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.

Email James McGillis

 

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

 

The Impending Demise of the Colorado River

As most people in the Western United States know, we are experiencing an extended drought. The aridness in the West has resulted in a severely diminished flow of water along the Colorado River. In fact, the river no longer discharges into the Sea of Cortez in Mexico. From that now dormant coastal estuary, most wildlife disappeared long ago. In 2022, with the advent of a limited pilot-program, a tiny amount of Colorado River water will flow again to the sea.

That is a hopeful sign during an otherwise bleak hydrological environment in the West. Ironically, humankind’s misplaced desire to control that once mighty river could result in a destructive wave traveling from Glen Canyon Dam all the way to the Sea of Cortez. Stay with me to the end of this article to learn how such an apocalyptic fate for the iconic river is possible.

Why is the Colorado River failing? Historical and updated river-flow data allows us to predict its demise. There is no longer an “if.” Now it is all about “when.” As less rain falls and the snowpack diminishes in the Upper Colorado River Basin, another phenomenon takes hold. For some it consists of blind ignorance. For many, it is the irrational human need to utilize and be wasteful of water. Either scenario raises demand for water, as if it emanates from an unlimited source.

One tankless water heater manufacturer promotes “endless hot water, which is now available” with their system. A nearby neighbor in Southern California defies current “one-day-each-week” outdoor watering limits. He runs his lawn sprinklers daily, often before sunrise to avoid detection, then follows up by hand-watering his entire front yard. Each day, almost ten gallons of potable water flows down the gutter past our house. Our front lawn is dead. His lawn is lush, green, and currently going to seed. In Southern California and now throughout the Southwest, a green lawn is the sure sign of a scofflaw. The attitude of many people throughout the Southwest, is one of entitlement. For them, cheating on their water budget or ignoring their legal limits is a way of life.

In the Upper Colorado River Basin, the drought now brings Lake Powell to its lowest elevation since initial filling in the 1960s. How low is it? In April 2022, the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation (USBR), which operates the major dams throughout the Colorado River system made a surprise announcement. From Flaming Gorge Reservoir, Wyoming’s largest, they released 500,000-acre-feet of water. From there, the water flowed down the Green River, and then into the Colorado River. The plan was to replenish and stabilize the water level in Lake Powell.

The USBR has touted this plan as a prudent way to keep power flowing from the hydroelectric turbines at Glen Canyon Dam, at least through 2023. Ironically, the original public proposal for the Glen Canyon Dam, promoted it as a “flood control dam,” not as a lynchpin in the electrical grid. Because the reservoir was beautiful and grand when at least half full, Lake Powell also became an indispensable recreational resource. Few people realized that the reservoir rested on soft and porous sandstone. In addition to relentless evaporation, the reservoir “banks” about fifteen percent of its water volume each year.

For almost fifty years, the coal-fired Navajo Generating Station (NGS) operated near the Glen Canyon Dam in Page, Arizona. Utilizing coal mined at Black Mesa, Arizona, its furnaces polluted the air, and its pumps withdrew vast quantities of water from Lake Powell. While wasting over ten percent of its power conveying its own cooling water and coal supply, NGS also broke records for sulfur dioxide and nitrogen oxide pollution. Although there was onsite wastewater recycling, losses due to both steam turbine generation and cooling tower evaporation made the NGS the largest single user of water in the Upper Colorado River Basin.

The main purpose of the NGS was to annually pump 50,000 acre-feet of “excess” Colorado River water over four mountain ranges to both Phoenix and Tucson, Arizona. Along the way, Arizona diverted vast amounts of water into shallow desert aquifers near the Palo Verde Nuclear Power Plant. The idea was to later mine that water from the desert and supply it to Phoenix. Currently, a large aqueduct is under construction there. Since the scheme has no precedent, no one knows if or for how long this desert water mining will work.

Despite the excessive air, water and ground pollution associated with the NGS, for decades it was like the monster that would not die. Not until the vast over development of natural gas resources in the Four Corners Region did the NGS's economic costs outweigh its job-related or power production benefits. In 2019, twenty years into a regional drought of millennial proportions, the NGS finally shutdown. If we are looking for a culprit in the current desiccated condition of Lake Powell, the NGS would be a prime target for investigation. In fact, the same flawed arguments that allowed the construction of Glen Canyon Dam go hand in hand with the commissioning of the NGS in the mid-1970s.

In 2022, all of us who now rely on the Colorado River have both an environmental and an economic bill to pay. How long can we collectively afford to subsidize lush green golf courses in Page, Arizona, alfalfa fields in the Imperial County, California, cotton growing in Pima County, Arizona, or my neighbor’s green lawn? More importantly, do humans have the capacity to create and implement a plan that will save the Colorado River system? Taking shorter showers, eliminating public fountains and decorative turf will not be enough to turn that tide.

What we need now is a clear-eyed look at the entire Colorado Riverway, from the high mountains to the low desert and everywhere in between. Affected states still adhere to the outdated Colorado River Compact of 1922. A century ago, all the states touching the Colorado River watershed agreed to over allocate its resources for generations to come. Politics played its role, with water rights assigned according to historical usage and population density. As a result, the compact granted the irrigation district in Imperial County, California (population 180,000), the largest single claim on Colorado River water. Why? Because long before huge dams and hydroelectric power allowed for the long-distance pumping of river water, inventive farmers directly tapped the river. In fact, a Colorado River dike which broke early in the 20th century resulted in the forming of the Salton Sea. Near Blythe, California resourceful farming families have succeeded in transforming the desert into cropland.

The Colorado River Compact expires in 2026. Often acrimonious discussions regarding its replacement are already underway. The participants include the Upper Basin (Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Wyoming), the Lower Basin (Arizona, California, and Nevada), Mexico and several tribal nations. According to a 2019 federal Drought Contingency Plan (DCP), as Lake Mead falls below 1,045’ elevation, the USBR must now declare a “Stage 2b Water Shortage Emergency”. On August 8, 2022, the reservoir stood at 1,229’ elevation, only four feet above a DCP Stage 3 declaration.

As a temporary measure, Congress recently approved $4 billion for emergency drought mitigation within the Colorado River Basin. Much of that money will go to pay Indian tribes and alfalfa growers in the Imperial Valley not to plant crops. The various USBR shortage decrees have flown by so quickly, it is hard for even the experts to keep track of water allocations. As of August 16, 2022, a Department of Interior declaration cut 2023 water allocations to Arizona by 21%, with smaller cuts to Nevada and Mexico. Senior water rights in California assured that there would be no cuts to its water deliveries in 2023.

In a surprise move, the Department of the Interior also allowed the acrimonious and unfruitful negotiations among the signatories to the “Law of the River” to proceed. It is an election year, and no one wanted to restrict anyone’s water rights further than already agreed upon. While Nero fiddled, Rome burned. While recalcitrant negotiators wrangle over cutting the allocations of others, but increasing their own, the Colorado River is not participating in the discussions.

Protracted negotiations or litigation will extend any true solution until it is too late to save hydroelectric production at both Glen Canyon and Hoover Dams. Achieving the “dead pool” elevation of 3,370’ at Lake Powell and 895’ at Lake Mead, when water can no longer pass through either dam, becomes more likely over time. Prior to dead pool, there will be too little water in the reservoirs to send down the penstocks and spin the electrical turbines. The USBR interim plan to “balance the two pools” will delay the inevitable, but not change the outcome.

In 2022 and 2023, a physical danger lurks in the “minimum power pool,” coming soon to Lake Powell. With typical 20th century hubris, the designers of Glen Canyon Dam did not anticipate a future time when its hydroelectric plant would go offline. As of September 6, 2022, Lake Powell was at an elevation of 3,523’, or almost seventy-eight feet lower than two years prior. The lake’s elevation rests just thirty-three feet above minimum power pool. At minimum power pool, there will not be sufficient "head" for gravity to send water down the penstocks and spin the turbines.

Unless weather patterns and water usage change drastically, that critical level will come sometime in 2023. Below minimum power pool, the reservoir will still have millions of acre-feet of sequestered water. What it will lack is a safe method of releasing any of that water through the dam. To fully grasp this eventuality, picture the Grand Canyon becoming a permanent dry wash. Still, a potentially unsafe method of water release from Glen Canyon Dam does exist. It involves what are known as “diversion tunnels” or the “outlet works.”

To facilitate construction of the dam in the 1950s, engineers first bored two enormous tunnels through the canyon walls. They then constructed a coffer dam, which temporarily diverted river water through the new diversion tunnels. The resulting outlet works could divert and convey even a large spring flood safely downstream. Luckily, no major floods occurred until after the 1964 commissioning of Glen Canyon Dam. Upon completion, crews dismantled the coffer dam, and closed the enormous gates at the head of the diversion tunnels.

All went well until the spring of 1983. In anticipation of summer electrical generation needs, the USBR kept Lake Powell at an elevated level. As spring wore on, there were huge snowstorms in the Upper Basin watershed, followed by rainstorms and rapid snow melt. Quickly, water in Lake Powell reached the top of the dam. Only hastily constructed plywood and lumber bulwarks atop the dam kept it from a disastrous overtopping. Unable to divert sufficient water through the hydroelectric plant, the operators “opened the floodgates,” better known as the outlet works.

For weeks, enormous outflows subjected the unlined sandstone tunnels to unanticipated stress. As a result, the outflow ejected huge chunks of raw sandstone downstream of the dam. Contemporary reports by persons not authorized to speak publicly told of the dam humming or thrumming, as if in major distress. Soon thereafter, the water level of Lake Powell dropped far enough to allow closure of the outlet works and resumption of water release solely through the hydroelectric station. Chastened, the dam’s operators never again let the lake rise even close to capacity prior to the end of spring runoff. Ironically, this conservative approach to reservoir management meant that Lake Powell would never again approach “full pool.”

The 2022 emergency release of water from Flaming Gorge Reservoir has bought the USBR one more year before the prospect of a minimum power pool at Lake Powell. In their version of Two Card Monte, dam operators are accepting 500,000 acre-feet of water from Flaming Gorge and reducing deliveries downstream to Lake Mead by a similar amount. As Oz famously said in the Wizard of Oz, “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.” Likewise, should we pay no attention to the huge amount of water retained in Lake Powell?

If you were to write a disaster movie script, you would include a scene in which veteran Glen Canyon Dam workers face the prospect of reopening the compromised outlet works. In releasing any remaining water from Lake Powell to Lake Mead, they fear the cracking and ultimate destruction of Glen Canyon Dam. In the next scene, they would open the creaking gates of the outlet works. For a time, everything would work correctly. Then, they would hear a low harmonic sound emanating from the dam. Soon, the humming would become a roar. Too late to save themselves, the workers would run for the exits, only to have the dam disintegrate around them.

The result would be the immediate draining of the second largest reservoir in America. Almost immediately, the biggest flood on the Colorado River since the creation of the Grand Canyon would ensue. At Lake Mead, downstream, the wave would surge to a height greater than any tsunami in history. As the surge created by the wave would impinge on Hoover Dam, that too would disintegrate. Farther downstream, the remaining dams would fall one after another. Within hours, the once sequestered contents of the Colorado River would rush into the Sea of Cortez, creating a saltwater tsunami.

Such a catastrophe cannot happen, you say. In 1983, the dam almost failed. There is nothing to say that our next attempt to save the Colorado River will not result in its untimely demise. Thousands of years hence, descendants of survivors in the Southwest might tell tales of a Great Flood, from which their ancestors survived. Other than not including an ark full of animals, that story has a familiar ring.

Email James McGillis