Camping at Panamint Springs, Death Valley National Park, During a Pandemic - 2020

 

Camping at Panamint Springs, Death Valley National Park, During a Pandemic

Friday May 1, 2020

My journey felt different this time, from Simi Valley to Death Valley. I had taken that road so many times before. With the National Park itself closed to all but through-traffic, the palpable fear of death hung in the air at Death Valley. To my surprise, the privately owned enclave called Panamint Springs Resort was open.

Panamint Springs is not a resort in the classic sense of the word… no pool, spa or golf course. Up a nearby canyon, the perpetual Darwin Falls feeds a year around supply of fresh water to the small settlement. Included in the resort are a hardscrabble campground, tent cabins, and a few “luxury cabins”. Rounding out the services are an unpaved RV Park, a gas station, restaurant, motel, general store, and a rough airstrip. The place gets its name from the Paiute or Koso word Panümünt, which breaks down to Pa (water) and nïwïnsti (person).

Out here in the vast and unforgiving Mojave Desert, almost any settlement qualifies as a resort. Since I wanted to isolate myself from the cares and worries of a raging pandemic, this seemed like the perfect hideaway for several days and nights. After confirming my reservation, I hooked up my fifth wheel and sallied forth from Simi Valley, California.

The portion of my trip from Mojave to the Panamint Valley was mostly uneventful. Knowing that Panamint Springs had no mobile telephone coverage, I stopped to call home from the intersection of Panamint Valley Road and Minietta Road. Having received past text messages there, I knew that there was AT&T 4G-LTE mobile telephone coverage at that location. The location of the cell phone tower that feeds data to that one small spot is a complete mystery.

While making my call, I noticed a small, hand-lettered sign. With two screws holding it to a stake, it read, “Yard Sale Next Sat. 7AM – 3PM”. Minietta is a gravel road, which heads off from the highway toward the southwest. Not far along, it disappears over a low hill. From my location, I saw no buildings, people or other vehicles. Still, the mysterious sign caught my interest. I planned to return on Saturday and check out the yard sale.

Upon arrival at Panamint Springs Resort, I went inside the general store to check in. Inside, the unmasked counter man told me that Friday was barbecued ribs night at the restaurant. After completing my check-in, he invited me to come and enjoy the food and drink. As the blood drained from my face, I smiled from behind my mask and thanked the man. “No way”, I whispered silently, while ducking out the front door.

Looking uphill from the store, I noticed a huge tent pavilion, which served as the outdoor dining area for the restaurant. At that time, all was quiet, with just a few people sipping their drinks and enjoying the expansive view of Panamint Valley. Until well past midnight, I could hear raucous sounds, including hoots and hollers echoing across the otherwise quiet landscape. That night, from the comfort and safety of my camp chair, I heard some serious, alcohol-fueled mingling under the big tent. Apparently, management later changed the dining policies at the resort. As of late September 2020, their website included the following information. “Our restaurant is open for take out everyday for lunch (11:30 am - 2:30 pm) and dinner (5:30 pm - 8:30 pm). We have plenty of available shaded picnic options adjacent to the restaurant for your eating pleasure”.

The rustic campground and RV Park is located just across the highway from the Panamint Springs General Store. There, I found eight or ten RV sites with full hookups. Other than my rig, all of the other sites were empty. Elsewhere in the campground, there were only a handful of tent sites and tent cabins occupied. Over the next few days, a few campers arrived and a few departed. Still, no one spoiled my unobstructed view of the ancient seabed that is now the parched and dry Panamint Valley.

Saturday May 2, 2020.

At the national park entrance, a Public Advisory sign declared, “Death Valley National Park CLOSED Until Further Notice”. Through-traffic could transit the park on the main highway, but there were no services open to the public. The counter man at the store had warned me not to go sightseeing in the national park. “Even in the parking lots at Stovepipe Wells and Furnace Creek, they are handing out $1,000 tickets to anyone who lingers”, he said. Within the geographic confines of the national park, only Panamint Springs, a privately owned oasis, was open for business. Without access to the national park, it appeared that I would be a virtual prisoner in a place of my own choosing.

Undaunted, I knew that the phantom yard sale, which I saw advertised on Minietta Road lay outside of the national park boundaries. That afternoon, I navigated The Panamint Valley Road back toward Trona and the Searles Valley. Ten miles east of Panamint Springs I located the turn-off to Minietta Road. There, I sat inside the air-conditioned confines of my truck and called home once again.

After my call, I headed up the dirt and gravel surface of Minietta Road. After surmounting the first set of hills, I paused to survey the lower reaches of Thompson Canyon. Could there be a home with a yard at the end of this dusty track? Alternatively, did the little sign represent some kind of code or a prank? After four-wheeling over dry hills and washes, I spied an ersatz settlement tucked up near the base of the barren mountains.

Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a wildcat mining operation consisting of about ten vehicles and various small buildings. I could not see a gate, garage or any sign of welcome. Near there, in 1969, Charlie Manson and his murderous “family” faced arrest at Death Valley’s Barker Ranch. With that in mind, I decided against rolling up unannounced at this foreboding enclave.

From my location in a broad arroyo, various unmarked roads and trails split off in all directions. Not having an atlas or topographical map to consult, I was wary of driving deeper into the unmarked desert. Getting stuck or breaking down out here could be deadly. When the main road turned into a trail, I stopped. There, about twenty yards away were the remains of an automobile. I knew it was an automobile because I could see one wheel and tire still attached. When I approached on foot, I discovered the flipped-over and rusting hulk of what once was a small sports car.

Looking around the area, I located two other tires and wheels. One of the whitewall tires featured the embossed words, “JCPenney Aramid Belted Radial”. In later research, I found of an old Desert Sun newspaper advertisement that dated the tire back to circa 1978. There was still some chrome on one of the wheels, but what remained of another tire looked like it had spun apart at very high speed.

What was the story here? Did the wreck happen here on this dusty track? More likely, someone had gotten that car up to high speed on the Panamint Valley Road. If that tire had blown at high speed, the car could have rolled over on its roof. Resting upside down, flat as a pancake, there was no room between the car body and the desert floor for a human to survive. Rather than transport the wreck to the nearest junkyard in Trona, someone may have simply moved it several miles and dumped it in its current location.

After I located two of the detached wheels nearby, I rolled them back to the rusting hulk. Although the fourth wheel was not anywhere in sight, I soon had three wheels resting back on their original wheel hubs. Satisfied that I had turned back the hands of time, I took a few pictures and left the rusting remains for the next visitor to find. I pictured an elderly couple, in a 1937 Chevrolet coming across this wreck in the desert. “Mabel, how do you think those wheels got back on that car?” asked Henry. “Divine providence, I suppose”, Mabel replied.

Returning to the highway, I paused to enjoy the view out my front windshield. Directly across the Panamint Valley was the impressive Panamint Range. Tallest of all was Telescope Peak, elevation 11,043 feet, 11,049 feet or 11,053 feet, depending on which source you consult. Is it possible that the mountain had grown or shrunk by a total of ten feet? The 7.5 magnitude Owens Valley (or Lone Pine) Earthquake of 1872 occurred only fifty miles west of my location. That event generated a fault scarp more than two meters high. Therefore, it is possible that the Telescope Peak did grow or sink by ten feet between official surveys.

Since the base of the mountain is at 1,800 feet elevation, Telescope Peak makes for an imposing sight. Snowstorms in early April had blanketed the upper reaches of the Panamint Range. The angle of repose is so steep there; avalanche-chutes were clearly visible on the upper reaches of the range. The west-facing flank of Telescope Peak featured three avalanche chutes, all of which converged at a single point. It was an awesome and fearful site. No human could survive a climb up that face. If the steep terrain and baking sun did not kill you, the avalanches would.

After ruminating on the effects of geologic time, I drove back toward my campsite, ten miles away.

This concludes Part One of a Two-Part Article. To read Part Two, click HERE.

Email James McGillis

By James McGillis at 05:07 PM | Mojave Desert | Comments (0) | Link

In the Depths of Titus Canyon, Cosmic Rays Reveal Themselves - 2018

 

In the Depths of Titus Canyon, Cosmic Rays Reveal Themselves

In November 2016, I made my first trip to Death Valley National Park. While there, I visited many of the most famous sites in the park. After visiting Zabriskie Point at sundown, I camped at the Furnace Creek Campground for several nights. At the Furnace Creek Visitors Center, I purchased a large format book, titled “Death Valley – Hottest Place on Earth”, by author Roger Naylor.

After returning home, I read that book from cover to cover, looking for new places to visit on subsequent trips. Although there are too many fascinating places to chronicle here, one place in particular struck my fancy. Touted as the only legitimate four-wheel drive road in Death Valley National Park, that place is Titus Canyon.

In May 2017, I bought the perfect vehicle to take on the dirt, gravel and bare rock surfaces that comprise the twenty-eight mile Titus Canyon Road. That vehicle is a Nissan Titan XD, lifted six-inches and powered by a Cummins Turbo-Diesel engine. In December 2017, I camped again at Furnace Creek Campground and made a day trip to Titus Canyon.

To reach the start of the one-way Titus Canyon Road, I first drove eleven miles north on California 190. At the Aptly named Beatty Junction, I turned right on Beatty Road, which is a shortcut to Daylight Pass and to Beatty, Nevada, beyond. After enjoying the multivarious geography of Daylight Pass, I crossed the Nevada State Line, where the highway designation is Nevada 374. That section, from Beatty Junction to the turn-off at Titus Canyon Road was about twenty-three miles.

By the time I achieved the summit at Daylight Pass, daylight itself appeared to be in short supply. I elected to skip the extra four-mile trip to Beatty, and the nearby ghost town of Rhyolite. About four miles shy of Beatty; I almost overshot the signed turnoff for Titus Canyon. After turning around, I headed west on the one-way Titus Canyon Road. At first, the landscape of the surrounding Amargosa Valley consisted mostly of sagebrush. If you go this way, the initial stretch of gravel road will rattle your bones like one monotonous washboard.

After the mind-numbing washboard section, a sweeping turn to the south marks the beginning of your ascent. There, at one of the few wide spots in the road, I stopped to talk with three adventure motorcyclists that had recently passed me on the washboard section. With the suspension systems on their bikes pressed to the limit by the terrain, they were already feeling the stress of Titus Canyon Road. After an amiable conversation, the three riders traveled on ahead of me.

During that stop, I discovered that I had dropped my mobile telephone somewhere along the way. Unable to find it, I began to fear that it had flipped out of my truck near the beginning of the road. Since I have a Bluetooth hookup for the phone in my truck, I decided to call home, using the voice-activated system. To my amazement, there was cell phone coverage in that remote location. I spoke with Carrie McCoy, telling her that at least I knew the phone was in the truck.

As we spoke, I noticed the sun continuing its winter slink toward the horizon. In deep ravines, such as Titus Canyon, the visible sun can set quite early. Not wanting to complete my trip in the dark, I abandoned my phone-search and traveled on. Without access to the camera on my phone, I had only my Sony A6000 camera, with its telephoto lens attached. The road was too dusty to change lenses, so I eschewed any close-ups of nearby rock formations, opting instead for a longer, narrower perspective.

If you venture on, you will encounter an ill-defined area called Titanothere Canyon. The name Titanothere Canyon derives from the 1933 discovery there of a massive fossil skull. It was of a long extinct hooved animal, dating back to the Oligocene Period, over 32 million years ago. If the ancient Titanothere had hooves, did it share any other characteristics with early mammalian species? Perusing online images of its skull, you will see aspects that evoke a lizard, a wild boar or a camel, and even a dash of rhinoceros.

Regardless of its genetic heritage, the top of a rocky pass, eroded into impossibly steep slopes seemed an unusual place to find a hooved animal. Although camels are the kings of sandy desert travel, they could not have negotiated the unforgiving terrain of what is now Titanothere Canyon. Something big must have changes since those namesake beasts had roamed here. In the area, igneous, metamorphic and sedimentary rocks are jumbled and tumbled all around. A series of epic geological uplifts had transformed this place in less than 35 million years. In geologic terms, just a blink of the eye separates us in time from the last Titanothere.

Back on the road, the switchbacks are numerous, the terrain is steep and corners are tight. In some places, you cannot see where your wheels will land, so most drivers hug the inside radius of the turns. As a result, there are deep ruts cut along the inner track of some corners. If your vehicle’s suspension survives the first unexpected hit, it is prudent to slow to a crawl on the many gouged-out turns to follow.

According to most publications and the Death Valley Visitor’s Center, any “high-clearance vehicle” should be able to negotiate the Titus Canyon Road. What they do not tell you is that this can be a grueling trip for a novice driver or if you are in a marginal vehicle. Authorities should designate this as a “Rough Road”, with a strong suggestion toward four-wheel drive capability. Because of both weathering and its popularity, the Titanothere Canyon section of the road is rapidly deteriorating. If your vehicle is questionable, I suggest renting a Jeep Wrangler four-wheel drive vehicle in Death Valley. This road begs for a “locked and loaded” Jeep Wrangler, and nothing less.

About thirteen miles into the drive, within Titanothere Canyon, sweeping views and steep drop-offs will vie for the driver’s attention. If a drop-off wins, you and your passengers will die, so keep your hands on the wheel, your eyes upon the road and slow down. If you survive the switchbacks of Titanothere Canyon, your reward will be in the cresting the summit at Red Pass. The first-time visitor is encouraged to stop and look back at the perilous climb just completed. You might ask yourself, “If that was the first half of the road, what more could it possibly have to offer”?

Then, if you turn and look toward where your wheels are about to take you, you will encounter an astounding view. On my visit, I stood agape as the afternoon sun illuminated a landscape that fell away toward a darkening canyon. Looking down, I could see something flickering on the dirt road, far below. After a few moments, I realized that the tiny objects attracting my attention were the three motorcycle riders I had met earlier, near the beginning of the road. The Robert Frost inside me, blurted out, “I have miles to go before I sleep”.

The more famous Titus Canyon (to follow) has an equally ominous history. The name honors Morris Titus, who, in 1906, left nearby Rhyolite with a prospecting party. When water ran short, Titus struck out on his own to find more, but never returned to the party. It is an historical tale repeated anew several times each year in Death Valley National Park.

The usual scenario includes a solo hiker taking off for a jaunt in the desert. Water soon runs out and the hiker tries to make it back to civilization before succumbing to heat and dehydration. Sometimes the hiker lives to tell the tale, but many others rapidly succumb, to be found as buzzard bait by a later search party. The lesson is to never hike alone, avoid the midday sun and take more water than you could ever need. Consider wearing a hydration pack, since a small bottle of water is insufficient.

While humming the lyrics to the rock group America’s, “I went through the desert on a horse with no name”, I drank from my ample water supply. Then, I headed down into the darkening recesses of the Grapevine Mountains and Titus Canyon. Soon, I came to the ruins of Leadfield. It is a former mining town built on the concept that there are hundreds, if not thousands of people willing to bet their lives and fortunes on an unproven mining claim. During the years 1925 and 1926, many fortune seekers succumbed to false advertising and moved to Leadfield. The only lead in Leadfield was used to salt the fake mine tunneled by the town's developer. By February 1927, the post office closed and the town shut down. Only an ersatz tailings pile and the remnants of a few buildings remain.

As the afternoon wore on, high canyon walls often shaded my truck. Since the road often faced west, I did experience more sunlight than I expected. As it descended, the road followed the dry streambed within Titus Canyon. Other than while dodging various rock outcroppings, the road seemed permanent enough to travel a bit faster. Then, without warning, I hit a patch of road with standing water and hidden potholes. Some were so deep, they could bend the suspension on any vehicle. That surfacing stream, near Klare Spring, was the only sign of water that I saw on the entire transit.

As I splashed over the watery moonscape of a road, I came across a young woman, hiking in the opposite direction, up Red Pass. She wore a light parka and a small daypack. Her ruddy face was the color of someone who had spent many days outdoors. I had only enough time to hit the brakes and apologize for splashing water toward her. Then, she was gone. Immediately, I wondered where she was going and how she would survive in the cold night to come. Did she make it out alive, from the canyon where Morris Titus met his demise?

In places, the road cuts through a canyon so steep and narrow, it measures less than twenty feet, from wall to wall. Elsewhere, the canyon broadens out, lining the edges of the road with the rock and boulder remnants of past floods. A satellite view of the area reveals that it has seen eons of erosion, cutting deeply into ancient volcanic flows. Such a bird’s eye view also reveals that miles of roadway could easily disappear in a single large flood.

At one point, the sun disappeared behind a small peak, as viewed from the road. Not knowing if I was going to see the sun again before the end of the road, I stopped, backed up and observed the sun as it set again behind the same peak. As it did, I snapped a picture of the sunlight, attenuated by its headlong dip behind the peak. The resulting photo accompanies this article.

When people take pictures of a bright light source, and especially the sun, the orbs and crescents of light, which the camera captures, we calls “lens flares”. That tag is an easy way to explain an otherwise inexplicable phenomenon. How can a camera divide sunlight into discreet elements of different colors, each with its own apparent mass and velocity? My theory is that the camera is capturing in one frame, several different aspects of a fragmenting cosmic ray. As a single ray approaches ground level, its plasma flow may change from a translucent green orb to a green crescent and finally into a red-orange disk, oblate in shape.

There are two sources of cosmic rays on Earth. Some, like the one I photographed, emanate directly from the Sun. Other, higher energy cosmic rays, come to Earth from deep space. As we currently approach the Grand Solar Minimum, the sun still emits cosmic rays toward Earth. As the Earth’s magnetosphere simultaneously erodes toward its lowest level in one thousand years, ground-penetrating cosmic rays are free to hit the Earth with greater frequency and force. Since a single, fragmenting cosmic ray can penetrate the Earth and possibly exit our planet on the opposite side, they are a force of energy for all life to respect.

As the cosmic rays increase in both frequency and strength, they heat up fracture zones, transform-faults and volcanic fissures all over our Earth. The result, as we have recently seen in the Great Rift Valley of Africa and many other areas on the globe, is expansion and uplifting of the Earth’s crust. Similar forces may have turned the benign plateaus and plains roamed by the ancient Titanothere into this, one of the most dramatic geological regions on Earth.

Near the end of Red Pass, in Titus Canyon, I again encountered the three motorcyclists I had previously seen along the road. They had parked their motorcycles at the edge of the road and now lay reclined against a canyon wall, enjoying the shade of late afternoon. The road had been a test of my own stamina and concentration, so I could only image how tired they were after running all of Titus Canyon Road.

At the lower end of Titus Canyon, the watercourse dumps out its alluvium into the upper reaches of Death Valley. From there, as the sun headed toward the horizon, I safely made my way back to civilization and to my campsite at Furnace Creek, in Death Valley National Park.

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By James McGillis at 05:01 PM | Travel | Comments (0) | Link

You Won't Need a Furnace at Furnace Creek in Death Valley - 2016

 

You Won't Need a Furnace at Furnace Creek in Death Valley

In November 2016, on my first trip to Death Valley National Park, I started with a sundown visit to Zabriskie Point. As darkness gathered on the floor of Death Valley, I located my campsite at the Furnace Creek Campground. The temperature felt warm, but after sunset, it no longer felt amazingly hot. With the doors and windows open on my coach, I was able to move indoors as the evening progressed.

The campground itself will look familiar to anyone who has camped in a National Park. You will recognize the layout as a series of loop-roads. Each loop has fifteen or twenty campsites. At Furnace Creek Campground, a recent change in management resulted in the repaving of all its roads and refurbishment of water and restroom facilities. The setting is ancient, yet the campground feels new again. Unobstructed views of both the Amargosa Range and the Panamint Range add drama to the scene.

Since the few full-hookup RV-sites were long since reserved, I settled for two nights of dry camping in a dry desert. Luckily, the water supply at Furnace Creek is sufficient for cooking and bathing. The first Anglos to visit Furnace Creek in 1849 barely found sufficient water to survive until their rescue in 1850. By the early twentieth century, residents and tourists at the village of Furnace Creek could enjoy potable water piped to the town from artesian springs in the nearby Amargosa Range. Today, groundwater withdrawal and storage tanks support what looks like a thriving oasis, but is actually doomed to return to its dry state at a time uncertain. With such paltry rainfall in Death Valley, groundwater pumping is ultimately unsustainable. Except for rare seasonal flow, what once was a true oasis along Furnace Creek is now mostly a dry wash.

Although there is a wide range of tourist services at Furnace Creek, the 2010 U.S. Census pegged the full time population as only twenty-four hardy souls. Admittedly, most of the public and private facilities in Furnace Creek are air-conditioned, making life easier for heat-weary visitors and workers. One exception to that is the Native Americans known as the Timbisha Shoshone Tribe. As a federally recognized tribe, their small, private enclave adjacent to Furnace Creek appeared to be hot, dusty and dry. What few trees and shrubs that survive the harsh climate provide scant shade or relief from the sweeping winds. Recent data suggest that the Timbisha tribal population in Death Valley is around forty individuals.

During my November 2016 visit, there was not a trace of water on the vast salt pan, including the Upper Basin, Middle Basin and Badwater, which lays almost 280-feet below sea level. Furnace Creek, on the other hand, is only 190-feet below sea level. This difference in elevation means that in wet years, water will overflow the Upper Basin, pass through the Middle Basin and form a large, shallow lake at Badwater Basin. Salt, borax and alkali, which dries in the connecting channels suggests a short-lived, landlocked stream that may flow through Death Valley in the springtime. Upon my return in February 2017, all three basins contained surface water. By April 2017, almost all of the surface water had evaporated or settled into the graben, leaving the salt flats dry and susceptible to wind erosion and vandalism.

While visiting Furnace Creek in February 2017, water seemed to be everywhere. The dry lakes were wet. Furnace Creek flowed down its traditional course and water fell from the sky, in the form of rain. Upon arrival, the evidence of flood damage to roads and trails was evident. Orange traffic cones stood guard at many small washouts along Highway 190, leading to Furnace Creek. Nearby Artists Drive, a one-way formerly paved road through spectacular canyon scenery remained washed out. After historic winter rains had swept that road away in many places, workers used heavy machinery to make repairs. During our February visit, only gentle showers passed through Furnace Creek. The showers cleared the air, leaving the scent of moist creosote in an otherwise desolate place.

Why was the winter of 2017 so wet in Death Valley? My personal observations may or may not be scientifically correct, but here is my theory. North of Furnace Creek the Panamint Range to the west and the Amargosa Range to the east form a sort of wind tunnel. Between Tin Mountain (8,953 ft. elev.) and Grapevine Peak (8,743 ft. elev.), a cyclonic effect can arise. If little moisture is available, a whirlwind or “dust devil” will rise and sweep toward Furnace Creek and Badwater to the south. If the counter-clockwise wind is strong enough, it can pull moisture from the Eastern Sierra Nevada Range and feed it toward the salt flats of Death Valley.

Another contributing factor in rainfall is dust particles. In February, I watched a tall, thin strand of wind shear traveling along the course I already described. As it reached the Middle Basin, it had enough strength to kick up untold amounts of dust from the periphery of the standing water. Soon, we could see a large cloud of dust and rain forming against the eastern slopes of the Panamint Range. Upon our return to the campground, another shower swept from North to South. With the minimal moisture we experienced, only the rock strewn landscape hinted at floodwaters issuing forth from every canyon and wash in Death Valley. The recent winter rains must have been a dangerous, yet remarkable sight.

By April 12, 2017, when I again visited Furnace Creek, it was hot and dusty. Again, I dry camped, but this time it was warmer, approaching 100 °F (37.8 °C). With the wind and sand looking to sandblast my truck, I decided to hunker down inside the trailer until the wind abated. Using my cordless vacuum to keep up with the dust in my coach was almost a full time job. If I had opened the door, it might have blown off its hinges, but would surely fill my coach with even more dust. With my afternoon spent inside a hot coach, I began to understand how the original pioneers of 1849 must have felt. Trying to allay both wind and dust, they had nothing more than brush lean-tos to protect them against the onslaught.

For me, temperatures above 100 °F (37.8 °C) are uncomfortable. In the heat of summer, many Norwegians visit Death Valley. Considering the cool air in their home country, Norwegians come to Death Valley in the summer just to feel outdoor heat for the first time in their lives. Whether my Norwegian story is true or not, German, Dutch other Northern Europeans find Death Valley to their liking. No matter what time of year, it is common to hear people speaking various European languages in and around Death Valley National Park. Since older members of the Timbisha Shoshone Tribe still speak their native language, you might have the rare opportunity to hear that language spoken at Furnace Creek, as well.

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By James McGillis at 01:20 PM | Travel | Comments (0) | Link

Zabriskie Point in Death Valley - It's not a gap...it's an abyss! -2017

 

Zabriskie Point in Death Valley - It's not a gap...it's an abyss!

Zabriskie Point, Death Valley National Park - “How you get there depends on where you're at.”

For most of my life, I avoided Death Valley like the plague. The stories about an ill-fated attempt to reach California by wagon train in 1849 - 1850 created a daunting image. The graben of Death Valley holds the record as the hottest place on Earth, with five consecutive days in 1913 registering 129 °F (54 °C), or above. Annual precipitation at Death Valley averages less than 2.5-inches. Further, its existence as the lowest point of elevation in the United States added to the negative connotations in my mind.

Then, in November 2016, I traveled from Las Vegas, through Pahrump, Nevada and on to Death Valley National Park, California. Other than photos and video I had viewed of the area, I had no idea what to expect. What I found upon arrival was reminiscent of a Martian landscape, rather than Earth. Volcanism, erosion and rocky or sandy soil abounded. As distinguished from the face of Mars, there were a few hardy plants and animals, but otherwise, normal life-support seemed unlikely.

Before arriving at my campsite in Furnace Creek, I visited Zabriskie Point. Relatively unknown until the latter 20th century, Zabriskie Point became the prime location and namesake of Michelangelo Antonioni’s 1970 counterculture flick. Filmed in 1969, with music by Pink Floyd and Jerry Garcia, the movie features an incoherent plot, as if the cast and crew were not only blazing in the sun, but also blazing on lysergic acid (LSD). In fact, the often-panned, but now cinematically celebrated film "set the scene" for many other desert trips of fame or infamy.

On Oct. 12, 1969, at Barker Ranch, in Death Valley, just north of the San Bernardino County town of Trona, the murder spree of the Charles Manson “family” ended with his arrest. In September 1973, members of the rock band, The Eagles accompanied singer and songwriter Gram Parsons to the place and time of his death in Joshua Tree, California. According to public records, between October 2003 and November 2013, twenty people of lesser fame died in or around Death Valley. On July 6, 2014, hikers in the badlands near Zabriskie Point discovered the body of British actor Dave Legeno, known for his role as werewolf Fenrir Greyback in three of the ‘Harry Potter’ films. Temperatures at the time of Legeno’s death were as much as 123 °F (50.5 °C).

In the film Zabriskie Point, I remember a scene with the male and female stars standing on a tiny pinnacle of land. Filmed at sunset, one can see the Panamint Range looming and glooming in the west. As the stars embrace, the camera revolves around them. Amid clouds of dust, we see lots of skin and writhing bodies. Amidst the whipping wind and the grand vistas at sundown, we see dozens of couples apparently copulating on the hillocks below. After almost fifty years, both film acolytes and the curious continue to trek up the hill to see that famous spot. That tiny pinnacle of film-fame has eroded into dust. Oh, that the faithful shall not trample His grave, too.

In 2004, a flash flood swept across the highway, uprooting and destroying the substantial concrete pit-toilets previously installed in the parking area. After extensive repairs, both then and in 2014, there is now a paved pathway, leading up to a viewing plaza. With its low stone wall, the plaza is about the size of a baseball diamond. Although the once remote place called Zabriskie Point is no longer so remote, the views at sundown are every bit as exciting or sublime, depending on one’s energies at the time.

On November 10, 2016, my first visit to Zabriskie point occured less than two days after the U.S. election of “He Who Cannot Be Named” (HWCBN). After sunset, I lingered to talk with people from across the United States, and beyond. “Do you think he will open up the national parks and monuments for oil and gas exploration?” one man asked. “No”, I replied. “The U.S. Antiquities Act of 1906, signed by then president Theodore Roosevelt will protect our esteemed parks and monuments from HWCBN and his penchant for Old Energy exploitation”.

On April 27, 2017, HWCBN signed an executive order reviewing and attempting to rollback or eliminate every U.S. national monument created since the Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument, during the Clinton administration. The final list includes the Grand Canyon-Parashant National Monument in Arizona, Bears Ears National Monument in Utah and Craters of the Moon in Idaho. Thank you, Mr. HWCBN for protecting our national heritage.

On an April 2017 visit to Zabriskie Point, I noticed a curious recurring phenomenon. Once again, the sun set through the abysmal gap, framed by the Panamint Range, which is visible west of Zabriskie Point. At sunset, the place darkened like a theater when the lights go down. After staring toward the sun for the final fifteen minutes of daylight, my eyes could not readily adjust to the twilight and approaching darkness. Although the sun still shone for a time on the Amargosa Range to the east, the Zabriskie Point plaza looked like there had been a solar eclipse.

After gazing around the plaza, I snapped a few photos of the sunlight as it receded from the Amargosa Range. As darkness rapidly approached, all visible landforms were in shadow. Since there was nothing more to see, I sauntered down the sinuous pathway that led to the parking lot below. Here is the curious part. At the end of each visit, I spotted several photographers carrying long-lens cameras. Each was hoofing it up the pathway to the viewing area. I wanted to say, “It is all over. Don’t even bother going up there. There is nothing more to see”.

If you plan to visit Zabriskie Point and view that famous sunset, do not refer to the official sunset times listed in your almanac or on a weather website. They will list the time of day when the sun slips below the Earth’s horizon, not when it disappears behind the Panamint Range, which may be ten or fifteen minutes earlier.

Each time that I observed a Zabriskie Point sunset, several photographers ran toward the ancient plaza. With the sun already set, one can only hope that they arrived in time to take pictures of the abyss.

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By James McGillis at 04:48 PM | Travel | Comments (0) | Link

Rediscovering the Old Spanish Trail - Now it's a Freeway - 2009

 

Rediscovering the Old Spanish Trail - Now it's a Freeway

Traveling north on Interstate I-15, from Mesquite, Nevada, one must pass through the stark, but beautiful Virgin River Gorge.  Although a highway traveler would find it hard to believe, the river at the bottom of that steep, narrow canyon is navigable some years by kayak during April and May.  Because of the remoteness and difficulty of that transit, whitewater websites include stern warnings to enthusiasts contemplating such an attempt.  As the early Mormon pioneers discovered downstream at Mesquite Flat, the large watershed that feeds the Virgin River can also create huge flash floods.

 

Although driving through the gorge feels quite seamless and sinuous, when it opened in 1973, this section of I-15 was among the most technically difficult to engineer and most expensive ever built.  Because many motorists expect to navigate our interstate highways at well above the speed limit, I-15 through the Virgin River Gorge hosts many spectacular speed-related crashes.  As we traveled up-canyon in April 2009, I-15 crossed the river gorge on seven separate bridges before we lost count.  To us, it shall always be a “Seven Bridges Road”.

 

Forty miles north of Mesquite, beyond the head of the gorge, lays the City of St. George, Utah.  St. George’s mesas and buttes contrast with the dunes and alluvial fans surrounding Mesquite.

 

In 1861, St. George, Utah began as a Mormon outpost.  Elders of the Mormon Church feared that the Civil War might curtail their cotton trade with the Southern States.  Because of that perceived issue, the Mormon Cotton Mission traveled south past the earlier Iron Mission at Cedar City, Utah which had suffered greatly from lack of permanent shelter during their first winter there.  Known for their pluck, the pioneer founders of St. George named the area "Utah's Dixie”, a name still popular today.  Although those early settlers managed to grow some cotton, it never became a commercially viable crop.

 

St. George is the county seat of Washington County, Utah, and is the principal city of Southeastern Utah.  According to the U.S. Census Bureau, St. George had a population of 67,000 in 2006, up from 49,000 in 2000.  From 1990 to 2000, St. George beat Las Vegas, Nevada as the fastest-growing metropolitan area in the U.S.  This trend continued until the mortgage crisis and financial meltdown of 2008 put at least a temporary end to growth.

 

Most observers of Mesquite, Nevada would say that the city has overbuilt its housing supply in recent years.  Unlike the near shutdown of development at Mesquite, St. George, UT continues adding to its excess housing stock.  At both the south and the north ends of town, the dominant feature is “for rent”, “for sale”, “for lease” or “auction soon” signs.  If there were enough jobs to go with this new housing, all would be well.  According to a resident that we met at the RV Park in Mesquite, St. George has experienced recession and job losses similar to the rest of the country.

 

As we drove from one end of the city to the other, we were amazed to see that building of new planned community infrastructure continues.  It seemed that the outskirts did not know that the core of the city was struggling.  In town, empty condominiums lined the freeway.  At one off ramp, several huge apartment buildings stood surrounded by weeds, silent, empty and unfinished. 

 

When I stopped to take pictures north of town, we parked at one end of a large highway overpass.  Standing at the west end of that bridge was a new community.  To the east, construction workers were grading parkways into gentle arcs across barren land.  If one takes a long economic view, this new infrastructure could make sense.  When growth returns, St George will be ready.  In the near term, other than keeping construction workers employed, these roads-to-nowhere were an economic mystery.

 

After allowing our disbelief to fade, we continued north to the junction of I-15 and I-70.  At their western ends, both I-70 and I-40, farther south, end at I-15.  In contrast, I-90, I-80 and I-10 each stretch from “coast to coast”.  Facing widely spaced services and desert terrain, continued travel on the interstate highway system forces both I-70 and I-40 travelers south along what once was the Old Spanish Trail, towards Los Angeles, California. 

 

Prehistoric animals such as the Mastodon utilized that route at various times during the Pleistocene.  Members of the early Clovis Culture found the route and used it for transit in both directions.  Scholars tell us that some languages found in the contemporary Indian cultures of the Four Corners region have their roots in the Ancient Maya Culture, far to the south.  In the past two hundred years, American trappers and mountain men found the trail and used it.  In the 1830s, the Old Spanish Trail became a formal, if multi-route commercial road.  Later, the railroad and highways adopted a similar route.

 

During the past two hundred years, a look at the seemingly endless desert was enough to turn prudent travelers south toward Los Angeles.  If early travelers tempted their fate in a trek west, a Great Basin of desert valleys, alternating with craggy mountain ranges greeted them along the way.  Not until they could wend their way up and over the high mountain passes of California's Eastern Sierra Nevada mountains, could travelers expect help from settlers in the foothills on the west side.  Two famous parties tried to take separate shortcuts west to California.  Each lost members of their party, creating a warning for those who followed. 

 

The Donner Party Route

 

Not listening to the Wisdom of the Ancients and traveling south, along the Old Spanish Trail, they split the geographical difference between the northern and southern routes.  Not finding their hoped-for low pass across the Sierra Nevada, they “holed up” for the winter in the high desert.  The following spring, when a rescue party arrived from Los Angeles, they finally departed their cold, dry winter home.  Although stories about its naming abound, one legend has it, a woman from the party of Lost 49ers turned to look back at their place of peril and said, “Goodbye, Death Valley”.  Regardless of who first named it, Death Valley is what we still call it today.  Ironically, the survivors traveled overland to Los Angeles; the same city that they had earlier avoided as a waste of their precious time.

 

Today, you can travel by land across that section of the Great Basin, but it will be on secondary highways such as US Highways 6 or 50.  In the 1950’s, when engineers began planning the interstate highway system, they heeded both history and the spiritual message of the Ancients.  By the 1970’s, when the interstate highway system was completed, it left untouched a wide swath that stretched from Salt Lake City, Utah to Fresno, California.  For reasons that would be apparent to the historical 49ers or Donners, US-50 bills itself as “The Lonliest Highway in America”. 

 

After pondering that remnant of what was once called the Great American Desert, we headed east on I-70.  For the next hundred and fifty miles, we enjoyed varied terrain, starting with mountain passes and ending with the barren flats past Green River, Utah.  It is a beautiful drive, with unique land forms at many points along the way.  If you travel that route, plan to stop often and take pictures.  With so many unique geological features, some appear for only a few minutes at highway speeds.  If you travel straight through, you will miss unique features of the land too numerous to recall. 

 

 Our destination that day was Crescent Junction, Utah. 

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By James McGillis at 07:00 PM | Travel | Comments (0) | Link