowing out the side of the cliff, where the shelf road goes, with dynamite, thereby making it impossible to even walk the area. Undaunted by this nasty deed, local four-wheelers pitched in time and materials and built a bridge over the gaping chasm the miner had created. The other story is that a 1983 storm took out this section of mountain.

You can look down through the bridge material and see the bottom far below. The county of Inyo rated the bridge to 6,000 pounds, and posted a warning sign on either side. There is nothing hard about driving across it, and you don’t even need four wheel drive. It just spooks most folks, that’s all. A full size rig like mine requires that the tires on one side ride atop the outer support, which is a delicate matter that necessitates totally straight steering. The three rigs ahead of me are narrow enough to keep both sides of tires on the main surface with no fear of steering miscalculation.

By the way, Old Red weighs in around 6,700 pounds loaded. I believe I may need to rethink my desire to keep this rig, and perhaps consider a smaller backcountry exploration vehicle someday. I wonder what a person driving a humvee would do through here, for those rigs are a foot wider than my own … probably not possible.

We pass Briggs Camp, two cabins that are open to anyone who wishes to spend a night, as long as they keep it tidy inside. The cabins are voluntarily stocked with a few necessities for backcountry explorers. Ultimately, we come to an impressive overlook high above the Panamint Valley to the west. Here we stop to chat, I realize that my rocker panel bar on the passenger side had been redesigned by a boulder somewhere prior to Chicken Rock, and the group of adventurers bid me farewell. I leave on my own to find an overnight outpost somewhere, and presume they did the same. The road into the valley is steep, but unproblematic from here on out. My advice to anyone who wants to drive South Park Canyon? Expect roadbeds that range from class-2 all the way to occasional class-5. Only attempt it if you are very experienced with a worthy vehicle!

Northbound on the class-1 Indian Ranch Road, I pass through Ballarat once again, and then past the entrance of Surprise Canyon. If it were passable, I’d take it, but alas, that is not the case, so I figure on sleeping tonight at the primitive Mahogany Flat campground. It’s free, has a nice outhouse, trash cans, and picnic tables. There are only eight sites, but few ever come up here to camp, so it’s little worry of not finding room to sack out. Up Wildrose Canyon I go, past the Charcoal Kilns, past Thorndike Campground, and then finally up the steep switchback grade to Mahogany at the summit and end of the road. After today’s activities and excitement, my mind is numbed, so I pay little attention to anything on the way, just wanting to eat dinner and go to bed. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll climb Telescope Peak, once I am rested.

Day Three – April 18, Sunday

Thirty-five degrees in my truck makes for a lack of desire to arise in the morning. It is warm under the covers, and the sun has not yet risen over the Amargosa Range across Death Valley to the east. I can see snow on my truck. It wasn’t there yesterday. Weather must have changed some last night!

I am 8,415 feet above Badwater Basin, which is visible out my rear window. Mahogany Flat is on the crest of the Panamint Range, just like Rogers Pass was yesterday, only quite a ways farther to the north. It is also 993 feet higher than yesterday’s summit, and 8,133 feet above sea level. While we are on the topic of feet, mine are okay with my own boots now.

Not only is it bitter cold outside, but another reason I am reluctant about arising is because the final mile up this road to camp last evening, I heard a scraping sound coming from the front of the truck, and I am worried that I have a mechanical problem that will end my trip prematurely. This dampens my spirits, so I pull the blankets over my head and wait for some heat to get in here. The magical time is 9:30 when the sun finally melts the snow from the window sills, and is streaming in onto my bed. Okay, be brave, and crawl out of bed.

Once outside, I look down (way down) to Badwater, and wish I were down there right now … oh, to have more warmth! There is still snow on my front bumper that I notice as I attempt to assess my mystery noise. To make a short story shorter, it was my brake line that had been rubbing the inside of my driver’s side tire when turning to the left, so a simple bending of the flexible line and its anchor strap allows me the relief to know that my safari will proceed as planned. Planned? Out here there can be no plans, right?

Breakfast is taken inside my truck rather than at the freezing cold aluminum picnic table. The views here are every bit as fabulous as yesterday. My plan is to hike to the top of Telescope Peak, so I best get ready because it is getting late. But then I wonder if it is even climbable due to the weather. Clouds still darken the western skies, and there is frost on the ground, so I decide to scout a bit of the trail before donning any gear for a 14 mile trek up the mountain. A quarter mile later, my question is answered in the negative – the trail is covered in snow at every shady spot and north-facing hillside, and that is at this elevation! The total ascent involves 2,916 feet of gain, and I figure that at 11,049 feet, the snow will be impassible, and even dangerous to a non-technical climber like me, so this idea of mine will have to wait for another time of year. On to plan B, except that plan B has not yet been formulated. Time now to formulate …

An easy day would be nice for a change, after yesterday’s brain-drain trip, so I decide to make it so. It’s April, and wildflowers may well be blooming at lower elevations, so I will take a leisurely and enjoyable drive to Stovepipe Wells, where I will re-fuel.

Video must be shot at the ten Charcoal Kilns on the way down the hill, and fortunately just this rather minimal elevation drop brings far warmer temperatures than on the frigid ridge above. I am becoming more comfortable now, so I get out and capture the Kilns on tape. The Kilns still have a burnt smell inside, and ring a hollow echo when I try speaking. These odd beehive-shaped stone structures were constructed here in 1877 to produce charcoal for the mining operations on Lookout Mountain in the Argus Range, across the Panamint Valley to the west. To refine the Lookout silver at the Modoc mines, charcoal was needed, and they had burned up every last piece of wood on that side of the valley, so that is when they turned to Wildrose Canyon and started consuming the forest here. The trees I see here today have grown in since that time apparently.

On the road bumpy and washboarded again, I realize that yet another problem is occurring to my BEV. A significant rattling sound is coming from under the passenger side hood, so when I get to the seldom-used ranger station in lower Wildrose Canyon, I pull off under a tree. Imagine that! Now I am seeking shade to check out the truck, when just a few hours before, I couldn’t wait for the sun. It is also paved here, which makes it easier if a car happens by (no dust blown up as I troubleshoot).

The battery has come entirely loose, and is being thrown about in its confined area. Luckily, it is held in place enough by the surrounding metal construction that it hasn’t just fallen out or become disconnected. I notice that the plastic housing is getting gouged though, and that is not a good thing. This is an expensive off-road battery that I recently purchased for its reported vibration resistant construction, but the installer had not done it properly, and since the battery was much smaller than the stock one, it did not fit securely in the space. I jury-rig a thirty-minute solution and head out – at least I am on pavement. My plan is to check it further at Stovepipe Wells if they have a mechanic. Did I say plan?

Cruising lazily up the paved road to 5,318 foot Emigrant Pass, I am privy to a glorious Spring display of wildflowers, untold numbers of them in all directions, mostly yellow with a few purple groups here and there. The sun is fully shining upon me as I realize how great it is to be out here this time of year. Another wonderful part of spring here is the proliferation of butterflies! They are everywhere by the thousands, mile after mile, and I drive slowly so as not to kill them with my vehicle passing through their airspace. Wildflowers and wild butterflies, enough for the most enthusiastic lover of the natural world!

Over the pass and into Emigrant Canyon now, I have passed the roads to Aguereberry Point and Skidoo ghost town, and although I had wanted to drive into each for some video, I had been delayed enough by this morning’s activities and am worried that I better get my battery checked before any more rough roads could entirely wreck it, so I passed them by. Those side trips would take several hours, and if I wanted to check my rig and camp tonight in Cottonwood Canyon, west of Stovepipe Wells in the Cottonwood Mountains, I had better keep on going. Cottonwood Canyon is a rough road that will require a secure battery. If I lose the battery capability, I will be stranded, a long walk from anywhere.

I pass the turnoff to Telephone Canyon, near the bottom of Emigrant Canyon on Tucki Mountain. The Telephone Canyon road is a great backroad trip that I have not driven since the seventies, and I definitely want to go up there again someday. It is called that because the telephone lines used to run through it from Skidoo mining town in California to Rhyolite mining town in Nevada, although I like to think it’s called Telephone Canyon because there is a massive stone arch in there that is shaped like a gigantic telephone receiver.

Where the Emigrant Canyon road meets the Highway 190/178 main road, is Emigrant Campground, which sits with a commanding view northward towards Stovepipe Wells. Three miles past that, I pass a horribly rocky road heading west into the Cottonwood Mountains, which is signed Lemoigne Canyon. Jean Lemoigne, a well-educated French engineer, came to this area in America to find his fortune, after being enticed by his friend Isadore Daunet of Eagle Borax Works fame but, while he never got rich, he did find enough ore up the canyon named after him that he was able to live comfortably with his four burros. You can find his grave on the Death Valley floor near Salt Creek, where he died, along with two of his burros that he had secured to the shrubbery.

Long ago, you could drive the entire distance to his home and mine, but now you must walk the last several miles to see it because legislation in 1994 designated the region as wilderness. Back in the seventies, I also explored this canyon with some friends. With my loose battery on this current trip, I decide not to go today.

Stovepipe Wells has fuel (most of the time), but there is no mechanic anywhere to be found here. The closest is in Furnace Creek, about 24 miles southeast. I fuel my rig, pay my DVNP entrance fee at the Ranger Station (first chance to pay anyone on this trip so far), and then assess my options. Cottonwood Canyon is rough enough that it cannot be driven unless I spend more time rigging my battery better, so, having been up the canyon in years past, I decide to head out to some other territory with which I was less familiar, and recheck my battery later tonight or tomorrow. It is secure, at least for the moment anyway. Guess you can tell I don’t care for car tinkering – I’m out here for the exploration of my natural world, and I don’t want to be bothered with spending hours under the hood of a car.

One thing I have learned out here is to always check ahead of time for fuel availability. Stovepipe was without for a month or two once, during a time when they had new pumps installed, and Scotty’s Castle has really ancient pumps that are prone to problems. Panamint Springs sometimes loses electricity that makes paying with credit card impossible. This is not the convenient city out here. Never assume you’ll get petrol at the usual places when you want it. I’ve learned this the hard way.

Plan B is to camp tonight at Rhyolite ghost city in Nevada, just outside Death Valley National Park, and then to drive through the awesome Titus Canyon tomorrow. The day has been notably consumed by now, so I head east, up past the Kit Fox Hills, Death Valley Buttes, Corkscrew Peak, and through Hell’s Gate, on another lonely paved road that becomes Nevada’s Highway 374 after not too far. It’s easy to know when you cross the state line. There is a glitzy welcome sign with a prospector on it. I pass the DVNP boundary in the southern portion of the triangle that forms the Park in Nevada, and can see the Rhyolite and Bullfrog mining areas in the hills off to my left and ahead.

The dirt road into Rhyolite is class-1, and can be driven by any automobile. A few miles past this turnoff is Beatty, Nevada, a place where you can always get gasoline. There is a huge prospector-shaped edifice that marks this area so that tourists on the highway won’t miss it. Driving up Golden Street in downtown Rhyolite, I see the three-story stone bank building on my left. This truly was a city, and at one time folks had aspirations of making it Nevada’s capitol, for the riches in bullion were making it seem a logical choice.

Bob Montgomery had his fabulously rich Montgomery-Shoshone mine not far away to the west, and the fever was high for a while. There was gold here, but not enough gold to sustain such a large metropolitan concern for many years, and thus, like every boom town in this territory, even Rhyolite decayed to ruins, and became just another tourist attraction. There is even a house made entirely of whisky bottles as you drive into town.

I shoot some video of the numerous buildings, and then drive on north of town to find a secluded canyon in the Bullfrog Hills to set up camp out of the wind. A short four wheel drive jaunt, on a road that would deter most, gets me far enough away to enjoy complete seclusion tonight, even though I am only about a mile north of Rhyolite.

As I am eating dinner in my front seat, in the shadow of the mountains behind the truck, I turn on the radio for some music for a change. From Las Vegas comes a clear station playing Elvis Presley favorites for a while. So I’m out here alone in the desert, listening to Elvis as he hypnotizes his female fans. There is a big mine right behind me, but what most captures my attention in the waning daylight is the lovely color in the hillsides to my left. Only the mineshafts, the ghost city, and Elvis remind me of human activity here. As it becomes dark, and millions of stars fill the expansive sky, I can see automobile headlights gliding along Highway 95 between Vegas and Tonopah.

Not much backcountry exploring today, but at least I witnessed so much beauty in the country, with the flowers and butterflies. And now, as I look upward, the Milky Way is clearly visible, along with a ‘falling star’ every now and then. It will be much warmer tonight because the elevation is so much lower than last night.

Day Four – April 19, Monday

Six-fifteen seems early for someone on a wilderness retreat, but I’ve had an abundance of restful sleep out here in the quiet desert of western Nevada, and I awake to temperatures more suitable for the human body. Still cold enough outside to make indoor breakfast more comfortable, I watch the vibrant orange sunrise out my front windshield, as daylight breaks over Rhyolite.

Today should prove an interesting one, and I have a few things on the agenda. Titus Canyon will be among the first wild locales I visit this morning, and then later I would like to take the Scotty’s Castle tour. While there, I plan on checking with a Ranger about the “deep sand” warning on the map for Dedeckera Canyon, having never been through it before. After that, I am looking forward to Ubehebe Crater, Teakettle Junction, and The Racetrack. Don’t know how far I’ll get, but there is certainly plenty to keep me busy right from the start. Better get going!

My BEV is still in four wheel drive from last evening as I slowly motor down the class-3 dirt road and into Rhyolite. In town, I shift back into 2wd. After a needed visit to the modern toilet facility on the north side of town, I take a last look at the weathered concrete high-rise buildings on the once famous Golden Street, and then turn right onto the class-1 road to Titus, which is well marked by the Park Service.

The washboard surface of this road is mild to moderate, and is noticeably aggravated due to the larger and heavier tires I have on this truck, so I keep my speed fairly low through here (25 miles per hour). Larger tires are not a good thing for ride quality – the little bit they gain you in clearance is probably not worth getting bounced around so much. It is not a top concern to me though because I am concentrating intently on the beautiful Grapevine Mountains ahead to the west, which are bathed in the early morning sunlight. There are no other cars or people anywhere within my sight. I always love early morning explorations.

After several miles of straight-as-an-arrow washboard roadway, it begins to wind around as I enter the eastern foothills of the Grapevine Mountains, in the northern Amargosa Range. This road now becomes fun and quite easy to drive, as the washboards have subsided, but eventually I come to a point where I can see it begins a very steep and narrow ascent as it switchbacks skyward towards Red Pass. Although perhaps intimidating to see from below, this gradient is not a challenge for most drivers of the outback, and can be done in two wheel drive, but 4HI makes it less of a strain on the vehicle and land.

Red Pass is a tiny swatch of ground that drops off steeply on each side, but there is enough room on top to park a few small vehicles. Yes, the ground is red. The views are grand, and give me pause to get out, stretch, and appreciate why I am out here in the first place … to marvel in the natural world that is a part of who I am!

I don’t know the name of the magnificent mountain to the northwest that is starkly visible from the pass, and I find it listed on no maps, but I do realize that it and the surrounding terrain is worthy of capturing the images on camera. After doing so, I slowly descend the west side, again on a steep, narrow, and switchback-laden road, yet again, it presents no driving worry if taken slowly. This early, I am now in complete shade from Red Pass, but break out into the sunshine not far from Leadfield.

Leadfield is a ghost town with plenty of angry spirits. Charles Julian long ago promoted the area as a lead bonanza, and conned hundreds of investors and speculators into paying him a load of money to develop and mine the area. His promises of quick riches enticed a naïve public, and even though Julian was known to be a man of dubious character with a checkered background of swindles, his uncanny ability to convince folks of his sincerity continued to work in his favor, and he had a loyal following of sheep that never seemed to see his dark side. He had convinced them that the government “had it in” for him, and if they would just “one more time” invest with him, he would be vindicated and they would all be rich beyond their dreams.

Trouble was though, there wasn’t any lead worth mentioning in Leadfield, certainly not enough to make anyone any money. It was a scam from the start, and C. C. Julian knew it. He also knew how to prolong the buildup so that he could rake in as much money as possible without producing any viable results. Once he reached the magic point where he felt any more would tip his hand, he absconded with everyone’s money. Justice finally won out however, and Julian eventually got his deserved rewards of legitimate prosecution. He was not a happy man, as evidenced by his ultimate suicide.

Farther down this road, I stop at the petroglyphs, which are signed on the right side of the road. The obvious ones only a few feet from the roadbed have, unfortunately, been vandalized over the years, with a few observable rock etchings of modern-day destroyers of history. Petroglyphs exist in numerous locations in Death Valley National Park, with some noted on maps and signs, and others not. Sadly, it is apparent to me that when they are clearly marked, immature males with little regard for our past cultures ruin them. If you want to see unspoiled petroglyphs here, in Marble Canyon, or elsewhere, you’ll have to explore on your own. It is humbling to me to know that an ancient person stood at this very rock, and with a primitive instrument, carved these pictures in stone. Perhaps they have special meaning, or perhaps they are simply graffiti from long ago, but they are clearly worth saving.

As I descend farther into Titus Canyon towards the northern end of Death Valley, the canyon walls loom larger and close in tighter, necessitating sharp turns where the road makes abrupt directional changes. Pretty soon, I feel encased in stone cliffs as they soar hundreds of feet above me, and only feet from my rig. It is an overwhelming sight to behold, and one must stop the vehicle and get out to truly appreciate it because you just can’t see the magnitude of it all from inside your car. I feel as though I have traveled back in time to some prehistoric setting, devoid of any human influence whatsoever, and could imagine some dinosaur emerging from around the next corner. The road is one-way due to its extreme tightness. This is one place you don’t want to be during a rainy day with flood potential! It is also a drive that, when open, is one place you undeniably want to explore!

All too soon, the impressive narrows dramatically cease, as the road emerges from the western end of the canyon, high on the colossal alluvial fan that has taken thousands of years to form. Such a fan is composed of all the earthen debris that has washed out of the canyon from rain and floods over the eons. A great hike or two can be accessed here at the canyon’s end if you park in the graded dirt lot (outhouses available too). Fall and Red Wall Canyons are just to the north of Titus. Fall Canyon is easily accessible on a short trail from the parking lot here. It is similar to Titus, only narrower and more spectacular because it is only a hiking trail instead of a road. If you are more adventurous with lots of time, try Red Wall farther north too.

Once at Scotty’s Castle in the northern portion of DVNP, I opt to take the guided tour for eight bucks. An NPS guide dresses in period costume, and assumes full essence of that time of yesteryear, so I feel as though I have been transported back to the wild west days of Death Valley. The history is well-worth the time and money spent here, and it provides a happy break from my lonely backcountry journey. Most of those around me in the tour have come here on paved roads in their luxury automobiles, and probably my more rugged outback-style clothing gives away that I have arrived from another world than theirs.

Death Valley Ranch is the original name of this sprawling castle-like complex, and was the vacation home for Albert and Bessie Johnson from Chicago. Albert was an insurance millionaire, and he started construction in the mid 1920s. The interior is extravagant, yet comfortable, keeping in touch with the rugged land upon which the fortress stands. It was never completed, and the most noticeable case in point that immediately greets the tourist upon arrival is the enormous unfilled swimming pool. The Great U.S. Depression took its toll. Walter Scott, Death Valley’s infamous con-man extraordinaire, claimed the ranch as his own, and told a whopping tale that it sat squarely over his fabulously rich gold mine. It could be easy to believe.

Interestingly, my mom and dad actually met Scotty personally back in the late 1940s, when they used to visit the National Monument on dad’s Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Dad took a photo of mom standing in front of the old cabin that Scotty preferred over his own room in the much fancier castle. Scotty passed away not too many years after my parents first met him, and is buried out back on a hill overlooking “his” castle.

Tour taken and Scotty’s gravesite visited, I eat lunch in the blissful area of lawn and large shade-giving palm trees. It is now late morning, and while the other tourists leisurely continue to browse the gift shops, I must prepare for my next leg of the safari, into some of the most remote territory of this already-secluded region. I drive over to the old gasoline pump and ring the bell for the attendant. No one shows up, requiring me to ask around at the store, and I am told he’ll be out there in a while. Several minutes later, the fellow arrives and unlocks the pump, allowing me to top-off my BEV.

My next scheduled fuel stop will not come until Big Pine, California once I am out of the Park, so this load has to last for more than two days, for distances that could push my comfort level as the gauge needle drops. My advice? If you are ever heading out into the far northwest or northeast regions of the Death Valley territory, never leave Scotty’s Castle without your tank up to the brim, even though it is the most expensive fuel to be found!

The paved drive to Ubehebe Crater is easy, and can be driven in any sedan. There is one thing that is quite obvious upon arriving at the crater parking lot: the wind speed is nothing short of tornado strength, or so it seems when you first open your door, since the wind is southwest from behind your vehicle. What a sight this mammoth hole in the ground is! It’s almost a half mile across to the other side, and around 500 feet deep. A trail skirts its perimeter, but it can be somewhat unnerving to walk the precipitous edge with the wind howling so severely. Speech to others must be yelled in order to be heard.

A volcanic origin opened the Earth here, not any debris from space. Magma superheated a water pocket in the ground until its boiling finally blew the ground off the top approximately 6,000 years ago, more or less (periods of time incomprehensible to a limited carbon-based creature like me). Little Hebe Crater is a short walk south. Regardless of the weather, it is a desolate, yet memorable, sight worth seeing if you happen to be in the neighborhood.

I feel like I’m heading back in time, to a place unimaginable in the mind of the average citizen. It’s kind of like a science fiction movie. From an ornate home worth millions, I am now at a primordial volcanic crater only a few miles west, and my journey will soon take me to an ancient lakebed where boulders mysteriously move across the surface. The ultimate backcountry adventure experience I sought at the commencement of this trek is precisely what’s developing.

Once I drive out of the paved parking lot at this crater, and turn left to head south on The Racetrack road, it’s basically saying goodbye to the final sparse vestiges of any hint of a civilized world. I dare not think about it too long, lest I not travel the road not taken, for going it alone takes a fair amount of personal resolve and grit.

While on these backcountry safaris, I often document my travels as a cursory written log in a little 3×5 inch notebook. The journal is inside a small zippered carrying pouch that I keep in the door next to me, so that I can easily grab it to note mileages and what I see. That way, I don’t leave to chance remembering certain aspects of my trips, so I can accurately create the newest chronicle upon my return to the keyboard of the twenty-first century.

The next twenty miles or so are pretty much straight south on The Racetrack Valley Road, a road that I will not soon forget. I would classify it as class-1 most of the way, with some class-2 here and there, and is usually passable with a standard passenger car. In fact, a normal sedan would make the trip easier for me today because this modified truck that serves me well in many other backroad locales is about the worst vehicle to take on this road. Why? Well, just look at all those horrendous washboards that keep coming under the tires for seemingly endless miles, and necessitate that I drive only about 10-15 miles per hour. This is the ultimate shaker test, and there is absolutely nothing pleasant about it! I consider the wisdom of having these larger tires and modified suspension, as it seems they will loosen every last nut and bolt on the rig. On the other hand, Rangers say that this road is responsible for more flat tires than any other in DVNP. At least my tires are 6ply rated instead of most folks’ susceptible 4plys. Never chew on your tongue on this road!

Turning ever so slowly, the odometer keeps me posted as to how much more misery must be endured to reach the neat places south of here. Do not try to drive this road at a higher speed that smoothes out the washboards because there are turns in it that will pitch you off into the boonies out of control when you attempt to slow for them. It has never happened to me, but I’ve seen others who have made this mistake.

The scenery is beautiful, as always, with the Last Chance Range on my right to the west, and the Cottonwood Mountains on my left to the east. The Cottonwoods are the northern tip of the mighty Panamint Range that stretches to the southern portions of the Park. Joshua Trees are becoming more abundant, and keep me company in my ordeal.

Just when I think I am in eternal washboard hell, I see a lower valley opening up before my eyes, and the road begins to gradually descend. Sure enough, there is a playa down there, a dry lakebed of large proportions, running due north and south lengthwise. Then, I see them! Teakettles! Out here in the middle of nowhere are teakettles … you know, those water-heating devices that civilized society uses every afternoon at precisely two o’clock? The pots are hung all over a prominent wooden signpost at a dirt road junction. Pretty big sign for such a rarely traveled road! It is about my height, around six feet.

Teakettle Junction is what this place is called on the maps, and it is one of the reasons I have chosen this particular route. How many places in the world do you behold teakettles adorning road signs? I think it is just a fashionable spot to be, so I spend some time here. Story has it that a single teakettle once marked this intersection, and that is how the ritual got started once the sign was erected. Park Rangers must think it’s pretty cool also to continue the tradition, because they leave the kettles here, and only remove ‘non-kettle’ items like tire rims and other junk that some people abandon. The brown wooden sign is etched with large white letters, declaring that you have in fact reached Teakettle Junction (a reassuring thing to know for folks who are by now convinced they have driven off the edge of the known world), and that The Racetrack is six miles farther on this road, while Hunter Mountain is eighteen miles away via the road to the left, through Lost Burro Gap.

Road conditions improve the closer I get to the dry lake. The ground becomes softer and dustier, and is a relief. At the north end of The Racetrack is a giant rock outcropping that juts straight up from the desiccated and cracked playa. They call this The Grandstand. Gosh, from where did all these peculiar names come? Well, I’ll tell you. Since big rocks and small boulders slide around on this lakebed, it has earned the human name of The Racetrack, and of course, every racetrack needs a grandstand for spectators, right? Thus, were born the names. NPS signs keep you knowledgeable out here. You can walk right out and climb up to the top of The Grandstand if you like (and if you have the time). There are no racing rocks visible from here though, so I have to continue south on the road another three miles, whereupon I see another modern Park Service sign.

Sign reads that I’ll see the rocks farther out east on the cracked ground that seems like someone used a polygonal cookie cutter to make the strangely consistent shapes. No driving is allowed on this lakebed anymore, so it’s time to hike, fortunately. My rear is tired of taking that twenty-plus mile beating, so I am eager to walk it off. The wind is blowing, but it is mild compared to what was cranking at Ubehebe. I put on my desert shade hat and sunglasses, lock the truck, and then head off across the playa on foot. There is no elevation change here – it is the epitome of flatness!

An unequaled feeling of solitude washes over me here, there are no other humans within miles, and only the placid sounds of nature keep me company. I am aware of the noise made by my hiking boots as their soles contact the hardened earth on each stride, and I am aware of the sides of my desert cap, as the cotton flaps that protect me from the ultraviolet rays move gently in the breeze. Out ahead in the distance, probably several more minutes of hiking, I see dark specs spread across the southern expanse of this lakebed, and eagerly anticipate viewing the tracks made by these rocks. All is serene and peaceful in the northern Mojave Desert remoteness. Scattered clouds dance …

Oh my gosh! I am deafened! The roar is abruptly intense and violent, and for a millisecond, I am confused by the audible signals sent to my brain. The blast is momentarily off the scale of decibels safe for human hearing. I feel powerful vibration within me, as my body has involuntarily become affected by a force that reveals itself with the speed of a lightening bolt. This is the utter antithesis of what I was feeling less than one second ago! I’m at full stop, searching for the source of this aggressive, and wholly unexpected, invasion of my blissful afternoon.

By the time I realize what has happened, the fighter jet is rapidly becoming but a small dark projectile against the deep blue northwestern sky. I am but the most recent Earthbound Terran to be used as an artificial target for the Top Gun aero squadron in these parts, and my feelings are mixed. First of all, it’s quite a show, I’ll have to admit. Impressive? You bet! Gives me a little insight as to what it must be like to be a real target in the war-torn middle east. How could anyone stand a chance against such an adversary? That warbird came in so rapidly that I had zero advance warning – by the time I heard the noise, it was over. Had ordinance been dispensed towards my coordinates, I likely would not have even heard the piercing sound, because there would be no living ears to receive it.

The momentarily traumatic experience certainly makes me feel safe, knowing that these guys are up there to protect the likes of me, so that I can continue to have the liberty to freely enjoy my trips into the outback. Yet I wonder what the National Park Service has to say about it. After all, there thousands of square miles of ground set aside for military exercises all around Death Valley National Park, so why do they buzz natural world enthusiasts out here at The Racetrack? Not only that, but the NPS is so stringent on enforcing an all-natural environment out here, working diligently to reduce light pollution in the night skies even, that they must have a policy about aircraft flying but a stone’s throw off the deck of this playa. I am mixed … I didn’t come out here to experience such a thing, but on the other hand, I am oddly elated to have been a part of it. Since I have my video camera, I have it ready now in case it happens again.

It does happen again, not more than fifteen minutes forward, but there is no way I can react quickly enough to get it on film. Only if I just sit here with my camera pointed towards the southern sky, and at my eye, can I even hope to capture the image. When I used to come out into the Mojave Desert with my dad during my teen years, we were witness to this at Cuddeback Dry Lake, southeast of Red Mountain. We would watch from a distance as the jets would discharge missiles and bullets into the ground. It was quite a show!

Well, enough of that. Returning now to why I am writing this story, I have finally arrived at the first rocks on the dry lake. The farther east I walk, the more numerous they become. These are rocks of many sizes, some that are light enough to be carried by an average person, others too heavy to move. They are partially embedded in the unyielding lakebed material, having been pushed along apparently during times when this lake is wet and pliable, and so I see what looks like a solidified wave cresting in front of each rock, and a long trail behind it. Some trails are straight as an arrow, while others are curved in various directions, and still others, unbelievably, make sharp turns, as if the wind made a sudden violent shift in direction during the storm. Some of the rock paths are deep and easily visible even in mid-afternoon, while others are faint.

I know that being here either very early in the morning or late in the afternoon are the best times, for the sun will accentuate the shadows, and make for better photographs. My video camera is now purring along as I make verbal comments regarding my assessments of what I am seeing. I like it here, and make a note that I should plan on remaining in this area for a couple of days sometime to get even more dramatic photos. Homestake primitive campground is only two miles south, which is an obvious choice for photographers who want to be close to the subject matter. No camping is allowed elsewhere in the immediate area.

The Lippencott lead mine is south of Homestake, and west of the campground is the infamous Lippencott road that takes the intrepid vehicular explorer down in elevation to the Saline Valley. I’ve read all kinds of hyped horror stories about it, yet, as with all things, one’s enjoyment, or lack thereof, is dependent on ability and experience. I would take it myself, but for two reasons. I am scheduled to have a short meet with a friend of mine tomorrow up on Hunter Mountain. The reason we picked Hunter Mountain is because he will be coming in from the northern Los Angeles area in a 2wd pickup, and Hunter is easy for him to access compared to other locales I am currently visiting.

Additionally, Hunter Mountain intrigues me because I also like high mountain backroads with lots of trees, so I want to do the route this trip. The old worn Lippencott mine road will wait, and it will happen on a subsequent safari because I want to see if all the talk is true. One regional guide takes newcomers to backroad driving up it, so I wonder if some people just get a certain enjoyment out of scaring the greenhorns.

I have a nice quiet walk back to the truck, without being targeted by any more flyboys. The weather is pleasantly warm, and when I open the truck, it is rather hot inside, but the heat quickly dissipates upon opening the windows. Back north to Teakettle Junction I drive, so that I can turn southeast onto the lonely road that seems to disappear into Lost Burro Gap, only to emerge on the other side in Hidden Valley. Hidden Valley! Yes, it is hidden, and except for maps, you would never know it’s here. It is not readily accessible unless you have a determined attitude, a reliable BEV, and a good map.

Just before reaching Teakettle Junction though, I glance northwest a little ways at Ubehebe Peak, and recall the sorted history of the Ubehebe mines there. The late 1800s and early 1900s saw rises and falls of this district, with hopes of copper and lead strikes. Jack Salsberry, a wild promoter who also plied his skillful trade in the Greenwater scandal, reported that there was so much copper here that everyone involved would be rich beyond imagination. He got his investors all right, but, like is often the case, not much came of it because there simply wasn’t enough ore to make refining of it profitable. It was not the “Lost Spanish Mine” as was advertised so heavily. It was just another mountainside of the natural world that wealth-seeking men wanted to exploit for personal gain.

Mining history is fascinating, and makes touring the area more fun in a way, but it is yet another example of humankind’s intrusion into an otherwise pristine and peaceful part of the planet. Heck, even I’m intruding when driving this vehicle for that matter. That’s why I like to hike as much as I can also. My psyche consists of part environmentalist and part mobile adventurer, so I use motorized transportation to get me to a lifetime of remote locales that I would otherwise never behold. By using my vehicle to get here, I develop a genuine and caring appreciation for the land that I could hardly access any other way, short of years of walking the hinterlands on foot. Sounds like I am making excuses for myself – time to move on.

Lost Burro Gap is less than a mile long from one end to the other, and the walls are small compared to places like Titus and Echo, but it is fun nonetheless. Driving towards it from Teakettle, it seems like the road will just end at the Cottonwood Mountains, but as I close in, I see that there is a hidden gap that swallows the road. Geologists say the limestone walls of this little canyon represent about a hundred-million years of Earth’s history. Into it I drive, making a few level hairpin turns, and then out the other side I emerge into nirvana – Hidden Valley.

Just the name demands that I come because I like hidden places away from the crowds. Well, the valley is long and fairly large, but it sure is hidden and remote … my kind of place! To the right of my road is a 4wd sideroad that travels up the hillside a mile to the Lost Burro Mine, where they extracted quite a bit of gold in the early 1900s. Guess this mine really did pay off from what I read in the history books. It was a rarity.

Where the Lost Burro Mine road heads west off the Hidden Valley road, another road heads east up the alluvium towards White Top Mountain, ten miles distant. It is a four-way intersection. To make this side trip would require more fuel consumption, and since I am not sure of how much petrol my rig will burn on this exploration with all the places I want to go, I opt to make White Top a future destination (not a bad idea actually, because it is always exciting to keep some neat locales as bait to keep me wanting to come back for more). The afternoon is moving right along and the sun is consequently getting lower, so I am off through the remote reaches of Hidden Valley, and have my sights on setting camp somewhere up on Hunter Mountain tonight.

Is it in my mind, or does today seem more involved than yesterday? Yes, it is more elaborate and stimulating, because yesterday I kept mostly to pavement (sorry to say) due to my battery fear, but today, I have largely just forgotten about that little problem because I am having so much fun in this incredible area with so much of nature to see. The Hidden Valley road is a smooth class-1/2 combo, and the dreaded washboards do not live in here. This makes me very happy, and I cruise southward towards the mountains in complete comfort, a large dust plume emanating from the rear of my truck, even though I am only going 35 miles per hour. Sure beats the city! Just think, about now, normal people are antsy to get off work and head home in the urban traffic squeeze, while I, on the other hand, am the only car on the road, with no signals, signs, mad drivers, or pollution. Oh yeah!

The wild land in this region is so vast that I want to spend longer on a future trip. Approaching the south end of the valley, it becomes readily apparent that I will be experiencing some serious elevation gain in my not too distant future. The Hunter Mountain high country looms large before me as I pass the Goldbelt Springs area. From here, you can hike down Dead Horse Canyon into Marble Canyon, and although I have never seen them, word is that bighorn sheep frequent this place, and that many signs of ancient human culture can be found within the canyon walls lower down. One could spend several days around here, hiking and exploring the old mining roads. Temperatures are usually very pleasant, being that the elevation is over 4,000 feet higher than in Death Valley immediately to the east.

Hidden Valley is now coming to an end, and a road peels off east to the left. After studying the map and assessing what I am seeing, it appears that the road goes to some old mining operations just east of the intersection, so I stay left on the road that heads due south towards the steep mountainsides. Rounding a few turns, the road deteriorates ever so slightly, and then, as it hits the mountain, begins an abrupt climb up the precipitous cliffs. As the BEV and I ascend, it becomes a narrow shelf road in places, and further deteriorates to class-3 due to water ruts and rocks in the roadway. Although a 2wd truck could make this climb (depending on the weather), it is just easier and more fun with all four wheels providing forward momentum, so I put the transfer case in 4HI and shift into lower gears as I crawl up towards the 7,000 foot summit.

Trees become numerous as I drive ever higher, and as I break out onto more level ground a couple of thousand feet above Hidden Valley to the north, I enter a forest of Pinyon and Juniper Pines. The views below are beautiful, and I see no dust trails anywhere, indicating that I am indeed alone out here.

Now the road returns to class-2, and due to its soft nature, is fun to drive. I note this in my travel journal. Judging from the tire marks that I see embedded in the ground on occasion, this road obviously is a real challenge if it’s raining. It must be some sort of a clay-based earth up here, and when it gets quite wet, becomes a sticky mire that surely can stop a vehicle in its tracks. Today however, it is dry and the weather makes the trek across the top pleasurable. I am in a deep forest, although the trees are not tall like Ponderosas or Douglas Firs.

The sun is getting lower on the western horizon, so I start evaluating different spots for a camp as I slowly drive southwest through the woods. I am still climbing slightly in elevation. Somewhere up here I remember reading about Bev’s cabin (also referred to as Hunter’s Cabin) on a sideroad. His dad, William Hunter, was a confederate officer during the Civil War, and then ran a mule train to local mines around here for a livelihood. I pass one road heading south from this main road, but figure that I’ll see the cabin some other time since I want to get camp pitched soon.

A good camp area comes up on the right side, almost to the summit of the road, but I pass on it since I want to be on the southwestern face of the mountain range to make a cellular telephone call to my friend Rich, who is scheduled to meet me somewhere up here tomorrow morning for a visit. We had not planned a precise locale, but I did tell him somewhere on the Hunter Mountain road. I figure that I have a better chance at making cell contact if I am on the southern side, and up as high as I can be. Soon, the road begins to descend slightly, and then it comes to a place where it gets steep with a few switchbacks, although nothing like the northern side where I came up from Hidden Valley. The road remains an easy class-2 affair.

Just down from the road’s high point about two hundred yards, on the southwestern slope, is a pull-off that will work perfectly for camp. It is not private, should another vehicle happen along, however tonight, I will use it just in case Rich gets an extra early start tomorrow morning and drives up here before I get on the road – he can’t miss my truck where it’s parked. There are gigantic boulders the size of small cars around here, and it makes a fun place to hike and explore. I climb up on top of a cluster of them near the camp, and am delighted to see Mount Whitney majestically rising above the Sierra Nevada Mountains in the distant western sky. What a view!

This natural Earth is a world away from where most people apparently prefer to be, or at least away from what they can’t seem to leave for the money. I’d rather be poor financially and rich in my association with this organic planet, for I am a natural microcosm of the primordial world. A great peace fills me as I eat supper in the shadow of the Sierras.

At camp, I am not able to connect with Rich, so, spying a tall boulder-strewn and forested hill immediately to the northwest on the other side of a slight ravine, I opt to climb to the top for a clearer signal. It makes for good exercise also, and the views up here are even better than down at my campsite. A slight breeze is blowing, but my jacket keeps me warm as heat begins to dissipate from the land. My hunch is correct, and cellular service is superb up here. I inform Rich of my whereabouts as he looks at his map down in Tujunga, California. We agree to meet at around 9:00 AM tomorrow at this camp. This means that he has to arise much earlier than I do because he has to drive over the Angeles Crest Mountains, through the southern Mojave Desert, north on Highway 395, and through Olancha over to Highway 178. I can sleep in as long as I want!

Back down the hill I carefully climb, getting quite a workout over the large boulders, and onto a local boulder to sit and view the sunset a few yards from my rig. Once darkness begins making its appearance, I crawl into my truck and onto the comfy futon. Under the covers I go, peeking out the back window to see the ever-brightening display of stars. In nothing flat, I enter the world of peaceful dreams.

Day Five – April 20, Tuesday

In an instant, or so it seems, the eastern sky is brightening with the oranges and blues that herald the sun’s emergence. Warmth will take longer to comfort me up here due to the high elevation, but that’s okay because it is such a grand place to be, and my jackets and hats provide whatever level of elemental protection I desire. The temperature isn’t really that cold though, as the tiny gauge I have in the truck registers 43 degrees Fahrenheit. Breakfast eaten, teeth brushed, and other matters attended to, I find that I have a little over an hour before our scheduled meet, so I decide to proceed as far west as I can on my route so that Rich won’t have to drive as far. After all, this road is pretty steep and narrow up here to camp, so why not make it easier for him, especially since he’ll be coming in his two-wheel drive pickup. He will never admit it, but I always was the better of us two at backroad navigation (did you read that Rich?).

So, I start up my backroad buggy and slowly head on down through the sun-drenched woods, past Jackass Spring, which has water flowing freely across the road, but not enough to cause any driving concern, and eventually arrive at South Pass. This is where I will remain until he gets here. First of all, from this pass, I will head north down Grapevine Canyon into the Saline Valley, so to go any farther west would use up fuel and take me out of my way. Second, the vistas of the Panamint Valley to the south, including the Panamint Dunes, and the Saline Valley to the north, are exquisite from here, so it makes an impressive place to wait. Third, it will be a fun and easy drive for Rich to arrive at this location.

Time passes and I want to be active rather than just wait, so I hike west up the road. After a couple of miles, and still no sign of my buddy, an about-face returns me to the truck. Shortly before 10:00, the cell rings and it’s Rich, saying that he has turned off the pavement and is now heading north past Lee Flat. A little bit later, he calls again and says he’s lost, but it’s a joke because here comes his truck around the bend about an eighth of a mile up the road from me. He parks, and as he gets out to stretch, so does his friendly old dog Jesse. We haven’t seen each other for quite some time, living in different states now, so it will be a nice visit up here with our commanding views of this portion of Death Valley National Park.

Rich has his own computer IT network maintenance company, and is also a licensed Doctor of Chiropractic in his spare time (yup, he has a few more smarts than I do), so he has set aside this time for the drive into the country. His wife Kris is hard at work in Los Angeles, doing her share to keep them rolling in the dough. Rich is the fellow with whom I originally explored some of the Panamint Range that is now visible to us on the southeastern horizon. That was back from 1975 through 1981, up until I moved to the high country of southwestern Colorado to continue my law enforcement career.

Ahh, it has been a long journey for us both over the years, and we reminisce as we take in the grandeur of the area. He is wealthy, but still resides on the near outskirts of the contaminated big city, a place that I left in 1981, never to return. I am a far cry from wealth, yet have lived in small rural towns since that time, where there actually is air to breathe, and people go about their daily routines at a slower pace. I gave up the big money for the peace of mind that I needed to be away from the over-mechanized society that no longer knows what the true meaning of nature is.

I tell Rich about my battery woes, which, by the way, I have been ignoring now for a couple of days, hoping that all is better. We open the hood, only to discover that the battery is no longer held down with anything, and has been freely moving around in its restricted space, with deep grooves along its underneath and sides from rubbing on the metal parts nearby. I am on the road to disaster if I don’t do something now. But Rich, being the Mr. Know-it-all of my world, quickly volunteers to fix it up so that it will hold until I return home to get a new battery. Yes, this one, even though nearly new, has been ruined, and I must dispose of it soon. As we discuss life and the future, Rich works away with duct tape primarily, and soon is satisfied with his handiwork. “That will get you out of the backcountry and safely home.” He proudly exclaims.

We have a bite to eat, each out of our personal food supplies on our front seats, and then at 1:10 PM, Rich declares that he must start back so that he’ll be home in time to meet his wife when she gets out of the rush-hour traffic of downtown Los Angeles. He calls her quickly before he departs my company to tell her where he is, all about the wonderful views and solitude, and that he’ll be back to start dinner for her. Yeah, he is also a gourmet chef for fun, and loves to cook!

The man of many talents, but with smog-choked lungs, says his final goodbyes to me (through spasmodic bronchial fits – just kidding), and I sadly watch as he crests the hill and leaves my sight. Now, I feel the extreme loneliness that can accompany a solo excursion out here – I was fine until we visited, and then I realized that it would have been so much fun if Rich and Kris could have come on this trip with me. Alas, the complexities of modern life make so many “I wish I coulds” an impossibility for most.

Reality sets in, and I mentally prepare myself for the most remote and potentially hazardous leg of my mid-life journey. Not hazardous due to any life-threatening road conditions, but because of the extreme isolation that makes rescue an enormous challenge if I should break down. In a nutshell, there will likely be no cellular service where I am about to go, so my only hope for rescue if something goes awry is Rich’s savvy that I have not returned (I told him that I will call in a few days to let him know). This safari component coming up is the part I spoke of earlier that I need to really test my resolve, to prove to myself that I still retain the psychological resources essential to meet the primitive world on my own.

Once alone, I start the truck and drive north, descending lovely Grapevine Canyon, a place where there are trees at water crossings as the road winds back and forth around the outcroppings of the hills. There is another Grapevine Canyon northeast of here, and through it runs the paved road on which the Death Valley Ranch (Scotty’s Castle) is found. So when you say Grapevine Canyon, most folks just figure you’re talking about that one, since anyone in a standard sedan can drive it.

To the left of me as I descend the canyon is the mighty Nelson Range, to the west of which you’ll find Lee Flat, a large area covered in thousands of Joshua Trees. Still farther west of the Nelsons are the Inyo Mountains, a range that borders roughly half of the west side of Death Valley National Park, and in which you’ll find the Cerro Gordo mine.

The vast Saline Valley stretches out before me, an area that was not included in the original Death Valley National Monument in 1933, but is now part of the National Park ever since President Clinton signed into law the California Desert Protection Act of 1994, which greatly expanded the jurisdiction of the NPS. It also set aside ninety-five percent of the Park as vehicle-free wilderness. Once in the valley, the graded dirt road widens as it heads north, but guess what! The washboard endurance test commences again, though happily, not as brutal as The Racetrack Valley road of yesterday. Sure hope Rich’s battery fix holds!

A few miles out into the Saline Valley now, I see a van parked off to the right side of the road some distance ahead, and wonder as I approach if everything is okay. Well, as I pull up, it is apparent that this van was in some sort of a cataclysmic event sometime back, for it is completely heavily dented on all surfaces, and where the front windshield used to be, there are now about a dozen boulders, each roughly two feet in diameter! This must have been a major flooding episode that came from the mountains to the east that separate the Saline Valley from The Racetrack Valley. Rocks also fill the interior of the vehicle. No vandals did this! It was clearly the doing of natural forces. I wonder what became of the van’s owner, and also who is legally responsible for removing the wrecked automobile. Don’t be in low places during heavy rains, especially if it is raining in the mountains above you!

Visible from the van is a long, fairly straight dirt road heading northeast, about two more miles ahead. It is the Lippencott Road that connects this valley with The Racetrack. Had I taken it yesterday afternoon after visiting the mysterious moving rocks, I could have cut off many miles of round-a-bout driving, but just think of all the pretty country I would have missed up there on Hunter Mountain. Once it hits the mountains, it disappears from this vantage point, because it becomes lost in the tight and rugged canyons.

Not far from the upcoming sand dunes, I pass an abandoned tramway on the left, that ascends the eastern slope of the Inyo Mountains. Around 1911, the Saline Valley Salt Company was formed to commercially exploit the enormous salt deposits found here. Over the course of two years, they built an aerial tramway nearly 14 miles long, from the Saline Valley, up over the top of the Inyo Mountains at 8,740 feet, and down the western side to a railroad at Owens Lake. Fifty-four miles of cable were necessary to carry the tram buckets full of salt. The tramway ceased being used in the early 1930s. The terminus was at a point about five miles north of Keeler, on paved Highway 136 in the Owens Valley.

This is indeed extremely lonely country out here. Not far past the Saline Valley sand dunes, a lesser road cuts off east, and this is the road I will drive. It will take me past the Saline Valley warm springs and on up to Steel Pass, but temporarily that ebbs to a lower level of consciousness right now because I believe the nasty vibrations since leaving South Pass an hour ago have taken their toll under my hood again, or at least that’s what it sounds like from my driver’s seat.

I park at the large level dirt intersection, get out, and raise the hood to find my fears are substantiated. Rich’s duct tape special is a mess, so I laboriously peel off his torn-up tape and set about doing a fix that, while it may take a while, will hold come hell or high water. With a few convenient stones on the ground around the truck, I wedge the battery as tight as I can, and then begin an even more laborious and time consuming ritual of wrapping the entire thing in silver duct tape again, but this time, I use so much that I am guaranteed success. Yes, I know that in a National Park it is illegal to disturb or remove geological items (to wit: the small stones), but my life takes precedence now, so I hope the Ranger who passes through here once every six months won’t notice a few small pebbles missing from the billions that lie in every direction.

Often times at this lone intersection of the Saline Valley road and the Steel Pass road, you’ll find a huge tire (and I mean big!). The caretaker of this spring area drags it behind his truck every few days to smooth out the roadway to the warm springs so folks in passenger cars can access them. Once, I watched him driving my way with his gargantuan tire in tow – what a plume of dust that makes!

Forty-five minutes are consumed with my battery woes here, time that I would have rather spent exploring, for sure, but was necessary if I hope to make it out of here alive. No viable battery means no usable car, and no usable car means no safe way out of the hinterlands, and no safe way out of the hinterlands means a great lunch for buzzards and wildlife. Sure, I can walk for miles on end, but this isn’t your ordinary desert setting. Just carrying enough water to make the walk could prove unworkable, and that would stop it right there. Okay, enough worry … that darn battery is set this time, so I’m off.

Five miles of class-2 road through gullies and sandwashes bring me to the fabled hot springs, where non-indigenous palm trees sprout up in the midst of a treeless desert valley. People come out here to soak in seclusion, and since it is a “clothing optional” destination, know in advance what you just might see here. I stop to use the concrete block outhouse, a last comfort prior to the unknown that lies ahead. On my way past the main part of the springs, a barefoot man with a book in his right hand comes walking across the primitive dirt road on his way to one of the in-ground tubs, wearing not a stitch of clothing. Near the spring is a sign that reads: Bare Crossing. Primitive camping facilities exist here, but there is still plenty of daylight left to go on up into the remote mountains of the Saline Range, so I continue.

Each day out here brings a different set of occurrences and activities, and today is low on the exploration scale due to my visit with Rich and the subsequent time with my battery. That’s okay though, for the memories are still building no matter how it turns out. And the road immediately ahead will provide any challenge of exploration that heretofore today has not existed. This is the remote of remote ahead, and the part that I was originally tempted not to include in my route. Do you recall the warnings on the maps that said ‘deep sand’ and ‘experienced four wheel drivers’? Well, I am now on the periphery of it!

Is there really any greater chance though that I’ll break down out here between the hot springs and the distant Eureka sand dunes than on any other portion of my trip so far? Or is the human imagination just on one of those self-doubt sprees that hold so many people back from doing things they might like to do? Perhaps a little of both. However, from all that I have been able to determine prior to this safari, the next thirty miles, more or less, will be my point of highest vulnerability, for the road is a mixed bag of countless rocks of many sizes, and Dedeckera Canyon, through which I must pass on the other side of Steel Pass, is said to have four rock steps that require great care.

The road now deteriorates further, ranging from class-2 to class-3, and my forward speed slows to a crawl in many spots. This is going to be a long stretch. It’s not dangerous so much as it’s just demanding due to the need to pick your way around all the rocks. In many places, the road just seems to disappear, and I must stop and sometimes walk it a ways to figure out which way to proceed.

Way off in the distance to the north, on the south-facing wall of the southern Saline Range, is a huge white peace sign, reminiscent of the 1960’s hippie movement. It must be thirty feet in diameter to be seen so clearly from such a distance, and I presume it is made from rocks painted white. I have heard some complain that it is graffiti that the Park Service should remove. These folks believe it spoils the wilderness setting, and has no place in the park. For a minute, I can see their point.

Then, being an open-minded guy with an fine sense of fairness, another vision of the situation strikes me. What would some folks have said thousands of years ago when some of the more artistic and vocal members of the local culture here were etching designs in hundreds of boulders across the land, altering that which nature had created? Is it possible that the same principles are at play here with this sign? Are the folks who created this peace sign in the sixties any different really than the people who frequented this land in times of yore? Are they not preserving for future generations an ideology just like the tribes have done with petroglyphs and pictographs? Is it a matter of what is past is sacred, but what happens now is judged with a different standard, even though only time separates the actions? Interesting how people view things.

It is a steady climb out of the Saline Valley on the Steel Pass road, which will summit at 5,075 feet. The sky has been clouding up ever since I left the salt tram area, but I don’t expect that it will rain, although, it is looking a little ominous. The gray skies slightly intensify my fear of this extreme isolation, and yet they also reinforce my boldness of being out here alone. I suppose some would call it foolishness, but what is a guy supposed to do if there is no one to come along? I am certainly not adverse to company. It just doesn’t often work out that way though.

The speedometer of my BEV hovers around the 10-15 miles per hour mark, sometimes dipping down to 5, and at other, still rarer times, skyrocketing all the way up to a whopping 20 miles per hour. If you decide to head out this way, plan on an average speed of twelve and you’ll be pretty accurate in gauging your time allotment for the journey.

Steel Pass creeps ever closer, the road laboring along through rock and sand washes, across gullies, and past ancient lava floes higher than my truck. I am glad that I decided to outfit this old vehicle with sturdy 6-ply tires, because if there ever was a road that spelled puncture disaster for your treads, this is clearly it! Do not drive on this road if your BEV has factory stock 4-ply tires. I may be out here alone today, but I have made sure to maximize my chances with adequate equipment that will hopefully get the job done (okay, I knew if I said that, you were going to bring up my battery issue). Everybody makes mistakes.

Out here somewhere, on the eastern side of this slow road, is a place called Marble Bath, not far south of Marble Mountain that rises over 7,000 feet above sea level. Feeling a little dirty on your way to Steel Pass? Clean up at Marble Bath! This place seems to be a mystery to most folks, some claiming that they cannot find anything resembling a rock area where water accumulates, which would lead to such a name. The AAA map indicates that it may be a natural spring area.

Popular lore has it that a professor in years past brought an actual bathtub up here and filled it with blue marbles to give the place a reason for having the name. Further word has it that the Park Service, not thinking it was funny, removed the tub and marbles, and sought to fine the depositor of the items. Ahhh, another Death Valley area mystery! Being my first trip to this area, seeing as how the day is getting on, and that I still have to drive through Dedeckera Canyon, I think I’ll wait for another day to find the bathtub (if it’s even around these parts anymore).

Having just passed 7,063 foot Saline Peak on my left, the road now takes a turn for the worse, but the terrain becomes ever more fascinating. The road gets very tight, so constricted as a matter of fact, with sharp and unforgiving rock outcroppings everywhere, that in a few places I first doubt that my full-sized rig will make it through unscathed. Only inches separate the shiny paint job from hungry rocks in places, and my speed drops down to a crawl. About this time, the road gets noticeably steeper, and requires that I put the transfer case in 4LO to make it all easier. Oh, did I mention that in the midst of all this, I am also in a deep sand wash? Some of the obstacles I would categorize as class-4. Even so, I love this land here, and will take this route again in the future.

Finally, the road heads up a very steep pitch, makes a sharp left turn, and is off-camber for the final yards to what appears to be Steel Pass. The sideways lean of my truck is a little intimidating, but I know from past backroad experience that it will remain on all four tires. I come to a quiet and very isolated open space at the top of the concluding hill, and realize that there is no where else to climb, so this must be the place.

The road forks here, yet no map shows the fork. Both roads are equally used and wide, so that is no help. The Saline Range is on my left and the Last Chance Range is on my right, and both seem to funnel together miles ahead as the valley up here descends towards Dedeckera Canyon. I figure that I will just take a wild guess as to which road to take, and if it is a mistake, I can return to this intersection and try the other. Intuition tells me the left fork heads down canyon, and that the right fork probably goes up to an old mine somewhere, since it continues to ascend the Last Chance Range alluvium for a ways in my sight.

This is another fun road to drive because it is class-2 mostly, with some class-3 occasionally. What a feeling of complete privacy up on this pass! Some of the lava rocks are so black they stand out in odd relief from the light colored granite rocks and sand. My route takes me through some of the neatest backcountry I have ever seen, and if it weren’t so early still in the late afternoon, I’d consider camping up here. But, I think that the Eureka Sand Dunes National Natural Landmark about eight miles ahead will be my best bet tonight. From photos I have seen, they look incredible, and would make for some awesome afternoon and evening photographs and video, so I keep on northward, as shadows begin to creep across the lonely desert and mountain landscape.

Rain is not going to happen today. The clouds are scattering and disappearing. This makes me happy because shortly I will be driving down one very snug gorge that water and debris carved out of stone, so being in it during rain is not the best of plans. Dedeckera Canyon lies between my present location descending from Steel Pass and my overnight location at Eureka Dunes. It can’t be very far ahead according to my Automobile Club map, and I think it is right, because the mountains are closing in on either side of me, which is usually indicative of a canyon with waterfalls ahead.

As I round one corner past some high lava, in the distance down below, I can see through the split in the canyon walls to sand dunes, which must be massive to be seen so clearly from this distance. According to all accounts, they are much larger than the ones at Stovepipe Wells that most tourists associate with Death Valley. They are only visible for a moment however, so I stop and take some video, and comment into the microphone that I must be seeing the Eureka Dunes (you don’t always know out here because there are many large mountains of sand in many valleys). Then, just as quickly as they appeared, they are gone, because it is now obvious that I am entering Dedeckera Canyon, and the cliff walls prohibit further forward views of the valley.

There has existed a certain amount of apprehension in my mind about Dedeckera, as there usually is when one explores an area for the first time. Given my many years of four-wheel drive experience however, I feel relatively confident that I shall pass unharmed to the dunes. Yet out here, you never know for sure, because weather events can change things on a daily basis sometimes. Remember the van full of boulders? This, though, is one of the exciting aspects of backcountry exploration! If it were all predictable, it could become rather commonplace. The natural world is never commonplace – and that is one characteristic that I like about it. I enjoy wild adventure, and this is remarkably wild out here today!

Dedeckera canyon was named after Mary DeDecker, a botanist of some renown, whose discovery of a new plant never before known led to the naming of the canyon in her honor. There are marine fossils in this chasm also, but I certainly would have to have a knowledgeable geologist or oceanographer along with me to know where to look. I’d love to have such a person accompany me on all my expeditions, so that I could really learn about the area in depth while actually seeing it. Books are great sources of information, but I read them at home, not on the trail.

This canyon is turning out to be very exhilarating, as around each turn in the trail, comes a new view of incredible rock formations. The road in here ranges all the way from class-2 to class-4, quite a variety for a canyon that is only about a mile or so long in its most spectacular narrows. It is like a miniature Titus Canyon, but far more intimate feeling. I have to say that this is on my list of must-see locales in the Death Valley outback!

The rock ledges over which you must drive are of varying difficulty. There is one that is not particularly difficult except for a certain overhang on my passenger side. My full-size rig doesn’t appear at first glance like it will squeeze through without roof damage. Yeah, roof damage, if you can imagine that. I park the truck right at the drop-off, shut off the engine, and walk forward to view it from outside the vehicle (which always looks different from my perception in the driver’s seat). Whenever I am at a daunting obstacle, I often get out and look at it first to assess the dangers. Here is how this one plays out:

There is a rock ledge sticking up on the driver’s side that restricts any options of swinging wider to the left away from the overhang on the right. Precisely at the same time that I will be dropping over the ledge, which is about 18 inches high, the overhang comes incredibly close to the passenger side roof above the door. What makes it tricky is that the whole thing slants towards the overhang side, and the passenger tire drops over a tad sooner than the driver’s side tire, tipping the vehicle even more towards the overhanging rock. If only I had a smaller rig, this wouldn’t require so much study, I suppose.

Well, I get back in the truck and ever so slowly inch forward so that if I do hit it, the dent will be minimal. I even have the video cam rolling to show that I can easily touch the rock on the driver’s side since my tire is tucked right up against it to give myself plenty of clearance on the other side. Fortunately for my resale value, there is no contact. Gosh, that was fun! Yes, this canyon is just challenging enough to be loads of fun for any enthusiastic four wheeler who loves to explore really remote places that the general off-road crowd rarely visits. It’s just out here too far for most.

Rounding the final bend in the canyon, it opens up again, and the magical Eureka singing dunes lie squarely ahead. Though I cannot attest to it from personal experience, books tell that during certain wind events you can hear these dunes making eerie noises as the sand moves. Apparently not all dunes can do this. I have no idea why. Eureka Dunes are approximately 670 feet high from the desert floor, and depending on where you read it, are the highest dunes in one of the following: California, the United States, or the western Hemisphere. Statistics aside, they make for an incredible scene as I drive in the sandwash road towards them.

I am ready to set up camp now, having had enough excitement for one day. It seems like a week since I met with my friend Rich, because my mind has been so active on map reading and navigation, as well as appreciating all that nature has unfolded for me out here. This dune field valley will be a perfect place to spend the night, much different from last night at Hunter Mountain, or the night before at Rhyolite ghost city, or the night before at Mahogany Flat high in the Panamints. Each camp is unique, all wonderful and all with their own distinctive memories.

How can I be so fortunate to have this all to myself? I am not far from two severely overcrowded metropolitan areas, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, yet, out of those millions of other humans, I am out here all alone to enjoy this marvelous and mystical land! I have no complaint, for I like the solitude and emotional sensations that fill me in such a setting, but I just can’t imagine that so few ever choose to explore their world, happy instead to remain within their city’s limits, drive on crowded paved streets, and state that their idea of a nice view is the high-rise building lit up at night. Well, since you asked, I’ll say that such a way of seeing the world is not part of my psychology. Give me the wide open spaces and a map!

I park the truck on the eastern side of the Eureka dune field, with the colorfully striated Last Chance Range behind me to the east. There is absolutely no privacy afforded out here by terrain, trees, rocks, or bushes, as with the other overnights, but since there are no people anywhere to be found, it really doesn’t matter. Out my front window are the dunes, and out my rear window are the mountains. It’s early evening now and the sun is beginning to set. I have eaten a small dinner, and am now taking some video to capture the incredible emotional high that comes with a striking sunset behind such colossal dunes. I must be the luckiest guy in the world, I think to myself. It just doesn’t get much better than this!

No problem drifting off to sleep here, or anywhere else in the DV territory for that matter. Noise just doesn’t happen in these parts too often, at least not the kind that city folk take for granted. Nothing annoying – just the sounds of nature, such as the wind in shrubbery and trees, or animals scurrying around. This is where quiet takes on a whole new meaning.

Day Six – April 21, Wednesday

For whatever reason, call it providence or chance, I awaken enough at 4:40 in the morning, long before the first lightness of the eastern horizon occurs, to be aware of my surroundings. It is pitch black outside, except for the light from millions of stars and celestial bodies above. There is absolutely no noise, and I am cozily tucked under the covers. I still am a little sleepy though, so I will allow myself the luxury of heading back to dreamland after a moment or two of stargazing out the back window of the truck (the window is slightly angled in at the top, so I get a pretty good view of the heavens). Admiring the mountains at night, I turn on my side so that I can see the faint outline of the Last Chance Range immediately behind me. Just then, an implausible event occurs that instantly brings me to a higher level of consciousness!

We’ve all seen “falling stars” right? I know that I’ve seen too many to remember over the course of my life, especially while camping in the outback. Well, an object that once was in space moments ago, a meteorite of some sort I imagine, makes a dramatic and rapid descent right in front of my eyes, over a low spot in the mountain just north of Sandy Peak. This is not your ordinary shooting star that moves horizontally across the night sky, obviously so far distant as to make calculation of its proximity difficult. No … this is not like anything I have ever witnessed during my lifetime.

This object hurls straight down, absolutely vertical, and here is what makes it so dramatic: its size is astronomical. This burning conglomeration of rock is so large, and appears so close, that I actually worry it is going to create an explosive force just over the Last Chance mountains. The flaming inferno’s sheer bright mass dramatically lights up the eastern sky for the briefest split second, and when it disappears behind the mountain, I receive no audible evidence of collision with the Earth, though it gave every visible indication that it had to slam into the northern portion of Death Valley (about ten miles due east of me).

So, how do I interpret this pre-dawn extravaganza? I assume no planetary contact was made because there is no evidence of any kind that it occurred. Had it actually struck eastern California or western Nevada, my life right now would be radically altered, if I were still alive at all. What this means to me is that the enormous blazing entity had to be even larger than I perceived it, because it had to be very far removed from my location, not just on the other side of the Last Chance Range as it appeared. Why? It surely burned completely to nonexistence prior to a planetary strike, as most such objects do, and it could not have done so had it been as close as it looked to me this morning.

Now I am wide awake! The drama and emotion have charged my senses. I contemplate that which cannot adequately be translated into words. It was one of those things that you have to see to believe, because people will just tend to think that you are exaggerating regarding the size. Lying on my back now, with hands behind my head, I just think again how fortunate I am to be witnessing this natural world of mine in so many memorable ways. Every safari into the hinterlands brings a new set of unforgettable sights and events to keep me wanting ever more. Yes, this is the life!

I do get back to sleep for a while, but once the orange glow over the Last Chance mountains begins to brighten the sky, I am awake again, eager to get dressed and step outside to experience a beautiful new dawn! It is now 6:42, and 55 degrees in my BEV, so I don’t need too heavy of a jacket or hat. Having gone to bed with the ending of the Tuesday’s daylight, I am totally refreshed, and still thrilled from the massive burning meteorite. What a grand morning of solitude! The dunes in front of me are impressive, even though the sun has not yet risen to illuminate them fully. I know that once it does, I must have the video camera recording the moments. I eat a bowl of organic granola in my front seat, humbled by the nature that surrounds me.

This is my last day in the Park, unfortunately, so I am in no great rush to leave camp. My sixth day here will be a short one, but nevertheless, it is proving so far to be just as memorable as any. What it lacks in hours, it gains in the morning drama and my heightened emotions. In a while, I will be heading out past the Eureka Dunes, past the primitive campground on their north side that I saw on last night’s walk, and north ten miles on the wide and graded South Eureka Road. It intersects a road called both the Big Pine Road and the Death Valley Road, depending on which map you consult.

The first eight miles of the Death Valley Road are surrounded on both sides by the Park, however the road itself is in a non-park corridor, probably due to some legal constraints of some sort. From there, I will head out to Highway 395, and then north again into the eastern Sierra Nevada Mountains on my way home. Tonight will likely be spent somewhere in the feral wilds of the Lassen National Forest, in the land of volcanoes.

The Saline Range west of the dunes is now being lit by the sun’s rays, and soon the dunes will receive the light. I film what I see, commenting onto the audio track of the tape the passion that is surging through me, knowing that I am in my element here rather than getting up to an alarm clock so I can rush off to work.

The disparity is striking, and I have no desire to ever return to such an American paradigm of existence. I realize that my life is what I make it, and that to passively be swept along with the crowds, just because that is the way it has always been done, may not be a wise option for genuine personal fulfillment. All factors must be weighed, and there are surely those who will argue with my philosophy, but I will happily let them. For in the end, we have only ourselves to please.

My mid-life crisis has fallen into proper perspective over the past six days, and I feel as though my spirit for living has been rejuvenated during this week of backcountry adventure in Death Valley National Park. This is but one of many such locations on this planet where one can come to reconnect with the essence of inner need, thereby gaining a new perspective on how to continue through life in a manner consistent with that which calls from within.

For me, it is the Wild that designs that call, and I realize that despite my upbringing and grooming for financial and social successes, my path has led me to other horizons, which are powerfully manifesting themselves more prominently as I age. My call is to probe silent and lonely places of the primitive outback, far from the social order that once firmly held my consciousness. I will always continue to follow the whispers of the wild as they call my name with that ever-alluring beckoning.

Death Valley … it’s a wild land that has played a key role in redefining the essence of who I am. I shall return soon.

Lassen National Forest, on way home