Death Valley
GALLERY
STORY
Given my recent semi-retirement from SpaceX I’ve been interested in finding cheap ways to explore and sharpen my photography / writing.
Death Valley’s otherworldly landscape has been on my bucket list for years, and February is perfect timing to see the valley without burning alive. Temperatures are a comfortable 40 F - 70 F this time of year, and without a work schedule to constrain my timing it was easy to arrange good camp sites with minimal planning. In stark contrast to Yosemite, Glacier, or Zion, every camp had available sites and most were first-come, with no competition.
My original plan was to spend three days in the park and then meet up with Karen plus a few friends in Las Vegas afterwards. About a week and a half before heading out my household all came down with Norovirus - a nasty illness that wrecks your digestive system. The results are somewhat graphic so I’ll spare the details, but they were all out of commission for 24-48 hours. At least they lost some weight. I managed to dodge the contagion in the week prior, but out of caution moved my trip until after Las Vegas to make double sure I wouldn’t be alone + traveling + sick.
Vegas is sacred (What happens in Vegas…) so I’ll leave that content out of this post. After three days of partying I left the Cosmopolitan parking lot feeling fulfilled but thoroughly hungover. As a bonus the parking attendants on the way in couldn’t figure out what to do with my overlanding rig, so didn’t give me a ticket with an entry date. The parking attendant on the way out didn’t seem to care at all, so I left without paying and started the journey to the valley.
THE TURN
The ride into the park from the east entrance gives you a real appreciation for how empty the wilderness can be. I generally don’t mind being alone - most of my hobbies require it, but crossing into Death Valley at 11:00 PM exposes levels of darkness and silence that unsettled this city-dweller. The road in is mostly straight and featureless but restricted to 35 mph. In the first 30 minutes I figured out why - four sets of jack-rabbits crossed the road in front of me, testing my concentration and then bounding off into the sand.
I stopped the truck and shut everything down to appreciate the night sky. Tidbits of information about constellations flooded my mind, but without an expert to organize them I gave up on trying to make sense of the billions of lights. I still had service so asked ChatGPT what the best stargazing spot is. I learned Death Valley is a “Gold Tier Dark Sky Park,” which is the highest designation offered by the International Dark-Sky Association (IDA). Neat. This also meant that most of the park was equally mesmerizing, so I stayed put for another 20 minutes and took it in.
In hindsight I regret not getting out the camera here for some long-exposure shots, but it was late and I wanted to get settled. I marched forward the last 45 minutes to Texas Springs campground, a first-come-first-serve spot right in the heart of Furnace Creek. Given the darkness I couldn’t make out the surroundings, so nothing beautiful to see other than the sky. Of the 92 camp sites I would say only 20 of them were taken. I accidentally blinded a few sets of campers with my headlights before pulling into my final spot, so took a mental note to bring over a peace offering once I got the fire going. The lot sizes were mixed, but land is in easy supply out here so most could accommodate a 40 foot RV if you were so inclined. All sites had a picnic table and fire pit.
I pulled in, set up my comically small one-man tent, and got a fire going in the pit. As the coals burned I pulled out dinner from the cooler, set out a couple of s’mores to take to my blinded friends, and called Karen to let her know I made it.
“Lady! I got a fire going and I have macaroni and cheese!”
“Good for you honey. Glad you’re having fun!”
Texas Springs camp site
My giddiness quickly subsided thereafter, and things took a turn. I learned the hard way that Norovirus has a two-day incubation period. I must have picked it up from Karen while in Vegas, and it hit me like a truck. I went from smiling in my camp chair to mild nausea to vomiting within thirty minutes, and entered one of the most uncomfortable nights of my life. By morning I was completely void of fluids, shivering, and had shit my pants for the first time in my adult life. The only saving grace of being alone in the desert is that I could shovel sand over everything to dry it out.
The next few hours were pretty rough. I abandoned my pants in a dumpster, shoveled my vom+sand slurry into trash bags to leave-no-trace, and tore down camp. I was on the verge of cutting my losses completely and driving home, but knew this was a short-lived virus and that sheltering in place would be less miserable than driving the eight hours. There are only two hotels in Furnace Creek, so I hobbled into the cheaper one (The Ranch at Death Valley) around 10 am. I must have looked awful - the receptionist immediately called me out:
“Are you OK? Do you want some water?”
“Working on it, and yes please. Do you have a room available?”
“We do, but check-in usually starts no earlier than two. Let me see if anyone was a no-show, then we can give the room without having to turn it over.”
She found a room, I took it without any care for the price, and went straight to bed. That day was a total loss, but by the end I could keep down food and water from the on-site general store. The virus had mostly run its course, so I decided to salvage the trip as best I could.
STILL WORTH IT
With a minimally settled stomach and clear mind I could finally appreciate what the area had to offer. As is typical for hotels inside of parks the rooms were no-frills with cheap materials and inoffensive styling - similar to a three-star airport hotel. Step outside though, and it was a charming experience. An on-property borax mining museum. An open-air western display area, complete with 19th century locomotive. Tennis courts next to the ice cream parlor. Signage noted that the hotel sits 190 feet below sea level, and all of the water features on site were fed from the natural hot springs of Furnace Creek.
There were ample food options, but I was still eating like a bird at this point and took in a few eggs from the cafeteria before heading out to see the park.
Heading south along route 190 the first major site is Zabriskie point. I stopped in the parking lot and pulled out the camera. The view from the point is stunning and right off of the road. It was maybe a quarter mile walk up to the main viewing area. On the way up I realized the wind had picked up to 40 mph gusts, blowing McDonald’s trash from the trunk of unprepared park-goers out into the badlands. The carelessness bothered me, but I didn’t have the energy to chase down the garbage and a nearby park ranger gave them a talking to.
Moments later my own hat blew off, tumbling across the pathway into the wilderness. Thankfully it caught on some brush - I snagged it right at the edge of a steep drop and felt a little guilty for mentally chastising others. I reached the top of the path and took in one of the most breathtaking views in the park.
From Zabriskie I continued south on 190, with the goal of hitting as many drivable features as possible on day one, since I wasn’t feeling well enough to hike or dirt bike. Stop number two was Artist’s Palette, located along Artist’s Drive Scenic Loop, a 9-mile one-way meandering road with splotches of color spewed across the landscape. I figured the color came from mineral and ore deposits, and a local plaque confirmed:
“The vivid colors—ranging from reds, pinks, and yellows to greens, purples, and blues—are the result of volcanic activity and the subsequent oxidation of various minerals in the rock. Iron oxides contribute the warm reds and yellows, manganese adds purples, and chlorite or mica derivatives produce the greens, creating a rainbow-like effect that looks almost painterly, hence the name.”
This was the most underwhelming feature of the day by far. I can get the color to pop in photos by cranking up the saturation, but it was relatively muted in person. The crowd at the parking lot felt similarly - stay long enough and you’d get a “that’s it?” from one of the more honest patrons. I found the drive itself to be more enjoyable than the colored rock, with sweeping views of the badlands and more Mars-like landscape extending in all directions.
Artist’s Palette
Pulling out of Artist’s Scenic Drive I took a left on Badlands Road towards the salt flats. A few miles later I hit the turn-in to Devil’s Golf Course, one of the more unique features within the park. This was the first dirt road I encountered, and there was a line of compact cars at the turn debating whether to head down. The road looked easy to traverse, but did have some sharp stones poised to pop a road tire. I let the truck rip a bit in 4WD and shot up to 70 mph, then slowed to avoid dusting the parking area at the end of the road.
Unlike the sweeping mountains and carved canyons I had seen so far, this area was dead flat - clearly an old dried up lakebed and one of the lower areas in the park. Salty crystal structures filled the landscape for miles. I took a closer look at one and ran my finger across it to taste the salt. I came away with salt and blood, the sharp crystals breaking skin. People picked across the field to take a good photo, with parents yelling at kids to be careful. I’m not sure this exists anywhere else in world - it certainly feels unique, and I decided I had made the right choice to stick around.
A little ways down the road the salt flattens out completely into Badwater Basin, stretching for miles with no features at all. At 282 feet below sea level this is the lowest point in North America, and it draws it’s name from a series of small pools towards the entrance that are literally “bad water” - too salty for human consumption. The morning wind had died down a bit, but with nothing to slow it down the gusts whipped dust into tourist’s eyes. The scene reminded me of burning man - dusty, barren, and dancing with dust devils. I couldn’t imagine visiting this place during the summer, and most people don’t.
I wandered as far as I dared in my queasy state - maybe a mile out into the basin from the parking lot. From there I could see folks so far away they looked like dots on the horizon, and wondered if they had bitten off more than they intended to chew. It was difficult to get bearings on distance here, like wandering the open ocean with land barely in sight.
At this point the sun was starting to get low on the horizon, so I moseyed back towards Furnace Creek. Just past the 190 junction I turned right, wanting to drive the famous “Twenty Mule Team Canyon.” The canyon is out of the way, but the internet gave me advice to save it for golden hour. The internet was right. I turned onto the one-way dirt road and found myself completely alone - just my truck, dirt bike hanging off the back, and an alien landscape to drive through.
Twenty Mule Team Canyon entrance
Out of day one this drive was the most magical, for lack of a better word. The sun barely crept over the tops of the mountains - lightly illuminating a one-lane road slicing through pale, dusty hills. The combination made me feel like a real pioneer, and despite my usual desire to go fast I needed to slow down to take in the view. I didn’t see another soul for the whole drive, and circled back to take the bike off the back and run it again on two wheels.
Sadly I didn’t get any content from the actual ride - in typical fashion I hit the record button on the GoPro one too many times, and got a long video of me putting on my gear instead of running the road. The open-air version of the road was incredible, but just standing on the pegs for a few miles was so taxing on my body that I decided the bike was staying stowed for the rest of the trip. Dirt biking by yourself is dangerous enough - doing it sick and dehydrated in Death Valley seemed like asking for it.
I fastened down the bike, drove the ten miles back to the hotel, and popped into the attached restaurant for dinner. A few nice people wanted to share a drink but I wasn’t feeling particularly social in my state, so kept conversation to basic exchanges of “where are you from?” and “what did you see today?”. The bartender could tell I was struggling and offered to box my carne asada tacos to go. I took the offer and went back to the room, passing out shortly after.
DUNES FOR DAYS
The next morning I had hit my budgetary limit of staying at the Ranch rather than camping, so checked out and headed towards Stovepipe Wells at the west exit to the park. I made a quick stop at a 19th century borax mine entrance and listened to the most awkward exchange between a ranger and tourist I had ever heard. It would have been slightly less weird if the tourist was foreign, but they spoke colloquially and had a “Virginia is for lovers” shirt on:
“What’s this?”
“It’s a Borax mine”
“What’s Borax?”
“It’s a mineral.
“What’s a mine?”
“Do you know anything?”
“Excuse me?”
“This is a Borax mine.”
“Ok thank you".”
I found the NPS employee to be pretty rude here, but it was so bizarre and the energy so bad that I couldn’t decide who was at fault, and felt the need to just back away. The entrance to the mine was just a hole in the hillside framed by four wood posts, so I moved on.
Twenty miles down the road I hit the parking lot for Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes - the tallest dunes in California and easiest to get to from the road. The parking lot here was packed, and I could see several large groups making their way into the sand. Two professional fire spinners parked next to me, their clothing and vibe reminding me of something out of Star Wars. They wandered out on barefoot in front of me as I packed more water.
Feeling a little bit better than the day prior I decided to hike out into the dunes as far as I could. The trek to the peak dune was seven miles round trip according to AllTrails - not bad given the elevation gain was only a few hundred feet. The dunes themselves were as expected - featureless wind-swept sand that gave way underfoot. I found the easiest way to traverse was to walk along the ridges - they held their shape a bit better and limited the up-and-down, even if the route increased distance.
The typical Death Valley mountain landscape surrounded the dunes, bringing some extra intrigue to the hike. I wouldn’t say these are the most impressive sand dunes in the world by height or distance, but the overall effect of the dunes + mountains made for an epic and picturesque view.
The seven miles round trip took more out of me than I care to admit, and highlighted that I was still in recovery. My initial plan was to take an extra day on the end of the trip to traverse a few hundred miles of dirt road on the bike, but I decided to cut it short, pack up, and head home. It was a bit bittersweet, but sometimes you ned to listen to your body.
I’ll sign off by saying that the trip out of the west entrance is beautiful but LONG, and just like the way in you get a real appreciation for how big the wilderness can be. It took two hours to get to the closest services (Trona) and three hours to get back to a major highway. The experience made me want a Starlink - I had no cell service and saw no other humans for about 70% of the trip. Signs placed along the way warned travelers to never abandon their car and try walking on foot. Death Valley indeed.