Three wheels on my wagon (and other desert adventures)
America's National Parks, Death Valley California 2004
Writer and historian Wallace Stegner described the National Parks as "the best idea we ever had. Absolutely American, absolutely democratic, they reflect us at our best…". We are visiting as many of these magnificent natural monuments from our base in LA as possible and would have to agree.
Death Valley National Park lies four hours northeast of Los Angeles near the Nevada border in the far reaches of the Mojave Desert, and got its English moniker in 1849 from California Gold Rush prospectors who mined gold and silver there. Fortunately, its reputation is so fearsome that there are comparatively few visitor deaths here each year but almost everyone I know who has done any exploring, invariably has a tale to tell.
The facts alone are intimidating enough. A vast 3000 square mile climatic phenomenon, Death Valley has North America’s lowest rainfall and its lowest point (Badwater Basin is 282 feet below Sea level) and recently saw the world’s hottest ever recorded temperature (134 degrees). To make things even more interesting, any calls for help have to be made the old-fashioned way, as mobile phone signals are mostly nonexistent outside your hotel or campground.
Few drives are more awe-inspiring than the last hour or so of the road trip from LA, as you wind through the Panamint mountains to Emigrant Peak. Cresting what will more than likely be a snowcapped ridge (unless you are crazy enough to be visiting in the summer months, as some sun starved Northern European tourists do), you then begin an ear popping twenty-minute descent to the valley floor, which is some 6,000 feet below, at sea level.
Like most SUVs here our vehicle has two rather than four-wheel drive, so it looks the part but is woefully lacking off road. On our first morning, after an exhausting hike into Ubehebe- a volcanic crater (the 1 and a half mile trip down the trail is easy, but climbing back up to the top in 90 degree heat is quite another matter), we ignored the signs recommending ‘four wheel drive’ and set off undaunted on a 50 mile off road excursion eager to visit ‘The Racetrack’, a dry lakebed where rocks mysteriously move of their own accord, leaving trails across the white mud surface.
Some twenty miles of washboard and loose rocks later we were marooned in the middle of the narrow track with a destroyed rear tyre and what looked like broken rear suspension. The surface of the road was so uneven and loose with rocks that there was no possible way of jacking up the car to replace the wheel, which was buried up to the axle at a crazy angle. Predictably there was no cell phone signal, but we had plenty of water to drink so I wasn’t overly concerned. Surely it was just a matter of time before another curious carload passed by. An hour or so later we hadn’t seen a soul and I was beginning to think we might be there for the night when three trail bikers roared into view. Assuring us that the suspension on the truck was fine they set about finding a flat rock large enough to form a level platform for the jack and in less than thirty minutes had helped us fit the skinny space saver spare tyre. Eyeing this flimsy looking wheel with some dread we gingerly nursed it back to Stovepipe Wells where we are staying, after first hiking the enormous Sahara-like sand dunes close by at sunset. There are a few things I’ll never forget about this day but hearing the insects and animals’ noises suddenly start up as darkness fell on our walk back from the dunes, like someone had just flipped a switch, was probably the most extraordinary.
Despite the heat (it was still nearly 80 degrees at dinnertime), after a day such as this we needed something substantial to quiet the jitters in our stomachs and our rustic roadhouse hotel delivered with a soup to end all soups. The canopy of stars after our meal was astonishing and I could happily have grabbed a blanket and curled up for the night on a verandah deckchair.
Chunky Chorizo, Chicken and Vegetable Soup: Serves Six
4 rashes of smoky bacon, cut into 1/2″ pieces
2 onions, cut into 1/2″ dices
1 carrot, cut into 1/2″ dices
1 celery stalk, cut into 1/2″ dices
6 oz Spanish chorizo, cut into 1/2″ dices
4 boneless skinless chicken thighs; cut into 1″ dice
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 can diced tomatoes
3 cups chicken stock
1 cup Grattoni pasta
1 cup frozen green peas
1 large zucchini, 1/2″ dice
1 can of cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
1/2 pkt Baby spinach
1 tbsp basil, finely chopped
In a large heavy based saucepan, heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil, add the bacon, cook until brown. Add the onion, carrot and celery; cook until the vegetables are starting to soften. Add the chorizo, chicken and the garlic; cook until the chicken is opaque, stirring frequently. Add the tomatoes and the stock, bring to the boil; then reduce the heat to medium, cover and cook for 10 minutes. Add the pasta and the zucchini, cook for 10-12 minutes or until the pasta is al dente with the cover on. Add the peas and the beans to warm through, then remove from the heat, add the spinach and the basil, season with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Serve with crusty bread or garlic toast.
Tyre replaced this morning and bravado renewed, we have set off on a nine hour detour back home to LA. Starting at the heart of the valley’s badlands at Zabriskie Point, I was only sorry we didn’t have the album of the eponymous Antonioni film soundtrack on CD, with its Grateful Dead and Pink Floyd psychedelia to listen to as we drove through it, but we stopped further south to hike through The Artist’s Palette, an unearthly canyon of oxidized pastel rocks and that was compensation enough.
Even more surreal were the white fields of salt harvested for Borax (the valley’s ‘White gold’), which had been churned into a massive crystalline ‘ploughed field’ at The Devil’s Golf Course and the shimmering geometric shapes on the 200 square mile salt flats at Badwater Basin.
Hard by the Nevada border, an arrow straight strip of blacktop takes us to the one horse town of Shoshone, where we enjoy a late lunch in the diner at the Crowbar Saloon.
Ahead of us lies the dark desert highway home.
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I can only imagine the impression such a landscape must make, but to see the extraordinary majesty of a clear night sky in such a place can never be surpassed IMO.
Great to see Marco namechecking the Grateful Dead and Pink Floyd, two of the greatest bands in the history of rock music. Another great article even if I know, and Marco knows I know, that he really doesn't much like the Dead!!