Finding The Long Lost Moab Burro in Cisco, Utah 2020

In May 2013, I discovered a strange beast resting on a railroad siding at Seven Mile, near the intersection of U.S. Highway 191 and Utah State Route 313. The location was just a few miles north of the infamous Moab Pile, the adjacent Colorado River and the City of Moab itself. The beast was a dusky yellow in color and had an enormously long snout. Since the Moab Giants Dinosaur Park did not yet exist, I knew that the beast could not be from there or the Jurassic Period.

Later, I discovered that the beast was not a cold-blooded animal, but a genetically engineered hybrid. In the 1950s, whoever or whatever created the beast had crossed the DNA of a burro and a crane. With its proximity to the highly radioactive Moab Pile, I suspected that radionuclides might have enhanced the new animal with enormous strength and power.

After some extensive research, I discovered that the beast now featured a diesel engine and a lattice-boom crane, which could include a powerful electromagnet. Its creators had branded the beast on its stern with the words, “Burro Crane.” This version of the beast was a Model 40, originally created by the Cullen Friestedt Company near Chicago, Illinois. Enthralled by the nature of the beast, I knew that I needed more information.

By 2015, the Moab Burro, as I had dubbed it, had disappeared from its former location on the siding at Seven Mile. Over the following five years, I worked incessantly toward a PhD in Burro Crane Studies at the University of Google. My doctoral thesis hypothesized that Burro Cranes had obtained the ability to shape-shift from large to small and to dematerialize and rematerialize in different locations. Although the Google elite had accepted my concepts as entirely possible, they suggested that I obtain physical evidence before conferring the honor of a PhD on me.

In the year 2020, I embarked on a research expedition to Moab, Utah. There, I was hoping to find the erstwhile and long-lost Moab Burro. If I could find the Moab Burro Crane, I could prove my thesis and obtain my long sought after Google PhD. When I pulled into Seven Mile, the siding was still there, but the Moab Burro was, once again, nowhere in sight. Having brought Coney, the Traffic Cone and Plush Kokopelli with me for our long-awaited reunion with the Moab Burro, you can imagine how disappointed each of us were.

With nothing to see at Seven Mile, we decided to return toward Moab on Highway 191. Having heard that various republicans had repeatedly shut down Arches National Park, just for spite, Coney, Kokopelli and I decided to turn in at the Arches National Park entrance and see for ourselves. Once again, uncaring politicians had closed the park for no good reason. When we stopped for a photo opportunity, a group of tourists showed up right behind us. With the speed of a flash mob, Kokopelli led them into some Monkey Wrench action, all in the best spirit of Edward Abbey. Before we knew it the tourists had opened Arches National Park... for the people.

Almost immediately, we found ourselves coughing through a nuclear dust cloud emanating from the remnants of the Moab Pile. As the dust cleared, we crossed the river on the “new” Colorado River Bridge. Once we were across the bridge, we turned left at the remnants of Old Lion’s Club Park. The original park stood on the spot where the 1855 Elk Mountain Mission first camped on the Moab-side of what was then called the Grand River. Stately cottonwood trees that may have shaded the Mormon missionaries at their first campground disappeared on March 31, 2015. Instead, uncaring souls who gave not a hoot for history or the park had transformed the quaint old park into an overheated series of concrete paths and bunker-shaped buildings. So much for progress, I thought.

Continuing our journey up the Colorado Riverway, I soon came to another historical location, which had signs reading “William Grandstaff Trailhead.” To an uninitiated visitor in 2020, the name was colorless, and not descriptive in any way. For those who know their Moab history, the place had once been known as “Negro Bill Trailhead” for many decades. William Granstaff, AKA Negro Bill was one of the early pioneers at Moab. Bill ran cattle in the box canyon that later bore his name. On September 27, 2016, the all-knowing BLM Moab Field Office “pulled a fast one”. In the grand tradition of destroying old Lion’s Club Park, the BLM made a stealthy move. Overnight, and without warning, the BLM changed out the historical “Negro Bill Trailhead” signage and all the road signs referencing the site. Goodbye Negro Bill. Hello William Grandstaff.

By that time, Coney, Plush Kokopelli and I were all feeling uneasy. If the authorities in and around Moab could hide, disguise, or make history disappear so easily, how might we ever find the missing Moab Burro? Although Coney has uttered a few words, Plush Kokopelli has never said a word in all his 2,000 years of existence. Respecting that tradition, we drove silently, with Cisco, Utah as our destination.

Along the way, we spotted the remains of the old Dewey Bridge, once the longest continuous single span between St. Louis and San Francisco. Although replaced with a newer concrete bridge over the river, the historic Dewey Bridge stood proud for over a century, until it was destroyed by fire in April 2008. That happened during a classic case of a child playing with matches nearby. His “science project” got away from him and rapidly burned the wooden bridge-deck of the old suspension bridge. Once a treasure on the National Register of Historic Places, passing by we could see the support cables dangling in the sky, with no bridge-deck to support.

After traversing that long and winding road known as Highway 128, we transitioned to The Old Cisco Highway and into Cisco, itself. We were not prepared for what had happened in town since our last visit in 2008. In those days, Cisco was a ghost town, without a single operating business and only a few aging cottages showing signs of life. Derelict mining and drilling equipment, some dating back to the uranium boom days of the 1950s lay abandoned all around the place. The shell of a long-abandoned aluminum house trailer still shone in the desert sun.

And then we saw it. There before us was the Moab Burro, with the number B-47 painted on its fading yellow sides. In shock, we saw that the Moab Burro was chained to an unused railroad siding near the old highway. Immediately, we jumped out of my truck and ran for a visit with our old friend, the Moab Burro. From its former resting place on the Potash Branch at Seven Mile to its 2020 home was a rail journey of about forty miles. How long had the Moab Burro been at the old Cisco siding, we wondered? How long would it be in Cisco until it rode the rails to a new destination or transported itself through other dimensions to wherever it pleased?

Now, in August 2024, having achieved my Google PhD in Burro Crane studies, I am planning another visit to Moab and Cisco, Utah in October 2024. Recently, I used the powers of Google maps to look at that railroad siding in Cisco. According to the most rent aerial mapping of the area, the Moab Burro is gone. Only its tender car remained on the siding where the Moab Burro lay in 2020. Stay tuned to find out if and where we might soon find the elusive Moab Burro.

To read the full story of the Moab Burro, click HERE.

Email James McGillis

 

A Time of Solace and Solitude in the Panamint Valley

In May of 2020, at the height of the pandemic, there were no vaccines in the immediate offing. Tired of sitting at home, I headed out with my RV to Panamint Springs Resort, which is a private enclave surrounded by Death Valley National Park. As seen in the adjacent photo, Death Valley National Park was closed to all visitors. Highway 190 was still open through the park, but even stopping along the way to take a picture could have netted you a $1,000 fine. No one understood how, when or where the virus could be transmitted, but the National Park Service was not taking any chances, one way or the other.

Since the resort is private and needed to stay in business, they were open for camping and cabin accommodations. Taking advantage of that and being completely self-contained, I booked a full hookup RV spot for several days. When I arrived, the clerk in the general store wore no mask. He indicated that they would be barbecuing ribs at the restaurant that night and that I should attend. "Not on your life," I thought to myself. Although I was largely confined to the resort property, I went on to enjoy the solitude and splendor of spending time in the Panamint Valley.

Three and one half years later, I was in the process of finishing up another trip to Death Valley and Panamint Springs. On December 10, 2023, there were high winds predicted for the southern Mojave Desert. With the stress of having recently spent time entertaining my friends in the desert, I was too tired to break camp and head home in a windstorm. Instead, I opted for a quiet day in camp at the Panamint Springs Resort. As I have often said, there usually are no crowds in Death Valley National Park between Thanksgiving and New Years. This year was no exception.

When I travel with my fifth wheel, I always bring provisions for several extra days. If I experience a breakdown or any other form of delay, my fridge and freezer always have enough food to get me by. In this case, my full RV hookup made it easy to extend my stay for one more day. Access to water, propane, electricity and sewer allowed for luxury camping in one of the most remote and previously inhospitable places in all of the United States.

On December 11, 2023 I broke camp and prepared to leave for home. On my return trip I was able to avoid the delays associated with road repair between Panamint Springs and Lone Pine. As it turned out, the Panamint Valley Road to Trona and Mojave beyond was fully open and free of construction delays. If I had known that on my way into Panamint Springs at the beginning of my journey, I could have saved hours of detours and delays. As it stood, my return trip home to Simi Valley took less than five hours. That reminded me of why I like to visit Panamint Springs every fall, winter, and spring. In less than a day, I can transport myself from the city to life in the nearby wilderness.

Panamint Valley may not be as famous as its sister, Death Valley, but it has trails to explore, sand dunes to climb, off-road tracks for four-wheeling and a sense of solitude that you will not find at Furnace Creek, Stovepipe Wells or Badwater. In the off-season, it is my favorite place for kicking back and enjoying life, just as it might have been almost one hundred years ago. For those who require instant and constant connectivity, either bring your Starlink satellite system or just enjoy being beyond the fringe of connection to the smartphone world. I do suggest bringing a Zoleo satellite communicator, but that device is for text messaging only.

Although I do everything I can to promote visiting the Panamint Valley during its extreme off season, I do not expect there to be big crowds in early December 2024, when once again, I shall seek solace in the Panamint Valley. If enough people read this blog and decide to visit, perhaps I will see one or two of you there at that time of year.

This is Part Seven of a Seven Part article. To return to Part One, click HERE.

Email James McGillis

 

A Polestar 3 Electric Vehicle at Panamint Springs Resort - December 2023

On December 9, 2023, I walked from the RV Park to the Panamint Springs General Store to call home. The evening before, there had been a lot of commotion at the Panamint Springs Resort. The owner and his helping hand had repaired the RV sewer line, which connects the ten RV spaces to the leach field, farther downhill. Weeks earlier, at the beginning of the Thanksgiving holiday weekend, it  became clogged by Tamarisk tree roots.

Early that evening, a taco truck had pulled into the RV Park and plugged into one of the RV shore-power pedestals. The truck, with its crossed up wiring immediately shut down the electrical to that pedestal.  Next the truck owner ran an extension cord to another pedestal and shut down the electricity to the entire RV portion of the resort. To complete the chaos, the resort Panamint Springs, t owner was in his backhoe, dragging away the ancient derelict airplane from its spot near the fuel station.

What was a taco truck was doing in Panamint Springs? Why was the resort owner dragging an airplane away from the scene? After I reported the electrical issue, the exasperated owner drove to the taco truck scene and his helping hand roared up in a pickup truck. After admonishing the taco truck driver to unplug his ersatz rig from the pedestal, the power miraculously came back on at my coach. That was enough excitement for one evening, so I chalked it up to another strange happening in the desert.

In the morning, I limped over to the general store, nursing my injured left hip. There, while making my Wi-Fi call home I discovered a full Hollywood-style film shoot wrapping up after three days in the desert. Rumors, which were later confirmed by several people, indicated that it was a Swedish film crew associated with the car maker Volvo. So that it would not be in the photo shoot of an electric vehicle approaching the gas pumps, the owner of the Panamint Springs Resort had dragged the old airplane away and behind the general store.

Why an electric vehicle would need to approach gas pumps implies that there will be some form of irony in the TV commercial that results from this shoot. The current scene included the film crew, support trucks, a high-tech Pursuit Systems camera car, passenger cars and three California Highway Patrol vehicles. When I arrived on the scene, everyone in the crew was finishing their lunch. That, at least explained what a taco truck was doing in the middle of the Mojave Desert.

According to one low ranking crew member, many of the crew came here from Sweden. “We spent three days filming near Badwater in Death Valley and here in the Panamint Valley today. It was amazing to be escorted across the desert at dawn by Highway Patrol with lights flashing.” About then, the crew boss came up and broke up our conversation. Lunch was over and the crew member said the whole encampment would be gone in three hours.

As I watched, two California Highway Patrol vehicles, the camera car and a white Polestar 3 prototype, which was sporting Swedish license plates headed out on to Highway 190. They had planned for some “B-Roll” filming on their way back toward Los Angeles.

As of this writing, the Polestar 3 is open for orders, but is yet undelivered. U.S. prices on the Volvo-created vehicle range from $83,995 to over $100,000, if fully optioned. In February 2024, just two months after this expensive international junket from Sweden to Death Valley, Volvo announced that it was selling the majority of its stake in Polestar to its Chinese partner, Geely. Already Volvo's largest shareholder, Geely's takeover of Polestar is a complex international transfer of ownership, benefiting many of the respective companies legacy shareholders.

As the striking white vehicle pull soundlessly away, I wondered how the Polestar crew was able to keep such a high-performance electric vehicle charged up and ready to roll across three days of desert driving. Was it the “long range” version, or did it secretly sport an internal combustion engine in addition to an electric drive motor? With collapsing sales of pure EV power-trains, perhaps it was an unannounced hybrid or plugin hybrid electric vehicle. My guess is that we will never know. The Polestar 3, designed in Sweden, manufactured in Chengdu, China and then plying the desolate roads of Death Valley National Park certainly was an oddity.

Just after the Polestar 3 entourage hit the highway, about a dozen Harley Davidson motorcycles roared past the remaining CHP car and prepared to pump gas for their rides. The scene was one of controlled chaos, reminiscent of Marlin Brando leading an outlaw motorcycle gang in the takeover of a small town in the 1953 movie, The Wild One. Now, seventy years later, there was lots of noise and fury, but I saw no lawlessness or destruction.

By then, the Pursuit Camera vehicle and the Polestar 3 were well down the highway. That camera car can follow the live action of any vehicle within its viewfinder. If the subject vehicle passes the camera, the camera boom and lens will follow it and keep it within the frame. The camera system itself was like nothing I had ever seen. It was installed on a long, fully gimballed boom and was computer controlled from inside the Pursuit vehicle.

All of this strangeness reminded me of several early Twilight Zone television episodes filmed in or around Death Valley. The whole scene raised several questions in my mind. As mentioned before, how did they charge the battery pack on an electric vehicle in the middle of nowhere? Why would a Swedish crew spend so much money filming a commercial in the unforgiving Mojave Desert? Why would a Polestar 3 television commercial feature a lonely gas station in the desert? I can hardly wait to find out the answers to my questions, if I ever will.

True to the old Twilight Zone conceit, when I returned to the area three hours later there was no trace of the film crew or their temporary encampment. There is an old adage that goes, "If a tree fell in a forest and no one was there, did it make a sound?" Likewise, "If a Polestar 3 drove in the desert and no one saw it, was it really there?"

This is Part Six of a Seven Part article. To read Part Seven, Click HERE. To return to Part One, click HERE.

Email James McGillis

 

Four-Wheeling Thompson Canyon and Stony Canyon in Death Valley National Park

On December 8, 2023 at 10 AM, Don and Natala Goodman were at my door, ready for a four-wheeling adventure. We headed out on the Panamint Valley Road to Minietta Road. There, we took a left turn on an unsigned portion of the road that leads to the very heart of the Panamint Valley. Less than a mile from the highway, we paused and exited my vehicle. When there are no military planes flying over, the loudest sounds in Panamint Valley are the braying of a lonesome burro or the rustling of the breeze. Today, it was the silence and desolation that impressed the three of us.

Returning to the Panamint Valley Road, we crossed the highway and took Minietta Road west, up and over some hills. The road is rough and rocky, so the going was slow. Once we crested the hills, we could see Thompson Canyon ahead of us. The portion we could see featured a wide and deep alluvial fan. On a previous visit, I had traveled up Thompson Canyon Road towards Minnietta Mine, which is an abandoned miner’s cabin on a nearby hill. The mine’s name has two N’s, but the road name has only one N.

At the bottom of the first hill, we transitioned on to Nadeau Road, which was as rough as Minietta Road. The name Nadeau is rich within the history of Death Valley and the entire Mojave Desert. It was French-Canadian pioneer Remi Nadeau who first used mule teams to haul supplies, ore, and bullion to and from the Cerro Gordo silver mine and other mines nearby. Nadeau Road, or Nadeau Trail as it is also known, still exists as a 28-mile-long part of America’s national system of trails. Nadeau’s concept was to use twenty or more mules to haul heavily laden wooden wagons over inhospitable trails throughout the desert and adjacent mountain passes. His pioneering work continues its lineage in the laundry product known as Twenty Mule Team Borax and the historic radio and television show Death Valley Days.

As we entered Nadeau Road, Don Goodman, the airplane pilot pointed out a faded orange windsock by the side of the road. He had identified a wide spot in that road that served as a remote landing strip. With no airplanes in sight, we rocked on down the road. I had hoped to find a wreck of a car that I had found on a previous trip, but navigating in the desert can be tricky. One trail can look just like another. The wreck, which we did not find on this trip consisted of a sports car that had blown a tire in extravagant fashion, flipped over many times and came to rest as a flattened heap of rusty metal and rubber. Could it possibly been going so fast as to wreck right on that spot? With its total devastation, I assumed that it had crashed on Panamint Valley Road and been hauled here, to its final resting place.

Traveling on at a very slow pace, the trail consisted of stones, varying in size form pebbles to boulders. To the north, we observed rock abutments that once held a mining road leading out of our lost valley. With their size and fitment, they looked a bit like the stone abutments of Machu Pichu in Peru. The scene appeared long abandoned and the road which they once supported had washed away in several places. The fitment of the shaped boulders still intrigues me.

With the Nadeau Trail being so much easier to traverse, why would anyone take the time and effort to support a dirt road up a steep incline out of Stony Canyon, which was the place where we now found ourselves? After reviewing the area on Google Maps, the rock revetments are even more mysterious. The road that they once supported paralleled the track we were on, but reconnected to Minietta Road closer to our point of entry. Someone had spent a huge amount of time and effort to create a road that was much more difficult to drive and maintain.

On we traveled into what one might call the valley of the shadow of death. The going was so rough that Don had to exit the cab of my truck and move sharp rocks from our path. Often leaning out the passenger side window, he would call out “Left” or “right” to miss the most severe obstacles. As we progressed, the rocky terrain became almost devoid of any soil. Boulders and rocks rounded by their journey from the upper canyons to the lower valley were everywhere. After traversing two small washouts, we came across a washout that was too deep to transit.

Stopping for a picnic lunch, we marveled at the mountain and desert scenery. Don walked up the road beyond the washout and discovered an earthwork with wooden cribbing. Apparently, it was designed to load ore into wagons for the transit away from the local mines. Looking back on the scene now, I wonder if it was one of Remi Nadeau’s original wagon-loading points. Later, after consulting a map, we discovered that we had stopped only five hard miles in from where we had departed the pavement of Panamint Valley Road.

A few people with shovels and the desire to move some rocks and sand could reopen that stretch of Nadeau Road, but we were not prepared to take on that task. Looking at maps from the comfort of my home office, I now realize that Nadeau Road connects back to Panamint Valley Road a few miles beyond the washout. It also connects further on to Highway 190 Near Panamint Springs. In fact, the portion of Highway 190 between Panamint Springs and Panamint Valley Road is also identified as Nadeau Trail. My hope is that some volunteers from local off-road clubs will caravan to that washout and reopen one of the truly historic roads within Death Valley National Park.

After returning to our base camp at Panamint Springs Resort, we rested and met again early in the evening. Don and Natala had offered to take me to dinner at the Panamint Springs Restaurant & Bar. In all my recent visits to Panamint Springs, either the pandemic or lack of someone to share a meal with had kept me away from the restaurant. How good could a roadhouse originally built in the 1930’s be as a place to dine? I was soon to find out.

As we settled into our table by a roaring fire, I perused the menu. Natala ordered the Cardiac Arrest Burger and Don had another selection. I ordered the half-rack of spare ribs, fries, and coleslaw, for $31.50. While waiting for our dinner, I explored the bar area. There, I discovered a massive redwood bar designed by renowned American architect Hugh Newell Jacobsen (1929-2021).

It consisted of a single slab of California Coastal Redwood, which was over four inches thick and at least twenty feet long. The root structure from the same tree trunk became the support for the iconic bar. Jacobsen had owned property in the nearby mining town of Darwin, California. The bar arrived sometime in the early 1990’s, but the story became clouded by the passage of time and changes in the resort’s ownership. It is a work of art unlike anything else I have ever seen. If you pass through Panamint Springs, you must visit the restaurant and sit at that amazing bar.

Never judge a book by its cover and never misjudge a bar & grill in the middle of nowhere. The fries were sublime, and the ribs were a culinary perfection. According to the menu, the ribs pair well with a Pedroncelli Sonoma Petite Sarah. Next time I am at Panamint Springs, I will certainly order that pairing.

This is Part Five of a Seven Part article. To read Part Six, Click HERE. To return to Part One, click HERE.

 

Rendezvous With Friends in Panamint Springs - December 2023

December 7, 2023 - Does anyone remember Pearl Harbor Day? That was eighty-two years ago on this date. By Noon that day, I was heading back over Towne Pass to Panamint Springs Resort. I stopped at the top of the pass to use my Zoleo satellite communicator, texting home to report my progress. Next I would be heading down the steep grade to the Panamint Valley. After texting, I irresponsibly left my $200 satellite communicator on the hood of my truck, where it later slid away into the wilderness.

While I was reviewing the many pictures I have taken in Panamint Springs and Death Valley National Park, I came across an interesting image of a camp worker at Panamint Springs Resort from 2017. As we spoke about the Panamint Valley, he told me that there were ancient fossilized sea beds found at the lowest points. Having not yet studied the geology and natural history of the Panamint Valley, I was shocked to hear that this most desolate of places had once hosted a branch of the Pacific Ocean.

I asked to take his picture, to which he consented. He said his name was Brent. Looking at the picture of him now, I believe that the camp worker was Brent Underwood, who is now an international YouTube sensation with his channel, "Ghost Town Living." Brent Underwood now resides in the ghost town and former silver mine of Cerro Gordo, which is only about fifteen miles from Panamint Springs, as the crow flies.

Upon arriving at Panamint Springs, I realized that my Zoleo was gone. Immediately, I retraced my route, searching in vain for my device. Similar to when I get a small ding on the paint of my car, I was recriminating against myself for being so foolish as to lose my emergency satellite communicator. Alas, I did not find the device and was forced to use the balky Wi-Fi system at Panamint Springs to communicate back home.

Luckily, I had learned in Furnace Creek that if a Wi-Fi signal is strong enough, I could use it for telephone voice communications, as well as texts. As soon as I arrived in Panamint Springs, I sat down on the porch of the general store and initiated a Wi-Fi call. It worked perfectly. Later, I would learn that the Wi-Fi signal was strong enough to use only if I was seated in front of the store or in the nearby Restaurant & Bar. This was a bit of an issue because my coach was several hundred yards away, making it quite a trek just to call home. At that time I was in denial about an injury to my left hip joint. While preparing for the trip, I had hefted one too many Jerry cans into the bed of my truck.

The result was a shooting pain that would not subside until March 15, 2024, over three months later. At that time, I went in for surgery and a total hip replacement. After I awoke from surgery, the hip pain had miraculously vanished, leaving only soreness from the incision and procedure. With my other hip in the same relative condition, it was only a matter of time before I experienced a similar painful experience, so I elected for surgery on my right hip, as well. On may 31, 2024 I had my second total hip replacement. Now, if I could only fix my torn rotator cuff and detached right biceps tendon, I would be as good as new.

As I sat there, calling home, the friends I had met at Panamint Springs almost two years prior pulled up in their rental car and we exchanged greetings. Don Goodman and his wife Natala have piloted their Cessna 150 airplane all over the continental U.S. and as far as the Bahamas. Don is a retired sales and marketing executive with the Boeing Corporation. At one time, he was responsible for the sale of all Boeing jet aircraft in the South Asia region. Needless to say, Don is an excellent pilot.

Two Years ago, they had landed at the gravel airstrip behind the general store where I now sat. After our first chance visit, I could not imagine seeing them both again at Panamint Springs, yet there they were. Originally, we had planned to rendezvous on this visit for a demonstration flight in Don's plane and a four-wheel drive adventure in My Nissan Titan XD. Because of questionable December weather, they had flown commercial to Las Vegas, rented a car and made their way through Pahrump, Nevada, Death Valley and on to Panamint Springs.

That evening, I prepared barbecued salmon, steamed artichokes, fresh rolls and fine wine for my guests. After dinner, we planned a 4X4 trip for the next day. First, we would venture out into the middle of the deserted Panamint Valley. After that, we would take an off-road track I knew from a previous visit. If all went well, it would lead us down the Nadeau Road, which was the first wagon road through the wilderness of what would later become Death Valley National Park.

Almost lost in history, the French-Canadian mule-skinner Remi Nadeau had pioneered the use of mule teams to pull heavy wagons throughout the Mojave Desert. His caravans brought food and supplies to remote mines and hauled ore and smelted metals back to civilization. The famed Twenty Mule Teams servicing Death Valley and its Borax mine were Nadeau's invention. To drive part of Nadeau Road had always been a goal of mine. Now, with Don and Natala, I would soon make that trek.

During my many visits to Panamint Springs Resort, I have always stayed in a full hookup RV site. Other accommodations at the resort include an updated "Miner's Cabin" on the edge of the Panamint Wash, ancient motel rooms, concrete-floored tents and a handful of “luxury cabins.” With their appealing name, Don and Natala elected to stay in one of the luxury cabins. In this case, "luxury" consisted of a bedroom and a bathroom. Any lounging would have to be on the bed. The accommodations were fit for sleeping, showering, dressing and not much else. There was no mini-bar, lounge chair, kitchenette or TV. But there was room heat, air-conditioning, hot and cold running water and electricity.

None of these luxuries had been available in 1849, when those first emigrant 49er's had escaped Death Valley one hundred and seventy four years ago. Compared to those old timers, both the Goodman's in their luxury cabin and me in my full hookup RV site had it good.

After a roaring campfire beside my rig, I bid Don and Natala goodnight. We planned to meet again the following morning for our 4X4 trip around the Panamint Valley.

This is Part Four of a Seven Part article. To read Part Five, Click HERE. To return to Part One, click HERE.

 

Dry Camping in Death Valley - December 2023

At 9 AM on December 6, 2023, I trundled down to the Furnace Creek Campground entrance kiosk and asked if anyone with a full hookup RV site had vacated their spot. As of that time, I had no luck there. After a cold night without heat in my coach, there was no way I was going to spend second night living like a cave dweller in a dry camping site. In December there are too few hours of sunlight to fully charge my house batteries. With laggardly solar battery power it seemed that my only option was to "pick up stakes" and head back one day early for Panamint Springs.

If given the option to have power or sewer, I will select electrical power every time. I can always cut back on sewer usage, but the lack of electrical power at the Furnace Creek dry campsites was for me is a bridge too far. Yes, there are RVs that have 1,000 watts or more of solar panels and 200+ amp-hours of lithium-ion batteries onboard, but mine is not yet one of them. As of that mid morning moment, my rig had about ten amp-hours of battery power remaining. That was not nearly enough to see me through another cold desert night.

Rather than booking out for Panamint Springs, I decided to take a drive and see the sights. Before leaving the campground, I swung my truck back around and asked the ranger at the kiosk if anyone had vacated a full hookup since 9 AM. Yes, indeed, someone had abandoned their prime RV site and left it vacant for me. After paying for my new site, I headed off to Zabriskie Point to climb the hill and see the sights in Death Valley. Best seen at sunset, Zabriskie Point is spectacular at any time of day. The slowly melting mud stone hills look like something out of a Salvador Dali painting. They are colorful and surrealistic to say the least.

While returning from Zabriskie Point to Furnace Creek, I hung a left on Badwater Road. It is seventeen miles to Badwater, itself. At 282 feet below mean sea level, that place is touted as the lowest elevation location in North America. Normally, it is a white salt flat that stretches across the breadth of lower Death Valley. Once in 2005 and now again since August 2023, it has returned to its ancient glory as Lake Manly. With no discernible wind, the shallow lake water reflects anything on its horizon. Having visited Badwater once before, I had no desire to cover my shoes and truck cab with untold amounts of sticky salt material. Instead, I drove another quarter mile along the highway, which stretches toward Shoshone and intersects with Interstate I-15 at Baker, California. When I stopped along the highway at the lower foot of shallow Lake Manly, the view north across the full length of the lake was sublime.

The return trip to Furnace Creek has an altitude gain of exactly 282 feet, meaning that at the junction with Highway 190, you are once again at mean sea level. On that return trip, one can make several side trips. The first opportunity is at Devil's Golf Course, which is not to be confused with the Devil's Cornfield, at the opposite end of Death Valley. Early travelers throughout the Western United States were obsessed with naming any large, solitary rock formation "Church Rock" and almost anything hot and dry "Devils Whatever."

Other than the Devil's Golf Course there are two notable side trips available on the Badwater Road. The first is a cutoff to the right called Natural Bridge Road, as the name implies, the road leads to a hiking trail that in turn leads to Natural Bridge. Some might call it a stone arch, but they would be wrong, Any stone arch that spans even a dry watercourse is called a natural bridge. Good luck climbing up and crossing Natural Bridge. It spans a canyon from wall to wall and is both thirty-five feet thick and thirty-five feet from the canyon floor to the underside of the arch. Although the round trip hike is only one mile, there is no water available and very little shade during the middle of the day. The National Park Service recommends not making the hike after 10 AM during the hot season.

The second side trip is Artist's Drive, which is a loop road through a series of hills and gullies that may spring to life with color, but only on the right day at the right time. Otherwise the hills have a dull green or dull red hue to them. Good luck to you if you arrive on a day when the Artist's Palette comes to life. The road itself is one way only, so once you start, you are committed to looping up, over, around, and through a sinuous ribbon of asphalt to the very end, which is once again at Badwater Road. If you have never taken Artist's Drive, I recommend taking it, just so you can check it off your bucket list. If you take the trip again on your next visit to Death Valley, count yourself as an optimist. I say that because the odds are about one thousand to one that you will see the same dull green and red hills you saw on your last visit.

After returning to my campsite, I closed the slide-outs on my RV, hooked it up to my truck and traveled two hundred yards to my “new” full hookup site. No longer feeling like a 49er lost in time, I prepared for one more night at Furnace Creek Campground in Death Valley. Only this time, I had electric lights and two space heaters to warm my bones. Unlike the lost emigrants of 1849 Death Valley, there was to be no brush lean-to or cave dwelling for me. It was almost 174 years to the day that the original lost families made their way out of Death Valley to civilization, better known as Los Angeles.

The following day, I would travel back over Towne Pass to Panamint Springs Resort, where I would spend two more nights. After that, I would take my own quick trip back to civilization, better known as Los Angeles.

This is Part Three of a Seven Part article. To read Part Four, Click HERE. To return to Part One, click HERE.

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