DEATH VALLEY HIKES AND MEMOIRS
OCTOBER, 1990
INTRODUCTION
In 1988, my friend and hiking partner, Bob,
undertook a trek from Death Valley to Mt. Whitney. Designed
not to follow any established trails, his route was to take
him north from Badwater to Cottonwood Canyon, above
Stovepipe Wells, where he would head west over a couple of
desert mountain ranges, coming out in the Owens Valley,
below the trail to Mt. Whitney. This trip took some careful
planning, especially where water is concerned, as there
isn't much to be had out here. Bob and I spent nearly a
week laying out water cache's at intervals that would match
his predicted needs. Some places were near enough to dirt
roads in remote areas that we were able to carry the water
a short distance, bury it, and mark it on a map. Other
places required our hiking a great distance to place the
water. It was quite an undertaking. Unfortunately, due to
an unanticipated October heat wave that year, we ran into
some road closures that prevented us from laying out some
final cache's and reaching Bob's starting point. Rethinking
his itinerary, we decided we had time to tackle the Mt.
Whitney portion of the hike, so we headed toward the
Sierra's. On our first day of this part of the hike, we
were confronted with an early season snowstorm that blocked
our progress. Out of time to complete the hike and feeling
defeated, we retreated to Saline Valley and sat in the hot
springs there for few days. In 1990, Bob had time to try
this hike again. Water still an issue, we re-visited our
cache' sites from two years earlier. Below are notes I made
on the first segment of this trip. Yes, Bob did eventually
finish his hike. Although, because of time constraints, he
was forced to break it into smaller, more manageable
segments.
Monday, 29 October, 1990 7:25 p.m.
This evening, around 6 p.m., I arrived home from Death
Valley. Somewhere in Death Valley my friend Bob is settled
in for the evening. He is hiking a stretch of Death Valley
between Furnace Creek and Stovepipe Wells. I hope he's
alright. This morning we woke up before sunrise, packed the
truck, and headed for Furnace Creek to have breakfast. We
then drove to the bend in the West Side road where Bob was
going to start his hike. He left at 8:00 a.m. sharp. I
walked with him for about 20 minutes before saying goodbye
and returned to my truck. By the time I got back to the
truck, I could barely see him, he was just a dot on the
horizon. I followed him with my binoculars for awhile.
About two hours later I tried to find him from the other
side of the valley, but to no avail. He had slipped into
hiding in Death Valley. I wish I was hiking with him right
now. We make good company for each other. Unfortunately
though, I have to return to work.
In order for Bob to successfully travel this length of
Death Valley, he needed to cache' water in two separate
places. He estimated he would need water somewhere across
the valley from Furnace Creek, and somewhere near a wash
off a point of Tucki Mountain. So, on Saturday, we parked
the truck near Beatty Junction and started hiking across
the valley at 10 a.m. It took us three and a half hours to
make it across. This time included about half an hour of
breaks. We started out on an alluvial fan, which took us
quickly down to a slightly marshy area with some dry salt
grass and a few streams (moist beds) of mucky stuff. After
crossing this, we slowly rose on top of low yellow hills.
These rapidly fell off to the valley floor which then took
us to the beginning of the alluvium on the other side. This
was just as bad as we remembered it from the last time two
years ago when we made this same hike in preparation for
Bob's ill-fated first attempt.
Upon reaching the previously chosen site, underneath a
large mesquite bush near one of the telephone poles
stretching down the valley between Furnace Creek and Stove
Pipe Wells, we found the old water as we had left it. One
of the two containers had broken. The note Bob had written
was still legible though. We rested for about two hours
before starting our return. On our way back, we headed
south down the fan to where it smoothed out and then curved
back around the base of this fan until we picked up our
trail again. This move probably took us about a mile out of
our way but saved us the frustration of crawling up and
down the rocky drainages we both hated. It took about the
same amount of time to come back. It was 6:30 p.m. and
almost completely dark when we arrived. Bob had forgotten
to bring his regular glasses and could barely see through
his sunglasses. My pace was measurably faster than Bob's
both going and coming. I suppose this was due to the fact
that I wasn't carrying the amount of water he was. I
brought two and a half quarts along with me. I gave Bob a
pint and drank all but a pint myself. So this means I used
two quarts that day. Not bad for a fourteen mile round trip
hike across Death Valley in eighty-eight degree weather.
Sunday, we left a little later from Furnace Creek for our
shorter trip of only six or seven miles. It felt a little
warmer than the previous day. Just south of the ranch, near
the Shoshone Indian compound, we parked the truck and
followed the power lines across the valley. Our trail
followed the horse trail from the ranch for a short while.
Bob noticed sidewinder tracks in the soft sand of the
trail. We speculated as to how fresh they were. We left the
trail and made our way through a long stretch of crusted
over silt. It was protected by a thin hardened layer which
broke through with every step to reveal the powdery and
dusty silt. We eventually came upon what appeared to be an
old dump and the remains of what looked like a bridge.
There was a considerable amount of glass and other refuse
laying about. On the edge of the Amargosa River, pools of
clear blue water could be seen nestled in the pure white
salt. This water looked refreshing, but I knew otherwise.
Continuing on, the terrain alternated between streams of
salt and rough beds of dirty salt.
We soon found ourselves in the midst of semi-circular
mounds of brown salt, much like the area around the Devil's
Golf Course. Our pace was slowed accordingly through here.
I discovered something fascinating when Bob stopped to
doctor his blisters though. I heard faint creaking or
crackling noises coming from the salt that surrounded us. I
determined that as the wind blew across the salt, it cooled
and the resulting shrinkage made a noise. If one is real
still, the noise is quite prominent. I imagined what it
would be like when the sun first hits it in the morning.
Perhaps sometime I will have a chance to hear this. Halfway
across the valley, I found a pool of salt water, a foot or
so deep, and took my clothes off and jumped gingerly in. It
was very cool and refreshing, although the salt caused my
skin to feel gritty when I dried off. I couldn't wait to
shower when we got back. We trudged onward, eventually
reaching a spot Bob felt he could find again, walking from
the south. It was near a telephone pole.
It took us about two hours to get across. Once on the other
side, we rested safely out of the sun under Bob's shelter
for about a hour and a half. We discussed his trip for a
while, and then took a nap. It took less time to come back,
even including additional blister stops for Bob. The valley
floor is very different here than it is further north where
we crossed Saturday. The salt pan is bigger, with more
flowing water. I suppose it's the lower elevation and the
fact that the valley drains to the south.
Before leaving for home in Glendale, I stopped in Stove
Pipe Wells. Bob had made a reservation for the night he
expected to walk out of the valley, and so parked his car
here. With the keys he had given me to leave at the front
desk of the hotel, I opened his trunk and placed in his
cooler a bag of ice and a couple of beers I had purchased
across the street at the Stove Pipe Wells Store. Sort of a
congratulatory gift, since I couldn't be here to greet him
in person. I then headed home, fighting my inner voice that
was urging me to stay.
I really love Death Valley. I have ever since my mom and
dad brought me here when I was perhaps seven or eight years
old. To some, this valley is a place of utter desolation,
uninhabitable, true to it's name. For me, it is a place
that evokes special feelings that I can't quite put my
finger on. I believe my first visit here was when my family
camped at Texas Springs campground with our neighborhood
friend's, the Larson family. It was dusty of course, hot
and dry, but for a kid my age it was heaven. Wide open
spaces, interesting things to see, and places to explore
kept my friend Greg and I busy. But shortly after arriving,
a rainstorm with strong winds blew into the valley and
heavy rain with the potential for flash floods was
expected. I remember the mood becoming tense, and our tents
were blowing down, so a decision was made to cut our trip
short. I didn't want to leave. That evening, we headed home
through Death Valley Junction, where we stopped for gas. I
remember Greg and I wandering around the town, as it was,
exploring as much as we could. I also remember seeing those
old kerosene road flares, the kind with a wick sticking out
the top of a black round ball. They were there to mark
potential flooded areas on the highway. It was a long drive
home.
In the ensuing years, I would come here with my parents on
several occasions. My dad loved the desert as much as I've
grown to love it. My mom loved it here also, perhaps not as
much as my dad, but she was a good sport about it and
always made it a point to make us some really tasty meals
while camping. Eventually I began coming here on my own. As
a child, each time I looked forward to the trip, and always
came home with the special feeling I spoke about earlier.
Perhaps the feeling was nostalgia for the fun times I had
here, or maybe even as simple as childhood itself. Whatever
the foundation of this feeling is of no matter. The fact
remains I still have it after all these years and
pilgrimages I have made to this wonderful place.
So, much to my envy, Bob is somewhere in the valley tonight
and I am here, writing this. But I'm not too worried
though, as I know I will be back again.