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.

 

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.

Email James McGillis

 

The Long Trip To Panamint Springs - December 2023

On December 4, 2023, I began my annual RV trip, from Casa Carrie in Simi Valley, California to Panamint Springs, California. My destination was Panamint Springs Resort, a private one hundred acre enclave entirely within the borders of Death Valley National Park. Throughout the Mojave Desert, the floods of July 2022 and August 2023 had left roads, sewers, and cell phone coverage in ruins. Roads became undercut and eroded away. Sewers and campground septic systems became clogged with debris. Mobile phone and data connectivity disappeared throughout the national park, including the Furnace Creek and Stovepipe Wells settlements.

Under what we once called normal conditions, I would have traveled through Garlock and then the Trona Road to Panamint Springs. That route offers great views of the Searles Valley and the Panamint Valley farther along the way. Although there are several elevation changes and one steep mountain pass transitioning to what becomes the Panamint Valley Road, that route would allow me to avoid the endless switchbacks on Highway 190. To my disappointment, word on the internet indicated that the Panamint Valley Road had washed out during the storms in August of 2023. That is the nature of almost any news regarding Death Valley. Do not believe everything that you read or hear. It may be wrong or outdated to say the least.

With the Olancha cutoff remaining closed to through traffic my only option was to remain on U.S. Highway 395 North, almost to Lone Pine. The Olancha cutoff, which is the actual western terminous of Highway 190, had received severe damage and remained washed out in multiple locations. With both the TronaRoad and the Olancha cutoff closed by flooding, I had to proceed to Lone Pine before turning east to my expected camp at Panamint Springs Resort. When I passed the Olancha Cutoff, I thought I saw signs indicating that it was open.

After taking and laborious u-turn in my fifth wheel rig, I entered the Olancha Cutoff. Immediately, I found barricades and "Closed" signs in the road. That issue prompted another sketchy u-turn and a return to Highway 395. From there, I proceeded directly north to Lone Pine. All of this backtracking caused me to travel past my intended junction and seek diesel fuel in Lone Pine. With the early December Sun about to set behind the high peaks of the Sierra Nevada, I was getting closer to losing my daylight. With closed roads, both perceived and real, it took nearly an hour to end my dithering and get back on the right road. The turn-off from Highway 395, south of Lone Pine is on to Highway 136, through Keeler and on to Highway 190, which leads to Panamint Springs.

According to National Park sources, Highway 190 had opened to traffic on October 15, 2023. That was almost two months after the remnants of Hurricane Hilary devastated Death Valley and much of the surrounding area. The initial hour-long highway construction delays were now down to thirty-minutes, or so they said. After passing Father Crowley Point, I came upon a lonely flagger, standing by the road with a pole-mounted stop sign. He reminded me of a shepherd, leaning on his crook as his flock fed nearby. As he paced and shuffled in the cold of a late afternoon breeze, I sat in the heated comfort of my truck. It was not freezing outside, but standing there day after day, with a stop sign in his gloved hands had to be wearing on his psyche and his soul.

After about five minutes, I shut off the engine in my truck. After ten minutes, my smart watch told me to get off my duff and take a walk. After exiting the cab, I realized that the flagger, dressed in full weather gear was cold and bored. Gamely, I called out to him in greeting. He told me, “Seven Minutes” to the next go-around of the pilot car. For five minutes, we talked from a shouting-distance. During our exchange, the silence of the landscape easily carried our voices over the distance between us. I learned about washouts and the 200-foot cliff that crews were filling with rocks, from the bottom-up, to restore both lanes of travel. Soon, the pilot car arrived from downhill, escorting a vehicle or two. The driver made a u-turn and whisked me on my way. Soon, we approached the main construction zone.

Even near 5 PM, the construction crews were hard at work, pouring rip-rap down the washed out embankment. It was the Myth of Physalis in reverse. Instead of endlessly rolling a boulder up hill, only to have it crash back down to the bottom, the construction crews were rolling untold numbers of boulders down into a canyon, hoping to rebuild it from the bottom up. Personally, I would have suggested a deeper cut into the uphill edge of the road, not pouring boulders into the abyss below. Nothing lasts forever in the desert and that ongoing repair to Highway 190 represented that potential to me.

After traversing the active construction zone, the pilot car pulled over and waved me on. Before dark, I rolled into the venerable Panamint Springs Resort. Most resorts have swimming pools. Comprised of 100 acres, this resort features tent, motel, cabin and RV accommodations. In addition, it has a dirt airstrip, a general store, fuel station and a full service restaurant and bar. All of this makes up for the lack of a swimming pool. The antecedent to this resort had started off as a rustic motel the 1920s. At that time, it featured the only lodging between Lone Pine and Stovepipe Wells.

A century later, it still holds that honor. There is no cell phone coverage, but they do advertise “full hookups” for RVs. Not so much today. The floods of August had clogged the septic and sewer system, creating a “no dump” order for the RV sites. The many RVs that had arrived for the Thanksgiving holiday faced a major disappointment in their accommodations. Luckily, my black and gray tanks were empty, providing plenty of effluent storage for my single night there. According to the National Park Service, there was an operational sewer dump at Furnace Creek Campground, which was my next destination down the road. More on that in my next installment.

Once ensconced in Site Number Four, I took note that I was the only RV camper in the entire resort. No tent spaces were occupied either. Only one “luxury cabin” had visitors spending the night. No noisy partygoers or off-road vehicle crazies were anywhere within one hundred miles of my quiet site. Years ago, I had asked the clerk at the general store, “What is the best time to visit Panamint Springs and avoid the crowds?” “Between Thanksgiving and Christmas,” he said. “No one is here.” And so, I visit Panamint Springs Resort every year at this time. Never have I been disappointed by the solitude and sanctity of the place. At this time of year, it becomes my spiritual home.

Every domicile built since the time of the ancient Romans deserves a sewer. A good sewer system takes that which we do not like farther downstream than our nostrils can discern. Not so at Panamint Springs. The once reliable sewer and drain field were clogged with August flood sediment and errant Russian Olive tree roots. There are only one or two maintenance people at the resort. Since I was planning to return to Panamint Springs after a couple of nights in Furnace Creek. I hoped that they were capable of fixing this problem. Using a backhoe, the two men had dug an enormous hole at the lower end of the RV sites. Later, I discovered that good luck and skill carried them through. By the time I returned three days later, they had found the problem and created a permanent repair to the sewer pipes.

After one night of "water and power only" camping, my next destination featured dry camping at Furnace Creek Campground in the heart of Death Valley.

This is Part One of a Seven Part article. To read Part Two, 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