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

 

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.

Email James McGillis

 

Experience a Blizzard In Death Valley National Park 2023

In California, the Winter of 2023 produced record rain and snowfall, especially in the Central and Southern Sierra Nevada. As that moisture traveled east, even the Panamint Range, in Death Valley National Park received record snowfall. As spring approached, the sky-rivers kept flowing, sometimes warm and sometimes cold.

On February 28, I watched a snowflake or two fall outside my window in Panamint Springs. Toward sundown, the clouds descended to a low level, obscuring any remaining sunlight. That eerie and early darkness kept me inside all night. What will tomorrow bring?

In the morning, the distance-obscuring clouds hung low on the Panamint Range. Around noon, the clouds had lifted enough for me to strike out in search of that elusive cell phone signal. As I descended into Panamint Valley, I encountered a shallow lake, with Highway 190 running like a dry ribbon down the middle of it. Rising through a long series of switchbacks on the far slopes, I could see snow clouds ahead.

Soon, sloppy wet snow obscured my windshield. The normal flow of traffic to and from Death Valley kept the snow from accumulating on the roadway. As I ascended Towne Pass, the snow fields to either side grew thicker, and the temperature dropped. Over the top and slightly downhill on the Death Valley side, I came upon the venerable old stone Emigrant Junction Station. Built in the 1920’s, just beyond the junction of Emigrant Pass and the newer Towne Pass, it has stood the test of time. Abandoned now and silhouetted by snowy peaks behind, the haunting building added to a forlorn tableau.

Almost adjacent to the building was the Junction of Highway 190 and the old Emigrant Pass. There, an open gate beckoned me to take the old road to Wildrose and Skidoo. Both places were old mines, which had played out well before the National Park era. I had driven Emigrant Pass once before, in late spring. At that time, I had traveled up the canyon from the Panamint Valley. On this day, I faced a treacherous and snowy road first created using mule teams in the 1920’s. As snow fell all around, I felt a sense of mystery and drama. Without fanfare, I slushed past the open gate.

After seeing only one SUV, traveling in the opposite direction, I realized that I might be alone for the rest of this journey. Was I foolhardy, foolish, or just allowing my sense of adventure to lead me on? Whatever the reason, or lack thereof, I was on my way to Wildrose and beyond. As I progressed, snow covered more of the road and plastered itself on my windshield.

Undeterred, I soldiered on. Why turn back when you can still proceed forward, I thought. Being a child of the 1960’s, I had brought a four-CD pack, which included Moody Blues entire songbook. Their upbeat songs, like “Sitting at the Wheel” were a perfect accompaniment to my snow blown trip into the snowy unknown. A series of crowning curves on an old mountain road lay ahead of me. Although I had four-wheel drive, I began to think that the tread on my rear tires might be too thin to clear the snow from the grooves.

 

 

 

Experience a Blizzard in Death Valley National Park

As I traveled deeper into the wilderness, I remembered that I did not bring any survival food or shelter greater than a light jacket and a space blanket. Inexplicably, I had left my Zoleo satellite text communicator back in camp. Now I put my faith in driving twenty miles in a blizzard. If I could get over the endless ridge-top curves, I knew that the highway would drop into the warmer canyons, below the snowline. What I did not fully anticipate or appreciate was both the beauty and the stress of making that perilous journey.

Without further drama, I will report that I did make it through a harrowing and sobering experience. Despite a fallen tree, which almost blocked the entire roadway, I was able to skirt that problem, and descend below the snow line for the remainder of my trip. Looking back from the alluvial fan of Wildrose Canyon, I could see the storm still clinging to the slopes of the Panamint Range. To my relief, the safety of the Trona Road lay only a mile or two farther down that gravel road.

Looking back, would I take that drive again? Well, how many people do you know that almost got snowed-in on March 1 in Death Valley National Park? Of course, I would do it again. Next time I will bring more emergency supplies, better tires and my Zoleo communicator, just in case I get stuck.

Thinking back now, I am amazed that a secondary road, which no agency might plow until at least the next day, remained wide open to the public. It was my choice to go into harm’s way, but luck was with me, at least in spirit. That entire day, I did not find that elusive cell phone signal. With one driving decision piled upon another, I had made my way into harm’s way and back again to civilization.

As I headed back to camp, I caught sight of the elusive Phoenix Bird flying low over the Panamint Range, toward Death Valley.

Email James McGillis

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