DEATH VALLEY, California — The name of our destination does not inspire confidence, much less a desire to explore. Yet, I’m excited at the prospect of spending time in the land of extremes.
Death Valley was first used by white people as a not-so-wise shortcut on the path to the 1849 California Gold Rush. Native Americans had already known the Valley, now a National Park, as home for about 9,000 years.
The first humans we meet in Death Valley are spilling off a bright green bus in front of the Amargosa Opera House, an improbable structure in the middle of the scrabbly desert at Death Valley Junction. The humans are a German theatre troupe that drove from New York City, stopping in 25 cities along the way to perform their theatre piece. We are invited to the show tonight at the Opera House. How could we not go?
The lushness of the interior of our Buick Enclave, warm cashmere and cocoa, seems to suit the exterior world of multi-coloured rocks and muted green shrubs.
After checking in at the desert oasis of Furnace Creek Inn, we motor back to
the Amargosa Opera House. It’s dark now and we get an incredible sparkling
light show through the sunroof.
The play is about three young Germans coming to the U.S. Their perspective on America entrances us for two hours as do the whimsical drawings and paintings covering the walls and ceiling of the Opera House.
I discover, the next piercingly bright morning, that the guidebooks are holding back on the story about the alliance between the so-called desert ruffian
Walter E. Scott and Chicago’s multi-millionaire Albert Johnson.
The Park Ranger, dressed in scratchy green pants, lace-up boots and rugged leather jacket, looks at home as he leads us through 1920s-era Death Valley Ranch, more widely known as Scotty’s Castle. He weaves the illustrious, captivating story of Scott and Johnson into the fabric of each luxurious room. An hour slips by like a minute. Why on earth did Johnson build ‘Scotty’ a castle in this forsaken land? Did ‘Scotty’ really have a goldmine? You’ll have to go to Death Valley Ranch to find out!
A quick drive gets us from 914 m (3,000 feet) above to 86 m (282 feet) below sea level at Badwater, so named when a prospector stopped there for two days and couldn’t get his mule to drink the water there. No wonder! When water does appear at this point of lowest elevation in the Western Hemisphere, it is almost pure sodium chloride (table salt). I wouldn’t drink it either.
Under the surface here lies one of the world’s largest underground reservoirs, a legacy of the once 80-mile (129 km) long, 800-feet (244 m) deep Lake Manly. We’re walking on its bed of trampled salt, just another couple of humans trying to grasp the vastness, the dryness and saltiness of the Valley. There is a sign way, way, way up the steep rock face of the Amargosa Range that reads SEA LEVEL.
The Buick Enclave next gets us to Dante’s View, the 15 per cent ascending grade is handled with the same assurance as the dirt roads we’ve been exploring.
The wind at Dante’s View at 1,524 m (5,000 feet) sucks the breath right out of your lungs as you stand gaping in awe. The story is plainly laid out below. The
floor of the valley is sinking continuously and tilting east, plates move below
the earth’s crust causing the jagged Black Mountains, towering over the east
side of the valley, to continue rising, layers squeezing together forming a
perfect vertical cross-section of the earth.
Best place to view the sunset crashing silently across the sky? The terrace of Furnace Creek Inn with a glass of California red in your hand. In the summer, the scorching heat is otherworldly. Land of extremes indeed. The highest temperature ever recorded in the U.S. was reached here in 1913, 57°C (134°F). Tonight, it’s a bit chilly but we swim anyway in pure 32°C (89°F) water that springs eternal from the earth in the Inn’s large pool under the stars.
“Oh, that doesn’t sound like a nice place to go,” my mother had said last week when she heard of our destination. But in fact, Death Valley is unforgettable, like no other place on the planet. A land of extremes, where light plays on living rocks, where you ponder big things, earth’s beginnings, absolute beauty, the largeness of life and, yes, death. And that’s all the more reason to go.
By Lisa Calvi
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Somewhere between Heaven and Hell
Driving the highs and lows that Death Valley has to offer
By Garry Sowerby
DEATH VALLEY, California - Unless you have access to a light aircraft, getting to Death Valley, California involves driving. From Las Vegas, it’s two and a
quarter hours and, as in our case, about five hours from Los Angeles.
The first thing that struck me about our handsome, well-appointed ll-wheel-drive Buick Enclave is the quiet. I could barely hear the starter when I fired it up and had to check the tachometer to see if it was running.
Five hours of quiet is a fitting prelude for what we have in store for Death Valley is a place where, if you listen carefully, you just might hear your own heartbeat. About twice the size of the state of Delaware, the lowest place in the Western Hemisphere is the quintessential place to unwind.
So swap your Blackberry, cell phone and e-mail thirst for a camera, hiking boots and a reliable set of wheels to get you around the stark desolation of one of the most amazing spots on the planet.
Escaping the beck and call of the outside world is a proper way to experience this spectacular landscape. And even though Death Valley National Park is the driest, hottest place in North America, two of the busiest months for visitors are smack dab in the middle of the summer, July and August.
The world obviously loves superlatives.
It’s almost dark when we descend into the valley and check into the Furnace Creek Inn & Ranch Resort at the foot of the Funeral Mountains. Our room is at the Inn. This exceptional blend of retro and luxury that opened in 1927 is the perfect place from which to explore the virtually untouched and extraordinarily distinct region.
From the vantage point of our room I stare into dark, still silence. Between the hushed interior of the Buick Enclave and the tranquility of the valley beyond, it has indeed been a quiet day. Sleep comes easily.
Morning brings the view. The area of the valley beyond the terrace of our room is all below sea level and musters thoughts of the lost city of Atlantis. The rising sun renders the walls of the distant Panamint Mountain Range pink, then dusty rose as the sun launches another assault on Death Valley. I can’t wait
to get down there.
Over breakfast we check our guidebook for options… Badwater, Dante’s View, Devil’s Cornfield, Devil’s Golf Course, Scotty’s Castle. Sounds like we’re holed up somewhere between Heaven and Hell. If we want something more worldly, there is
golf at the lowest golf course in the world, horseback riding at the ranch,
lounging around the spring-fed swimming pool at the Furnace Creek Inn or even
order up a massage.
We go for the road and soon find ourselves back in the opulence of the Buick
Enclave maneuvering through Artist’s Drive, a paved 14-kilometre loop winding
through technicolour washes and passes that offer stunning views of the salt
flats below.
Lisa drives to Badwater, the lowest place in the valley, while I sit in the back and stare up through the second-row skylight. I consider the Jayhawkers, a group of prospecting families who entered the long narrow valley looking for a shortcut to the California goldfields on Christmas Day, 1849.
The group couldn’t find a route from the valley and holed up near Furnace Creek while two of the ablest bodied went looking for a way out. When they returned three weeks later only a few Jayhawkers remained. As they were led out of their desolation, one of the surviving women apparently looked back one last time and said “Goodbye, Death Valley”. The name stuck.
In the afternoon the Enclave soaks up the dusty trail through Twenty-Mule Team
Canyon named after the tandem wagons the Harmony Borax Company used to haul its booty to the railhead in Mojave 125 years ago. I reflect on the few hours this would take in our state-of-the-art Enclave compared to the 10-day trek those intrepid mule drivers encountered.
But alas, after two and a half days of fun and fascination, it’s time to go. We decide to return to Los Angeles via the northern route through Stovepipe Wells and up the long grade over the Panamint Range.
Over the next 13 kilometres, we climb from sea level to almost 2,000 metres. I watch the valley in the rearview mirror and as we peak the summit and the scene
disappears, I sadly whisper, “Goodbye, Death Valley.”
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For more information on Death Valley National Park, please visit: www.nps.gov/deva/