Death Valley Days & Nights
Traveling to Death Valley National Park in summer: Guess what? It's hot, yes, but worth it
As we emerge from the Covid pandemic, Americans eager to burst loose after a year plus of confinement are heading to America’s national parks in record numbers. I read that some of the most popular parks are practically being overrun, which seemingly defeats the purpose and allure of visiting a national park. But I understand, too. After having been held hostage in our homes for so long, people want to get out. I wanted to get out.
I’ve been to 12 national parks in my lifetime, four of them on an epic 9,000-mile road trip last year which was one grand gesture of defiance during Covid. Each park was wonderful in its own way. Now I was determined to visit another national park but avoid the crowds.
The legendary New York Yankees manager once said the goal of a batter is to “hit ‘em where they ain’t.” Imagining myself clever, I decided to adopt that philosophy to my travel plans. I would go where it was least likely to be many other visitors. With that a priority, what could better than Death Valley National Park in California in summer? It was certain to be brutally hot but, to me, that was actually a plus. Only a madman (or mad woman or mad children) would go to one of the hottest locations on the planet in late June. That was kind of the thrill and challenge. And it wouldn’t be crowded.
I flew to Las Vegas and rented a car. At 8 pm, it was 115 degrees — the air felt warm and cloying. I embraced it. I lowered the windows and kept the A/C turned off as I drove an hour north Pahrump, NV, about halfway to Death Valley. The next morning, I filled up, bought gallons of water and a cheap styrofoam cooler and headed west.
Some deserts are just ugly, mile after mile of rock strewn desolation, harsh, inhospitable. The Iraqi desert was like that. Terrible. Others have a stark elemental beauty that in the gauzy evening light become magical. The Sahara desert, the edges of which I’d visited in Tunisia and Morocco, was like that. Enchanting. At first, Death Valley resembled the former. I counseled myself to be patient.
Crossing into California, I arrived at Death Valley Junction, a ghost town. To me, a ghost town is inherently sad, a testament to shattered dreams. I found Death Valley Junction depressing. I pressed on, crossing into the national park. A posted sign warned of extreme risk due to heat. I turned on the car’s AC. Soon the desolate landscape turned dramatic, even mysterious. Craggy mountains rose on either side of the Valley. The terrain was sculpted into strange, bewitching shapes. Scrubby plants and even trees somehow managed to survive. It was mesmerizing.
I pulled over where a sign indicated Zabriskie Point, a legendary attraction though I wasn‘t sure exactly why. I was about to find out. It turned out to be a rock outcropping with a steep, short footpath to the peak that commands a wide, deep vista of startling beauty and tranquility. It was now much hotter than even an hour earlier. I was the only there except for a man, woman and child I passed as they descending, chattering loud in what sounded like Polish. Once They got into their car and drove away. Then there was no sound — nothing — except the sighing wind rustling in my ears.
About 30 miles later, I arrived in Stovepipe Wells Village where I would be staying. The village consisted of the low slung hotel on one side of the road and a general store and gas station on the other. The heat was now overwhelming.
Later that same afternoon, I drove out to the Mesquite Sand Dunes, a magnificent expanse of undulating dunes that stretched as far as I could see. Think Lawrence of Arabia. The heat had cranked up even further. The car’s outside temperature gauge registered 126 degrees F. The wind whipped up fiercely with the astonishing effect of making it feel even hotter. Sort of like wind chill factor, only the opposite. I discovered that the palms of my hands were especially sensitive to the gusts of heat. It was interesting, yes, but also alarming.
With just a bottle of water, I ventured out onto the dunes but it was an impossible mission. The sun and heat pressed down like a physical force. It quickly became unendurable. I retreated to my room until just before sunset, and returned to my room and stayed there until nearly twilight. Even then it was still mightily hot, 115 degrees, but tolerable. My reward was to be able to observe the spectacular transition from the soft fading light to profound darkness and stillness. It humbling, thrilling and just a little frightening.
The following day, I traveled south to Badwater Basin, the famous lowest elevation in North America, 282 feet below sea level. The route threaded its way between the Amargosa mountain range to the east and Panamint range to the west, both sporting peaks soaring to well over 5,000 feet.
Even though it was still late morning, Badwater Basin baked under a punishing sun. The basin is a vast salt water flat — jagged and hard-packed — that was formed by the runoff from an enormous, deep lake that had existed in Death Valley thousands of years ago before it evaporated. About a half dozen other people were moving about, slowly, carefully, as if stunned by the suffocating heat into torpor. The salt flat and the mountains in the distance seemed almost to merge in the harsh, blinding sunlight. The surface of the ground was crusted with salt and craggy like I imagined the moon was. There were no plants. I was another planet, forbidding and yet compelling.
On my way back to Stovepipe Wells, I spotted a sign in Furnace Creek for a golf course. I turned off. Sure enough, improbably if not impossibly, there was a golf course with startlingly lush green fairways and greens. It made no sense, but here it was although mercifully it was closed.
The next morning I left Death Valley just before dawn, winding my way west high into the Panamint Mountains. At a turnoff at 4,000 feet, I got out to look back as the first sunlight was clearing the Amargosa mountains. The temperature was refreshingly cool. I looked around. The shadowed landscape was eerily beautiful almost like painting in rich and varied hues.
I was all alone, just a speck on the enormous canvas of nature. Impermanent and insignificant. Yet that made me feel an overwhelming gratitude just to be there, to see and sense this moment in this place largely untouched by humans. It made me grateful to be alive.