From Panamint Springs To Furnace Creek - December 2023
Around noon on December 5, 2023, I departed Panamint Springs, heading again on Highway 190
toward Stovepipe Wells and Furnace Creek. Along that highway, Towne
Pass is a test for any towing rig. Although the elevation change is
only about 1,500 feet, it all happens in just a few short miles. For
the unaware, ambient desert temperatures can make for engine
overheating and breakdowns. Each time I try it, I wonder if the trip up
the pass is more difficult and daunting than the trip down the other
side and into Stovepipe Wells in Death Valley proper.
Once
down on the flats of Death Valley, the somewhat desolate settlement of
Stovepipe Wells takes only about two minutes to travel through. With
its dry alkali surroundings, I often wonder what the attraction is for
so many campers, lodge dwellers and other visitors. Although there is a
general store and a gas station, they do not provide diesel fuel at
that location. Surprisingly, there is an air field at Stovepipe Wells,
although there is no fuel or any other aviation services available
there. Although the Stovepipe Wells and Furnace Creek air fields can be
used by rescue and reconnaissance helicopters, there are limiting
factors. In the extreme heat of summer, the "density altitude" may be
too high for takeoff or landing. In essence, the
warm air rising negates any lift induced by the helicopter blades to.
From the air field, it is a half mile walk through Death Valley heat to
reach the general store and the Lodge. For me that day, there was no
reason to stop in Stovepipe Wells.
Farther
along, the Mesquite Flats Sand Dunes appear to the left of the highway.
Once again, during the hot weather months it is a formidable hike from
the parking lot to the actual dunes. Next up is Devils Cornfield,
visible briefly on each side of the highway. Although there are no
cornstalks there, hardy evergreen Arrowweed plant gives the area its
distinctive appearance. Passing through on the highway, frequent dust
devils makes it a windy and somewhat treacherous place to stop.
Next on our rolling map is the junction of Highway 190 and North Highway,
also known as Scotty's Castle Road. During my visit, Scotty’s Castle
Road, Daylight Pass to Beatty and all points off Highway 190 remained
closed to travel. Signage indicated that the ban applied all vehicles,
including motorcycles, bicycles and unicycles. Even hiking was
prohibited. If you ignored those rules and became stranded or broke
down, there was no one out there in 
the vastness of Death Valley to find or save you.
In dozens of places between Panamint Springs and Furnace Creek, I spotted fresh road repairs. I rumbled over one or two washout repairs
and many patches along the edge of the highway. The casual observer
would think that these were normal repairs, but their simplicity denies
the profound damage to every form of infrastructure within Death Valley
National Park. The torrential remnants of Hurricane Hilary in the
summer of 2023 came on the heals of huge thunder storms during the
summer of 2022. Some remote desert tracks may take years to repair, if
ever.
In the history of the area, many storms have permanently cut off mining and even camping opportunities in the far out-lands. It almost seemed as if the park wanted to go back in time to the 
age
before vehicular travel, internet connectivity and cell phones. Upon
my arrival in Furnace Creek, there was no cellular signal at all. Only
the Visitors Center had Wi-Fi, which took some practice to use
effectively. Two evenings in a row I sat in a deserted courtyard behind
the Visitors Center, hoping that Wi-Fi calling on my Samsung Galaxy
phone would work. Luckily, the National Park Service had invested in
satellite connectivity, and I was able to transport my voice to Simi
Valley during my telephone calls home.
While I sat on the patio, I could see inside the Command Center that was
set up to coordinate emergency response and infrastructure repair
throughout Death Valley National Park. The center was staffed
twenty-four hours per day, 
coordinating
everything from road repairs to fire, police and all other forms of
recovery. Inside workers sat at computer monitors and used white boards
to chart various activities. When some people complain that our federal
government is incapable of doing anything positive for our country,
they should come out to Death Valley. There they could peer through the
windows into an emergency center recreating the infrastructure of a
vast and unforgiving national park. They might just change their minds
and appreciate what these people are doing for us all. After my initial
wifi call home, I headed back to my dry campsite.
When camping off-grid, my fifth wheel has 200-watts of solar panels on the roof and two six-volt deep-cycle batteries to power its vital systems. As soon 
as I pulled into my dry campsite
at Furnace Creek Campground, the sun dipped behind some cottonwood
trees, thus cutting my access to free electrical energy. Even running
the engine on my truck while setting up camp did little to decrease the
electrical drain on my house batteries. By the time I was indoors and
preparing for 50-degree outside temperatures overnight, my battery
monitor indicated about 12.5 volts remaining. Anything less than 11.8
volts would send my hard-wired carbon monoxide alert monitor into an
endless alarm mode. The only cure for that eventuality would be to hook
up my truck, run its engine and use its alternator to recharge the
batteries enough to shut off the alarm.
Anticipating such situations can produce anxiety. As a result, I
disconnected, unplugged, or did not use anything that I perceived could
further drain my 
limited
electrical reserves. In other words, I sat in the dark with no heat.
After an hour or two, I felt like one of the original 1849 emigrants,
who were stranded for a year in Death Valley. My only salvation was
battery operated lights, of which I had a few. The scene made me think
about Abraham Lincoln ruining his eyes reading books by the fireplace.
Until you experience the lack of adequate electrical power, you do not
remember what it was like to live in a time before nightlights and
Ring doorbells.
Before bedtime, I dressed up from head to toe. I wore socks,
sweatpants, long-sleeved layers and piled on as many blankets as I had.
All of that extra weight kept me cemented in place for most of the
night. With only one cold bathroom break, I was mostly warm, even if
weighed down by so many covers. At exactly 7:52 AM, I awoke to an
incessant alarm noise. I sprang out of bed, believing that I knew
exactly what it was. My house battery power had dipped too low, and the carbon monoxide alarm in my rig was displaying its power as the 
batteries faded below 11.8 volts. In my panic, exactly where the noise was coming from, I could not tell.
Slowly, I realized that the incessant sound emanated from outside my coach. In the 50-degree morning air,
I thrust open the door and used the parallax sensors attached to
either side of my head. My ears told me that the alarm sound was coming
from some sort of vehicle parked across a dirt field, behind some
scrubby trees. After realizing that the sounds were beyond my control, I
went back to bed, shaken but not stirred. Later, I discovered that it
was an unattended SUV that had spontaneously gone into panic mode to
awaken me.
This is Part Two of a Seven Part article. To read Part Three, Click HERE. To return to Part One, click HERE.
