My winter wanderings

[USExplorer]

1819: Rugged terrain and steeply curving road.
1820: The rain-swollen Del Puerto Creek.
1821: The drier eastern mountain slopes are covered in chaparral where vegetation is not cleared for grazing.
1824: Where vegetation is cleared, the folded hills are very green.
1825: The Central Valley from the last of the hills. Due to the haze, the Sierras are not visible.

 

[USExplorer]

In Patterson (elevation 100 feet), I stop at the Lutheran church and end up staying much of the afternoon. The friendly atmosphere reminded me of the small churches of the Deep South. This side of the mountains is a world apart from the Bay area. Shout outs to those of the congregation who are reading this. Downtown Paterson is arranged in the shape of a wheel, with a traffic circle in the middle, eight spokes, and a rim road (Avenida El Circulo). Route 33 chops off a sliver of the wheel in its kill-joy straight line course, and the grid does not continue on the other side of the highway. The two triangle-shaped sectors formed by the highway are designated as parks. 

After eating a snack lunch, I drive down Av Las Palmas, which as its name suggests is lined with very large palm trees. I cross the unspectacular San Joaquin River and pass numerous groves of fruit trees. I then cross 99 and blow through Turlock, continuing on down West East Avenue. The country out here is flat and wide open, with four way stops between main roads and a semi-grid structure. The grid disappears as the road climbs very gently into the California equivalent of the Piedmont. Cattle feed lots and the occasional chicken farm perfume the air. In Henderson Park outside Snelling, the Merced River rushes over its gravelly bed. A few locals come and go at the park, but not much is going on out here in the country. And it is country; the street signs are shot up. 

I pass the Merced Falls hydroelectric project, then take a local road through Hornitos, which has a 25 mph speed limit and not much else. Outside of the non-town, rolling green hills dotted with numerous cattle replace the scrubby forests of the "Piedmont". Forested hills rise out of the pastures on the eastern horizon. I see the car headlights of Highway 140 passing on the top of the hill. The county road gradually climbs to Highway 140, then I make a 180 degree turn and continue north on the highway. At the top of the hill, the waning light reveals a vista of the Central Valley. The orange lights of the 99 corridor glow on the horizon, while the farmland and pastureland glows a featureless blue in the cloudy dusk. There is a potential place to park for the night, but the grade is too steep and I move down the road. 

A few miles outside Mariposa, I turn down Aqua Fria Road, passing several signs warning of flooding ahead. The road is fenced forest, but no one lives in the floodplain. The floodwaters have receded, and I park for the night near a rushing creek. It rains much of the night, but there is only minor flooding in the morning. The temperature is 38 degrees. Several cars have passed in the night and two in the morning but none of them called the police on me.

I drive down the long curving highway into the town of Mariposa (elevation 2000 feet, population not much more) which tries to look like an Old West logging town. In this cold dreary weather there are no tourists about, although Yosemite National Park is all of 30 miles away. The park charges $25 for a vehicle pass. Back in 1997, the cost was $5. However, if I hop on the YARTS shuttle, I can get a round trip ticket into the park for $12. Once the rain stops, I'll probably catch the bus into the park and spend the day there.

1826: Las Palmas Avenue.
1827: The Merced River above the Central Valley farmlands it waters.
1828: Climbing out of the Central Valley.
1829: Car campsite next to swollen creek.

 

[Silver]

"YARTS shuttle, I can get a round trip ticket into the park for $12"
Thats better than "$25 for a vehicle pass."

The Rib Eye Steak is delicious!  But the rare is pretty bloody . .
We stayed at the motel with nearby fancy restaurant.

Usually a lot of International travelers in Yosemite.

You missed Half Moon Bay & Pescadero!  I took a free fishing trip out of Half Moon Bay once.
We were helping with research on Fish Populations.  

Any plans on going to Reno & Tahoe?  Don't miss the Lobster Buffet in BoomTown.

& 1 of the Casinos near Sacramento has a Dungeoness Crab Buffet . .
But there's talk of Red Tide recently?

Great job man!  I look forward to your next report!

 

[USExplorer]

Six dollars for a 45 mile scenic bus ride, plus admission to Yosemite, is a very good deal. Route 140 into the park is very scenic, dropping down a precipitous canyon into the Merced River gorge, then climbing its way along the river toward the park. One section of the narrow, winding two-lane road is blocked off by a massive slide, and the road is rerouted to the other side of the river via two bridges. There is very little development along the road until El Portal, which has a couple hotels and a gas station charging over three dollars a gallon. The vegetation is a mix of pine and cedar, and the numerous exposed granite outcroppings remind me of New Hampshire. We cruise past the entrance gate and into Yosemite National Park. 

Fog obscures El Capitan, and the bus does not stop for a view. The top two-thirds of Yosemite Falls (the tallest waterfall in the United States) are likewise obscured in a hanging mist, but the lower falls are thundering down the cliff in plain sight. A huge gaggle of international tourists snaps photos of the falls. I ride the free park shuttle out to the Mirror Lake trailhead, and walk the paved "trail" down to Mirror Lake. Half Dome is likewise obscured. The full size of the granite cliffs is only hinted at, vague outlines visible through small gaps in the fog. Yosemite Village was a rather charmless place, consisting of several isolated clusters of buildings, recently renamed after a change in concessionaires. 

Due to the lateness of my arrival and lack of affordable lodging in the park, after three hours I had to catch the YARTS back to Mariposa. I did not regret spending the money to visit Yosemite (mainly for bragging rights) but the sights were far less spectacular than John Muir's starry-eyed pronunciations led me to believe. Besides, it was drizzly and in the low 40s all day.

1832: Somewhere under this massive pile of rocks lies a smooth strip of asphalt.
1833: Lower Yosemite Falls. Don't get me wrong, this is scenic, but not in the same league as Big Sur.
1834: View from the base of the Falls.
1836: A rock formation.
1837: The camera is pointed nearly vertical up one of the many sheer cliffs in the valley.

 

[USExplorer]

I got back to my truck around 6:30 pm, and drove out along 49 in the dusk. Near a high bridge over the Chinchilla River, I turned down the old highway and crossed the low bridge and parked near the river for the night. The cars crossing on the high bridge 100 feet above me were barely audible over the rippling of the river. The temperature dipped to freezing in the night, and I climbed out of the foggy gorge in the morning and parked up top to soak up some sun and cook some instant oatmeal. 

The road descended into a valley and passed through the town of Oakhurst, where it ended. I turned south on 41 and climbed up out of the valley, gaining a great view of the heavily forested region. 41 went up and down and around small hills, working its way through very quiet and secluded communities. After a few more miles, the road began dropping down, first into large rocky pasturelands scarred with numerous outcroppings. Far ahead lay the dead flat horizon of the Central Valley. The rocks became smaller and soon disappeared altogether, and the highway set a straight course for Fresno. As it approached the city, it turned into an expressway, and the pastures were replaced by development hidden behind soundbreaks. I exited a few miles from downtown Fresno and cleaned up in the Walmart bathroom. Walking back to my truck, I noticed my front right tire was very low. 12 psi, and I had just ridden fifty miles this morning, much of it on a curving mountain highway. The handling felt sluggish, but then again it is always sluggish in the cold. I reinflated the tire, looking for any creases or bulging that would indicate it being unfit to drive. It inflated right back up to 30 psi and looked normal. Now, six hours later, it is down to 22 psi, so I've got a slow leak. My first flat tire since I started driving.

Downtown Fresno is very airy compared to San Francisco. The library WiFi is not working, so I leave the city and drive out to the small farm town of Sanger, taking back roads through miles of orchards. Now I have to get my tire repaired. I heard Walmart TLE does it for ten bucks, and they have a Walmart here, and this isn't that bad of a town to be stuck in for a day.

1838: Snowy high altitude forest perched on one of the granite monoliths of Yosemite.
1841: The tail end of Mirror Lake.
1843: The valley of the Chinchilla River, where I spent the night, snowcapped mountains on the horizon.
1844: Oakhurst in its green valley, from Route 41.

 

[USExplorer]

I end up getting a patch installed for 22 bucks at a local tire shop. The flat was caused by a splinter of wood, of all things. There was no damage to the sidewalls. The local library is open to 8 pm, so I begin reading "The Son", an epic western novel by Phillipp Meyer with a storyline as wide-open as the Texas plains it is set on. It is told in the format of multiple recollections from various members of the McCullough family, stories told dispassionately or even fatalistically at times, as if in this one fictional skirmish in the historical collision of cultures was by the laws of human nature unavoidable. I get about a third of the way through before closing time approaches and I have to leave. 

I drive down to the Walmart and park for the night, then set out walking back toward the town center. 9:00 on a Tuesday, light traffic on the main roads. In a dive bar on what passes for Main Street a middle aged couple chatter over drinks while over a dozen young guys drink beers morosely. Many of the loners look like chronically unemployed basement dwellers. Unsurprisingly, given the creepiness of the denizens, there are no girls in the establishment. A can of Tecate costs five times its price in a Mexicali bar. William Least Heat Moon in "Blue Highways" remarked the best place to meet people in a new town is at a local bar. Forty years later this is no longer the case, so I might as well stop wasting my money. 

A clock on a bank reads a completely erroneous date and time as I walk back to my truck. The temperature remains in the 50s, making for a very comfortable night. I am woken by the sun rising over the nearby strip mall, and head out of town south through the flat farmland down to the 99 near Kingsburg. The air is smoggy and smells rather foul. I exit on the 198 expressway and fly through the city of Visalia, heading east for the mountains. The road gets less busy and narrows down to two lanes before forking along two valleys. I take the right fork to Yokohl Valley Drive, which is very pastoral and lightly populated. After switchbacking over a low ridge, the road descends into the valley of the Tule River, the snow-capped Sierra Nevada ranges standing guard on the eastern horizon. 

Springville (elevation 1000) is a typical small mountain valley town surrounded by rocky grassy hills. I get some gas and hit Highway 190 up the Tule River into the Giant Sequoia National Monument. The pasture is replaced by chapparal brush as the road becomes progressively more twisty and winding. I pass Camp Nelson, and the road crests 5000 feet. Gradually the brush is replaced by pine and cedar, and the snow capped hills get closer. There are still no sequoias. I drive the road all the way up to Ponderosa, which is at 7200 feet. The road (now the Western Divide Highway) is unplowed and gated off up here, which I was forewarned about. Not a single sequoia to be seen. The temperature up here is 45 degrees, and the sun is ferociously warm. It feels strange to be walking through snow under such a hot sun. The hills up here are gradual enough and the trees are thick enough to block any views. 

There being no way to go but down, I turn around and begin my descent, gearing down when necessary and cutting switchbacks. There is no one on the road for miles. Just before Camp Nelson I turn down the partially plowed Redwood Drive and drive up to the snowy Sequoia Grove cabin development. Unbeknownst to me, the fifth largest sequoia tree in the world is only a few hundred yards off the road. I only see rather ordinary sized sequoias at the end of the road, and I have to turn around and retrace my path down the mountain. Back down 190 into Springville, where the temperature is 70 degrees. I take a break from the mountain roads in the town and walk around aimlessly. 

By 3:30, I am driving down 190 toward the city of Porterville, passing Lake Success along the way. There being no road across the foothills of the Sierras, I am forced to constantly jog south and west, exiting and entering the Central Valley multiple times. 

1846: Sierra vista over the Tule River valley.
1847: The rugged Tule River gorge. The road is a hundred feet up on the left slope.
1850: 7200 feet high, the end of the road.
1851: A sequoia tree. At 12 feet in diameter this tree is a baby.
1852: A water sluice on a trestle, purpose unknown, that parallels the road down the Tule River valley.

 

[USExplorer]

Porterville, a small city with a small town atmosphere. These Central Valley towns are so similar to each other. I spend the evening in the library, then walk out around 8 pm and check out the town. A homeless woman has set up a camp in the town square's gazebo, and her yappy dog runs at anyone who enters the square. Cholos with bald heads cruise the main street in lowered Suburbans with flashy rims and blue headlights, blasting music. East Porterville is a migrant worker ghetto, noted in the news for having numerous residents' wells run dry. It looks rather abandoned. 

Just before the only river crossing in East Porterville I obey my intuition and make a sudden turn into a grassy field cut with a dirt track. The track leads down under the river bridge. I check the bottom and the ground is firm, so I drive down under the bridge and stay for the night. The traffic noise is barely noticeable, and at this time of year I am the only resident. Smoke blackened concrete and piles of ashes suggest that this is a migrant fruit picker camp during the summer. No one bothers me, as it is a rather secluded place.

In the morning I wash my clothes at a very cheap coin laundry and head south out of town along back roads, passing through miles of orange groves. The Old Stage Road leads south-west up into the hills before ending at the non-town of Glennville. I turn onto 155 and begin climbing over the Greenhorn Mountains. The pass crests out in a lightly snow-covered pine forest at 6200 feet before descending a steep grade into the Kern River Valley. I pick up a hitchhiker on the mountain road and drop her off in town, then continue on past Lake Isabella, the main water supply for Bakersfield. The lake is extremely low. This valley is in a rain shadow, and the surrounding hills are scrubby and dry. The sky is blue against the gray hills as only a desert sky can be.

Lake Isabella (formerly called Isabella, and located in the river valley) has a public library, an institution that I have been spending too much time in lately. A sign says "Dam Failure Evacuation Route". The Lake Isabella Dam is one of the most failure-prone in the US. Gas is $2.70 here, so I will fill up in Ridgecrest. One more mountain pass, and I will welcome back the Mojave Desert.

1854: Lake Success, newly swollen with melting snow. The Sierras are cloaked in clouds in the background.
1855: My riverside campsite in Porterville. I take these pictures of campsites to show readers how stealth camping is not hard at all.
1856: Orange groves, with snowy mountains floating in the background like a dreamy wallpaper. 
1858: The eastern slope of the Greenhorn Mountains (a ridge of the Sierras), barren and dry-looking.
1859: Lake Isabella. The lake is at 6% capacity. It was lower in 1962 but only for a short time.

 

[USExplorer]

OK, where did I leave y'all at? Synopsis: Ridgecrest - Death Valley - Pahrump - Las Vegas.

West of the town of Lake Isabella CA-178 traverses the lightly populated and scrubby valley of the South Fork Kern River. Several RVs are camped out on the low lakeshore, but signs demanding use fees drive me away. A "Lakeview Motel" on the highway looks out on a wide grassy expanse that hasn't seen water in years. After Canebrake, the road begins climbing up into scrubby trees, finally topping out at Walker Pass, elevation 5250 feet. This pass was widely used by 49ers crossing into the Central Valley to mine gold in the western Sierra foothills. I turn in a free campground at the top of the pass, where the Pacific Crest Trail leaves the deserts of Southern California for the Sierra forests. I crossed the trail once before but never noticed it, heading for LA and the coast. There are only two car campsites in the campground, so I park off the side of the access road. A guy from Missouri is camped out here, visiting his son in Ridgecrest. He remarks, I don't understand why people who have so much land to camp on choose to camp right next to each other. I reply that most people are not hermits by nature and will camp with fellow travelers when they have the chance. We talk a while about California politics, and then I say take care and walk up the wide sandy PCT. A group of four middleaged hikers ask if I'm Dave. I say good evening and no I'm not Dave and continue on to the top of the ridge. The view is very limited due to the high scrub trees. The sun has set, and a sliver of a crescent moon shines through the clear sky. A light wind blows over the pass. 

I descend and find the four day hikers talking to Missouri. Turns out Dave was supposed to pick them up and bring them back to Inyokern, a small town in the Mojave Desert near Ridgecrest. However, Dave was nowhere to be seen. Their negotiations with Missouri are going nowhere, so I offer to take them down to where they need to go. They offer to pay me $25 for the 35 mile round trip. I accept and begin throwing my junk out in the desert until I have enough room for four people and a small dog. They stand awkwardly around until I finish, then pile in and we set off. I fly down the long grade as the hikers quietly speculate about the reason for Dave's absence .They are ill at ease when I ask them questions, as if they never rode with a stranger before. They give me directions to their car, which is parked in the post office parking lot. I tell them to give Dave the bill, and they say thanks and wave goodbye as I drive off.


Back in camp, I read "Paco's Story", a disturbing short novel about a Vietnam war veteran, then turn in for the night. A short while later, a gaggle of hikers comes down the trail and sets up a tent using their headlamps. Eventually their chattering dies down and we all fall asleep. The next morning I drop a dollar in the campground donation box and head out under an overcast sky, the hikers staring at me without any greeting. My gas gauge is close to 1/8 tank, and I repeat my trip of the previous evening. The scrub is gradually replaced by Joshua trees and other vegetation typical of the Mojave Desert, and the road opens up to a wide flat desert valley. Down down down through Inyokern and into Ridgecrest, a sprawling desert town immediately adjacent to the China Lake Naval Weapons Center. I get gas for $2.23/gallon along with a whole bunch of Jeeps heavily laden for a weekend of riding the back roads of Death Valley National Park. 

Weather forecasts warn of heavy rain in the Central Valley, 50% chance of rain here in the desert. A strong wind blows across the valley, rustling the trees of the "downtown" park. At the "Death Valley Tourist Center", a tour guide hands me dozens of pamphlets and guides. The admission fee for the national park is $20. If I have to pay, I have to pay. 100 miles to the next affordable gas station, then 150 more miles to the next town. The WiFi is down at the library. I fill my water bottles at the park then drive down to the Walmart to stock up on food and water jugs for my desert excursion. I run down a mental checklist and decide that I am good for the next few days, and hit the highway out of Ridgecrest.

178 parallels the base fencing for many miles before turning north. I instead turn south-east down a gravel road to visit the Trona Pinnacles. Five miles down a bumpy gravel road, dozens of tall rock formations stand out of a dead flat and barren alkali lakebed. I park near the pinnacles and walk the well-trodden trails through the rocky wasteland. The sun peeks out of the clouds for the last time that day, but it is noon sunlight and the pinnacles remains a pale tan color. There are only half a dozen other cars in the vicinity. The rock formations themselves are made of small pearls of calcium carbonate (trona) cemented together like stalagmites. Some of them are fractured; many of them have fractured pieces balanced on top. Broken pieces of trona litter the ground and form little hillocks around each formation. They range from ten to eighty feet in height, and from thirty to hundreds of feet in width. Supposedly this setting was used in many science fiction movies.

1862: Inyokern in its desert valley. Back among the open country.
1865: The alkali flat that the Trona Pinnacles are on. The scale of everything in the Mojave is enormous, the pinnacles here look like little more than barely distinguishable wrinkles on the lakebed.
1867: A few of the pinnacles. The two trail markers in the foreground are about four feet high. 
1868: One of the larger pinnacles, tall and steep. 
1869: A different view of the same pinnacle.

 

[USExplorer]

I drive on down 178 past the dull company town of Trona, where the entire lakebed has been fenced off as a source of minerals. I leave San Bernardino County (that largest of counties) and enter Inyo County, population density 1.8/sq mi. The highway crests a pass and up ahead is the most barren and flat desert valley I've ever seen, the Panamint Valley. Powerful winds blow dust and sand clouds across the valley in the distance. I descend and hit the straightaway, with not a place for a cop to hide for miles. The road ahead is empty, and a car roars past me and disappears into the distance. A sudden realization that I have never taken my Explorer above 100 miles per hour. Years of cautious driving get thrown to the wind, and I put the pedal to the metal and keep it there, and my four liter V6 engine easily drives the speedometer up and up all the way to 108 mph, the maximum governed speed. The ride is very smooth but I would never take a curve or pass oncoming traffic at that speed. I soon coast back down to a more legal 65 mph and continue on into the increasingly dismal valley. 


Spats of wind-blown rain periodically hit my windshield, but more often sand sifts against my wheels as it crosses the road, carried by gusty winds. I pass the turn-off for the ghost town of Ballarat and the closed-off road to Wildrose Canyon; a few miles farther, the "Welcome to Death Valley National Park" sign. I come to a stop at 190 and turn left toward the Panamint Springs Resort. The resort is located in a small oasis. I drive past it and up the grade to a high overlook over the Panamint Valley. At this point, the sun finds its way through the ominous gray clouds by some magic and a rainbow forms over the barren valley. Five minutes into Death Valley National Park, and I am already seeing the sight of a lifetime. 

1870: The Trona railroad. The rails look warped but that is only due to the extreme distance. Some of the pinnacles are visible off to the left, as well as a Jeep crossing the flats. 
1871: The Panamint Valley. The descending highway is in the foreground. 
1872: Wildrose Canyon Road, closed and returning to the desert with every windstorm. 
1877: Rainbow over Panamint Valley from the road.
1878: A better view as it begins fading.

 

[USExplorer]

I turn around and drive back toward Panamint Springs, but take a detour up a bumpy gravel road that traverses a canyon far below the highway grade. A PVC pipe runs the length of the canyon. I park and set off walking up the canyon, the pipe beside me leaking water at many joints. The vegetation changes from very little, to small shrubs, to willows and cottonwood trees, as water begins flowing on the canyon floor. The trail crosses the tiny rill a few times, and the trees get taller and lusher. The canyon narrows, and the barren rock walls close in. The trail passes a stone collection basin that the pipe leads from, and above the basin the stream is much larger. Up ahead the sound of rushing water, a good flow of water down a crack in a twenty foot cliff, another desert marvel. The rain begins falling harder, and most of us head back to our cars. Gusting winds blow down the canyon and pelt the side of my car with raindrops. By now it is close to 5 pm, and heavy gray clouds continually drift past overhead. 

Unlike many other national parks, Death Valley does not have an entrance booth due to its sheer size and the large number of access roads. No one in the Panamint section had a glossy park pass hanging from their mirror. In my travels within the park I estimated the rate of compliance with the entrance fee requirements at 5%. My visitor's guide said free dispersed camping is allowed within the park on most unpaved roads at least a mile from any highway. Regardless I decided to camp outside the park boundaries on BLM land. Driving back out past Panamint Springs, the road ahead is visible for dozens of miles, dropping down into the valley and climbing up the stormy and foreboding Panamint Range beyond. 

1879: The contrasts within the Darwin Falls canyon: lush green trees, dry scrub, and barren rock in close proximity.
1881: Darwin Falls, a perennial waterfall. The water falls into a large shallow pool at the base of the rock.
1882: A view of the cliffs beside the Falls.
1883: A view down the canyon.
1884: Route 190 down into the alkali flats and up into the mountains. At night I could see the headlights appear far up the pass and work their way down into the valley, sometimes turning down 178 and heading north along the valley.

 

[USExplorer]

I parked for the evening on the valley floor where it begins turning from sand into rock and thus had a great view of the valley. I read while it rained and smelled the creosote perfume, and when the rain stopped the ground was nearly dry as if the rain had never fell. Down on the highway, one car stopped to pick me up. I yelled out that I'm fine, and they drove off. For amusement I illuminated the park sign with my flashlight every time a car drove past, and a family stopped to take pictures of themselves in front of the sign, unperturbed that there was a guy walking around miles from anywhere. 

Around 1 am a trio of Suburbans drove up the road past my truck and set up camp up the road about half a mile. In the morning they were still there. When the sun warmed up my truck I ate my breakfast and set out down the highway, cresting the Towne Pass and dropping down into a side valley lined with barren mountains. At Stovepipe Wells Village, I passed below sea level for the second time in the state without breathing water. I got gas, at $3.09/gallon not a bad deal. Showers were four dollars at the resort, so I took one as well. A fee machine only accepted credit cards. I turned down Mosaic Canyon Road and parked at the canyon entrance at the base of Tucki Mountain. The first part was an interesting slot canyon of sculpted marble ranging in color from off-white to dark brown. The canyon opened up into a wide wash, and I climbed the wall to get a good view. A side canyon above the wash dead ended at a cliff. The numerous tourists spoiled the atmosphere, as large numbers of tourists normally do. As the day went on I simply came to accept them as I would a swarm of mosquitoes. With my camera I looked like one of them anyway, so who was I to judge.

Half a mile from Stovepipe Wells is the Mesquite Sand Dunes. The highest dune is only 100 feet high, though the field itself is rather large. Due to the prohibition on off-road vehicles, the dunes had some vegetation. I didn't want to get my boots full of sand so I only took a picture and continued on.

1885: My BLM campsite outside Death Valley NP. The Suburbans are in the background. The mountains on the extreme left got dusted with snow.
1887: The marble narrows of Mosaic Canyon.
1888: The wide part of Mosaic Canyon, looking rather ordinary but crowded due to its location in a national park.
1890: Another section of Mosaic Canyon. Plenty of conglomerate rock and a good flat gravel floor.
1891: The Mesquite Sand Dunes.

 

[USExplorer]

Past Stovepipe Wells the road dropped down into the wide expanse of Death Valley, the driest place in the US. The valley is desolate, most of it too dry for even creosote bushes to live. Recent rains have resulted in a wildflower bloom, though, and parts of the valley are carpeted with yellow wildflowers. Numerous visitors walk in the flowers and take pictures. I pass the Devil's Cornfield, which is a field of tall desert shrubs. It appears not like a cornfield at all. Cars are parked everywhere on the road, and people walk across the desert. Most of them are obviously from the LA area, out for a weekend vacation in the desert. A sign says Beatty Nevada is only 26 miles away. I continue south, though. A sign says I am 100 feet below sea level. I never see the sign for 200 feet below. 

The roadway near Salt Creek is lined with cars and the road itself is closed for the BioBlitz event. I continued on to Furnace Creek, which is a desert oasis with green trees visible from a long distance away. Here, the highest temperature in the world was recorded. There is a hotel, campground, gas station, and restaurant here. There is even an Indian village, and not the tourist kind either. The visitor's center is a zoo, and I couldn't even find a place to park nearby. It's a crying shame it was too crowded to pay the entrance fee. 

I turn south on Badwater Road (No Services, Closed 46 Miles Ahead) and enter a valley so wide and bounded by mountains so high that the mind can hardly comprehend it.  I pass Artist's Drive and turn in the Devil's Golf Course and park in the middle of a dried lakebed of wildly rough and dirty salt crystals. It was once remarked that the ground was so rough only the devil could play golf there. Walking on the golf course is very challenging, unless you are the devil of course. No one tees off across the expanse. The snow-flecked Panamint Range forms a backdrop, Telescope Peak the highest point at 11,049 feet. 

1892: A typical wildflower bloom. Most of the other flowers are dead already, their seeds waiting for the next wet year.
1893: Devil's Golf Course. The average height of the salt lumps is one foot. 
1894: The Course, with the Panamint Range in the background. 
1895: A close up of the salt formations.
1896: The salt formations end at the edge of the valley and are replaced by dark red-brown rock badlands.

 

[rvpopeye]

That little canyon with the PVC pipe and the falls.
Lower Darwin?

 

[USExplorer]

Badwater Basin would be surreal in summer, with the desert sun so bright it burns right through your sunglasses, and the fierce heat reflected by the flats turning the air into unbreathable fire. The mountains in the background a wrinkled, purplish-brown wallpaper, not a sound but the faint squeaking of the crystals underfoot. Not a single plant for miles, nor a rock, only salt and mud. It won't be long before your brain will begin to overheat and plunge you into a living nightmare. 

However, in March, with the air temperature only 77 degrees, and the sun warm and caressing, and the flats crowded with tourists talking in numerous languages plodding carelessly across the plain, bearing their phones at the end of selfie sticks, the salt flats only seem faintly unusual, a harmless quirk of nature. The sun is weakened by high clouds, and so the flats appear muddy white and not dazzling at all. It is easy to walk away from the tourists and hear nothing but the consistent rush of traffic on the distant highway. You might decide to lay down on the flats, as you see other tourists doing, but you will find that the flats are bumpy and uncomfortable, and leave salt crystals all over your clothes.

On the rough and ragged mountains backing the basin is a canyon containing the largest natural bridge in the park. It was discovered in the 1800s, then forgotten about, then rediscovered in the early 1900s. Now it is a popular attraction. The drive is down a heavily used gravel road, parts of it rolling like waves on a lake. A Prius founders on the bumps and turns around in the road, other visitors in higher-clearance vehicles waiting patiently. The bridge itself is of red sandstone, a short walk a sandstone canyon. It is very thick and coarse. A crevice leads up to the bridge, and kids climb on top of it. I take the necessary pictures and drive back down to the pavement, feeling like a tourist who must complete a list of designated attractions in a day.

1897: Badwater Basin, about a thousand yards from the parking lot. Note the three people on the right. They are about one eighth the way across the flats.
1898: Maximum zoom, looking along the edge of the flats. A finger of salt-free high ground reaches down into the basin. 
1899: Looking back toward the parking lot. There is a little sign that says "Sea Level" hanging on the cliff above the parking lot, too small to see in the picture. There is also a lookout a mile up the hill that I will visit later.
1900: The natural bridge, looking up-canyon.
1902: The natural bridge, looking down-canyon. Better view.

 

[USExplorer]

Last on the Death Valley Tour: Artist's Drive. This paved one-way drive through variegated cliffs demonstrates the various colors of minerals found in Death Valley. The drive is very nice after the gravel paths, although there are plenty of very slow drivers. As it is 2 pm, the colors are somewhat bleached and not as brilliant as they would be in evening light.

1903-04: Various colored hills down Artist's Drive.
1906-07: Artist's Palette. It is my understanding that when the Artist was painting the earth, He left His paint in this canyon to take a break and the sun dried it out. 

This is the end of my Death Valley excursion, although I will see the valley once more. Back at Furnace Creek, I turn onto 190 and climb above sea level for the first time in hours, taking a small detour through Twenty Mule Team Canyon, a small canyon of white rock with a very smooth and finely graveled road leading through it. 

1908: Twenty Mule Team canyon. Death Valley is a geologist's paradise for sure.

 

[USExplorer]

Only a whole bunch more posts to go.

I turn down the 13 mile paved road to Dante's View, considered the most spectacular in the park. The road climbs out of the low desert into the high desert, and the thermometer drops and drops and drops. The road passes several mining claims grandfathered into the park. At the top, it is 53 degrees and breezy. Compare that to 77 in the valley. A bright pink off-road tour vehicle passes me on the way up. At the top, the tourists are quiet for once, sitting on the rocks and staring in awe at the spectacle before them or walking down the trail over the ridge. Death Valley, all 110 miles of it visible. The entire Panamint Range as well, now shaded by the afternoon sun. The snow-capped Spring Mountains of Nevada also visible on the eastern horizon. Badwater Basin over 5700 feet below. Only the faintest of noise from the thousands below rises up the hill.

1910: Badwater Basin. People so small they don't even show up on the camera.
1911: Looking up Death Valley, the way I came. Salt Creek on the left, Badwater Road on the right in the valley floor.
1912: A salt pool with feeder stream, looking for all the world like a giant sperm cell.
1913: Maximum zoom down on the bottom of the Basin, people like mites. It looks like an aerial view, but my feet are planted firmly on solid ground.
1914: Looking up Death Valley, heading south. Badwater Basin is the bottom, so both directions are "up".

 

[USExplorer]

After that grand finale, I drive back down the access road to 190 and quickly exit the park. A couple miles down the road is an RV encampment. Several dozen slabs stand in the desert valley at the foot of a low mesa. Only eight or so slabs are occupied; a few others are marked by beer bottles, but most are vacant. Beyond is a parking lot full of passenger cars. Tents everywhere, RVs of every class from pickup bed campers to a Class A. I drive to the top of the mesa and bump around on the rocky tracks aimlessly before deciding that I don't want to spend another night in California. 

Highway 190 ends at Death Valley Junction, a virtual ghost town. A few people still live here and run a hotel and an opera house, of all things. The streets of the town itself are closed to the public. A sign says "Performance Tonight", but I doubt they ever bring the sign inside. Several people are staying at the Amargosa Hotel. I park there and walk around, checking out the place. Out in an alkali flat, two whitewashed adobe buildings stand. The first is gutted, with no roof and no windows and no door and no floor, just four walls standing in the desert. The other has several high windows but strangely no door. 

I walk back to my truck and hit State Line Road. The state line is not advertised, except for a small sign "Entering Inyo Co California" and "NEVADA" painted in worn yellow paint in the road itself. There is a big clearing on the Nevada side, and a track leading across the flats along the state line. An SUV sits in the clearing, four way flashers blinking. I drive down the track a ways and park 10 yards from the state line on the Nevada side, building a small fire after the sun sets and listening to NPR programming. When the program finishes the SUV is still visible out by the road, its rear light blinking like those red lights on top of radio towers. I walk out to see if they need any help, and as I walk up a tow truck pulls up from the Nevada side. I approach unseen in the dark. The tow truck driver haggles with the SUV driver, and then gets a can of gas and pours it into the SUV's tank. The SUV starts up and roars off across the desert, and the tow truck follows. 

I walk back along a fence that separates the clearing from what I assume to be California, but the fence installer worked with no regard for state lines and I have to backtrack. 

I wake up Sunday to a cloudless blue sky, with the Panamint Range forming a snow-covered backdrop to the dry desert valley I'm parked in. After breakfast, I enter the Ash Meadows NWR, the largest oasis in the Mojave Desert. It is very quiet, and I have the place to myself.

1915: Slab City II.
1916: Death Valley Junction in the golden light of the evening sun.
1917: From the window of one adobe building, the other building is visible, with Charleston Peak (11,918 ft) forming a blue backdrop, the snow golden under the sun.
1918: My alkali flat campsite, looking back towards Death Valley.
1919: The desert never ceases to surprise me. A marsh with trees in the middle of barren alkali meadows.

 

[USExplorer]

I drive the rough gravel roads into the refuge, crossing a creek, then turn into the Point of Rocks parking lot and cook some mac & cheese.

Point of Rocks is a warm spring that empties into a large natural pool, held sacred by local Native cultures. The area was formerly used for agriculture, but the USFWS has restored a natural habitat in this desert oasis, including the tiny pupfish. Swimming is strictly prohibited in the water to protect the endangered fish, which only lives in these few remaining pools. When I walked up to the pool, the water was clear green, and I could easily see the male pupfish, bright blue this time of year, defending their little territories. 

Down the road a few miles is Devil's Hole, administered by Death Valley National Park. The deep cavernous water-filled hole, fifty feet below the surface, is surrounded by barbed wire, and a wire enclosure surrounds the overlook path. Signs warn of strict penalties for trespassing. This is the only habitat for a sub-species of pupfish, and so it is very important to researchers.

Near the visitor's center in the park is the outlet for all the fresh water in the refuge, Crystal Reservoir. Unlike the other foul drought-ridden reservoirs of California, this one is clear like the Colorado River on its bed of alkali sand.

It is noon now, and I head back into civilization, namely Pahrump Nevada. Pahrump is not a town at all, but a sprawling populated place filling the bottom corner of Nye County, population density 2.4/sq mi. I fill up my tank for $1.79/gallon, the cheapest in weeks. The clerk congratulates me on escaping California. I drive on down the long road toward "downtown". Advertisements for salvation, whorehouses, gun stores, casinos, and firework stores create the atmosphere of this Far West exurb. There is plenty of open land everywhere. A visit to the local Walmart (right on what passes for Main Street in the center of the town) for resupply reveals that this town is full of what can only be called "characters". Being bored, I decide to take a walk through the main streets. Much like Quartzsite, there is no main street here, just a bunch of sprawl along the arterials. I get a lot of second looks from passing cars and other pedestrians, and I infer that the wearing of dress shirts is very rare in this town. 

1922: The turqoise pool at Point of Rocks.
1923: Pupfish in the clear water.
1924: Devil's Hole.
1926: Crystal Reservoir.
1927: Pahrump, just part of it.

 

[USExplorer]

The Desert Church of Christ meets at 5 pm, but the members must not have learned about the time zone change as no one has showed up by that time. I quit Pahrump and cruise out of town at 50 mph as is my custom, half a dozen cars lined behind me. The road widens and the speed limit goes up to 70 mph and the cars pass, but I continue at the same speed. I detect an interruption in the traffic flow and look back to see a cruiser paralleling me in the fast lane. I quickly buckle my seat belt and continue driving. The cruiser pulls behind me and turns on his lights. I pull to the side and he follows. He runs my plate, then exits his vehicle, does something to his batman belt and cautiously walks up on the driver's side, looking in the rear windows and stopping well behind the front door. He then slowly moves forward to the window.

"Good afternoon" I say.
"How are you sir. Where are you heading today?"
"Las Vegas, from Death Valley."
"Sir, the reason I stopped you was that you were driving 50 in a 65, and you had eight cars behind you. That is impeding traffic. Why were you going that speed?"
"It is good on the gas mileage. I've never been pulled over for driving too slow before."
"Could I see your license and registration?"
I hand them to him without comment. He seems rather jumpy. Obviously the reason for the stop was not impeding traffic. He goes back to his car, calls in on his radio. A minute later, he is walking back with the papers.
"Sir, you have to drive the speed limit. You can't be holding up traffic. Have a nice day now."
"You too."

He walks back to his cruiser and roars off, making a U-turn and setting up to intercept speeders. I drive off up the valley into the Spring Mountains, doing 55 mph. There are turnarounds every half mile along the highway, each marked with a blue and black marker and signed "Authorized Vehicles Only". The temperature drops as usual, and I crest out at 5500 feet in high desert scrub, passing the town of Mountain Spring. There is camping available up here but I choose to head down into the valley for the warmer temperatures. 

Going down I catch a glimpse of Las Vegas over the hills. The road drops down into the flat valley and the Vegas sprawl approaches on my GPS. I enter it, great big blocks of cookie-cutter single-family homes crammed together next to empty desert lots. The development washes up against the base of the first hills. Behind a BLM sign that says "No Motor Vehicles", huge earthmovers prepare lots for building. A flood control dam spans the canyon that Highway 160 descends. and houses are being built at the base of it and up along the highway. Down in a new development, a new BMW does donuts in a cul-de-sac. I drive back up to the dam and head across the wash below it and climb up into the wild hills down rough gravel tracks, hitting a couple of dead ends before finally finding the right track, which tops out on a mesa with a kick-ass view of the entire metro area, orange lights stretching to the horizon, the Strip standing colorful in the distance, houses spilling to the base of the hill. The glow of the city is bright enough to walk by. In this is the contrast of Las Vegas and the American West. Not half a mile from rough gravel roads on BLM land sprinkled with spent cartridges and lined with old abandoned mines and campfire rings lie brand-new subdivisions of homes with immaculately landscaped mini-lawns in clear sight of the former. 

The wind is ferocious on the ridge top. I walk out along the track, admiring the view. Three trucks begin climbing on the far side of the mesa, a mile from where I'm camped. They soon drive out of sight, and I hear numerous gunshots up a dead-end canyon. Their ammo spent, they drive back down the mountain and back to their boring homes a couple miles away.

The next morning, I wake unmolested and drive down the way I came, passing the construction project at the base of the dam. The eight-laned Route 160 all the way to Las Vegas Blvd, numerous empty lots for sale interspersed with retail development. The library does not open until 10, so I walk the streets of the boomtown. Trash everywhere in the empty lots. An RV camped right by the side of the boulevard in the desert. Newspaper boxes on the sidewalks filled with little booklets of what they call "personal" services. When I get back to the library, the parking lot contains a decrepit Toyota pickup camper and several other budget car dwellers, mostly from out-of-state. It takes me all day to update this triplog. I'll have to figure out my course of action for the next few days. Simply put, stay or move on? Challenge: Leave Vegas with more money than I got there with.

1932-36: 'murica.

 

[highdesertranger]

boy you missed some great stuff in Death Valley. Ubehebe crater, Scotty's castle, Teakettle Jct., Crankshaft Jct., the Race Track, Kennecott mine, Geologist Cabin, Stripped Butte. to name a few. I know it's hard to see everything in one trip. btw great pics and story. highdesertranger