Death Valley National Park, CA (Part 2/2)
Leaving in the same style we came in
As an apology to ourselves for too ambitious of a day last time, we decided to take it easier today.
The first stop was at Zabriskie Point, an easily accessible lookout point with a 0.2 miles hike up a paved walkaway with a great ROI: views along the Golden Canyon and the Badlands, which are so called, wait for it, because they are “bad lands” for settlement purposes (another example of DVNPN).
Perhaps because it was Saturday, there seemed to be more people at the park. We saw a bus unload German-speaking tourists; vans like ours unloaded smaller groups of adventurers; a group of four were traveling in a station wagon with their own personal tour guide.
Next stop: Dantes’ View, described in the national park visitors guide as a “breathtaking viewpoint over 5,475 ft (1,700 m) above Death Valley.” Everything’s relative: on the way to the lookout point, N. and I were grateful for the asphalt, given our experience in the washboard road. N. was busily snapping photos while I drove.
At the entrance to Dantes View Road, a sign warned drivers that “Last 1/4 miles, 15% grade” but I had no idea what it mean until we ourselves were on that last quarter mile and our van had its nose up in the air while negotiating switchbacks that provided, as a bonus, views of the steep drop down the side of the mountain. I drove up the hill in second gear. As promised, the road opened into a large overlook with views of Death Valley. It was my favorite place at the park.
***
“Death Valley is an international Dark Sky Park with a Gold Tier rating.”
Ever since our family once accidentally stumbled upon the most glorious view of the Milky Way while driving in New Zealand, I have tried to steal moments to look up at a dark sky. In our former home, I could see only the moon and an odd star here and there, which I then quickly realized were airplanes.
Here at Death Valley, I have annoyed N. by combining nature calls in the middle of the night with opening the van’s doors and poking my head outside to look at the stars. Some were bright, others dim; some stood proudly alone, others clustered in solidarity in the dark; some were free in random patterns, others in ancient story-rich designs: Big Dipper, Orion and Sirius. (These were pointed out by the park ranger when we attended a Night Time Talk at the Harmony Borax Works Museum.)
I have never learned much about astronomy or constellations or the ancient stories associated with them. Being here in Death Valley has nudged me to make the effort to learn a bit more. But even without any knowledge, I often find myself fascinated, perhaps like the ancient people who were also intrigued by the night skies.
“Never question the truth of what you fail to understand, for the world is filled with wonder.”
— L. Frank Baum
***
Hike: Golden Canyon to Red Cathedral (out-and-back, 3 miles)
A couple of factors have been limiting the type and length of our hikes here at Death Valley NP: N.’s sprained ankle (acquired in Catalina State Park in Arizona) and unpaved, washboard roads (PSA: you will see more of the park if you bring a 4x4). This particular hike beckoned with its name (someone must have market-tested it), easy accessibility, and paved roads. We had seen a portion of the Golden Canyon yesterday from Zabriskie Point and N. had mentioned that, most likely, it looked better from a distance than in close-up.
Today, we discovered that that indeed was the case: we didn’t get any better views of the colorful canyon. Again, as per geology of this place, we saw some magical batter lumping together several types of rocks, mostly yellowish, in a constant process of compressing and breaking and moving.
This hike ended with a few rock scrambles up to a ridge. Although my trail app indicated that we had reached the endpoint, it was obvious by the trampled dirt that several hikers had continued uphill. Well, I followed them, to my eternal regret. The path beyond the established trail was steep, sandy and slippery, and, in a few places, without any barriers between the narrow ledge and the drops below on both sides of a path just wide enough for two feet.
I do not fear heights. I have stepped into those see-through, transparent sections on high bridges; I have zip-lined through tall trees in the jungle; I have jumped out of a plane to skydive. But today, something in my brain registered the steepness, sandy-ness, and slipperiness and transformed it into fear of falling.
N. joined me at the top, but by this time, I was unable to enjoy the view; all I kept thinking about was the possibility of rolling down the mountain and bashing my head in the rocks. I refused to take photos, turned around, and shimmied down the steep section of the mountain on my bum. Once I reached the ground, I could not hike fast enough out of that canyon, golden or not golden.
Our next stop was at the Badwater Basin (ala DVNPN), the lowest point in North America at 282 feet below sea level. (Seriously, you’ve got to give it to them: these are all brutally honest names.)
The park service helpfully put a sign on the side of a mountain to indicate where the sea level was. There was nothing like being below sea level to help me forget being scared of being too high above it.
***
A coyote, a rain puddle, a sunrise — these are the things one sees in the desert when one gets up at the ungodly hour of five-thirty in the morning.
For as long as I’ve known him, N. has been a late riser. So of course when I suggested that we go watch the sun rise at Zabriskie Point, he turned up his nose and dragged his feet until I guilt-tripped him into going. That is how we found ourselves driving out of our campground in the dark and catching a glimpse of a coyote in flagrante derelicto, most likely running away from rummaging through some camper’s food trash. I imagined that it looked chagrined to have been caught in the act, as if to say, “Man, I should have been more careful! You broke my streak, yo!”
And the puddle? Well, last night, in the midst of tossing and turning in my sleep, I had heard the sound of rain pitter-pattering against the van. I had chalked it up to a dream, since I was in Death Valley, which the brochures always reminded us was the “hottest, lowest, and driest national park.” But here was evidence that it had not been a dream: we found ourselves at the Zabriskie Point lookout in the dark, standing in a rain puddle in the Death Valley. Somehow, it felt like Nature’s bonus for our visit here.
We waited in the dark and cold. I was wearing three coats and fashioned a sarong with a wool shaw over my pants. To N.’s surprise, many cars converged in the parking lot: families with young children bundled in blankets; couples hand-in-hand, even a large group of women from what we later found was a photography club. All claimed their positions along the ridge below the lookout point and waited for showtime. Did I mention that it was dark and cold?
Unlike the sunset N. and I saw while at the Mesquite Sand Dunes — seemingly furious and dramatic — this particular sunrise was slow and subtle, testing one’s patience but rewarding those perceptive enough to notice.
Instead of focusing its majesty only on its eastern direction, almost imperceptibly, the sun seemed to charge the air all around us: the clouds and the mountains closest to the sun were rewarded with shafts of golden color but everything everywhere appeared energized too; even in the west, the clouds seemed to fluff themselves up and the mountains appeared to shake themselves awake.
In a shimmering moment, the air — the day — seemed brighter, fresher and then our bodies — our very consciousness — seemed brighter too, as if things snapped into sharper focus and we should stand a bit taller, for the world had awakened and so should we.
But first, we needed a nap.
***
On our last evening in the park, we drove through Artists Palette one more time, during sunset, for a different light on that beautiful place.
***
I guess they just wanted to be consistent: since the drive into Death Valley NP was terrifying, why shouldn’t the drive out be just as harrowing?
We exited the park through C-190 towards Panamint Springs. A park ranger had nonchalantly mentioned that there were a few winding curves in the vicinity. We had already survived Dante’s View Road and felt confident we could handle a few more steep switchbacks. Besides, we had spent one week off-grid in the middle of the desert, without access to showers and eating only from our store of supplies. We were looking forward to getting clean and eating something other than PB&J for lunch. A few switchbacks were not going to get in our way.
I was driving, to allow N. to take pictures of the views. (Actually, this was never a good idea because, later, there were just so many pictures to sift through). We drove feeling as if the road belonged to us, since there were very few other cars around. And unlike how I felt coming into the park just a week ago, I did not feel bad about not seeing anyone else on the road — every mile I drove was a mile closer to civilization.
After crossing the valley at Panamint Springs, our van began the ascent into the Argus Range. The road had been carved through the edge of the mountains and along the ridge in several sections. That meant that we had drops not only on the right side or left side of the road, but also on both sides of the hairpin turns. Double the pleasure, double the terror.
We arrived at Rainbow Canyon, a site for military aircraft training, and I naively assumed that we were done with the scary road. But, wait! There was more! The whole switchbacks-hairpins-double sided drops continued until just a sliver before we hit the park’s boundaries.
And so let us continue the list of, “Let me count the ways you can die in Death Valley National Park”:
(8) lack of guidance: many of the access roads to trailheads for popular hikes were described with phrases such as “unsigned gravel access road:’ “no signs or trail;” “no signs, route is unclear in a few places” (!?!)
(9) dangerous, twisty, steep roads
(10) terror resulting from 1+2+3+4+5+6+7+8+9
Never have we been so happy to see the sign, “Thanks for experiencing your national park. Please visit again.”
After that, we had to negotiate the same scary section of I-15 at Cajon Pass (yada-yada-wind-warning-trucks-steep-roads-high-speeds-yada-stress-sweat). Time for some tissues.
