Valley of Death: Part II

At the Ends of the Earth

Death Valley National Park, CA - Late April, 2012

Excitement is a hell of a drug.We woke early again, and despite enjoying little sleep, I felt no lassitude -- I was ready to get back out there. Alice and French whipped up another breakfast, involving home fries, eggs, toast and avocado, before we got in the car. Unlike the day before, our car was fully packed with two days' worth of gear: Tents, packs, camp stove, chairs, a cooler brimming with food and beer, etc. It wasn't yet 10 am and we were already blasting down dusty desert roads, my ears popping as we crept lower and lower below sea level. The road stretched straight and open before us, my stomach jumping as we lurched forward. Soon, the sagebrush and other scraggly plants disappeared and the landscape was rendered Martian, with rocks and sand defining the ancient lake bed. In the distance, mountains loomed, hidden by heat and blowing sand.

Entering Desolation Canyon

Eventually, we pulled up to a well-worn, dirt cul-de-sac and got out of the car, bringing only water with us. The nearby hills were made up of hard, bulbous rock flanked by packed sand, ribbed and eroded by what little water fell from the sky. The mountains were striped red and black by some mineral deposits. Everything was very still, quiet, hot. I followed Alice and French up a winding path into a ravine in the mountainside. This was Desolation Canyon (where they filmed part of Star Wars, which was why they took me here -- I love Star Wars, like, a whole bunch).

Mountains above Desolation Canyon

Desolation Canyon was wider than Grotto. It's ground was a dried, packed sand, where Grotto's was loose and beachy. Little channels bled blue and black down the banks of the mountains. We were exposed to the sun and there was naught a place to find shelter, not even a bush to sit near. Walking deeper into the canyon, the mountains above us became a mosaic of different colors: Burnt orange, red, black and tan, with ribbons of white creeping down. The sky above was cloudless and singeing. Life there was muted and the canyon felt abandoned and forlorn (one might say "desolate"). Still. The only noise I heard was the occasional tumble of small rocks down the canyon walls (a lurking Jawa perhaps?).

Leaving Desolation Canyon, we traveled deeper into the park to the lowest point in North America -- Badwater Basin. At the bottom of the valley, the basin is a large playa -- a dried lake bed -- covered in caked salt. The nearby mountains to the east -- which eventually extend to Funeral Peak -- are jagged, broken, rough and dark. High up on the mountainside is a large sign that reads "SEA LEVEL," 282 feet up. A boardwalk extends out from the parking lot, over saline pools and onto the salt flat. The rumble and roar of passing motorcycles clashed with the mountains before dissipating over the endless valley. Peering into the pools, where salt crystallized and formed little spires, small organisms darted about. Some sort of orange-brown bacteria blanketed the bottom of the pool like a rusty moss. In the distance, we could see Telescope Peak, the tallest mountain in the park. Where the boardwalk ended, the crumbling salt was packed down by foot traffic. Unknown vandals named "Shannon" and "Matt" had let all park visitors know they had been there by carving their names in the salt -- a marking that would take decades to wash away (maybe Matt and Shannon will come back by then to remind us, once again, that they were here). Droves of people walked out of their cars and onto the flat to experience America's lowest point (geologically, that is) before getting back into their vehicles to drive somewhere else in California. Maybe somewhere with trees. The American Dream.

*     *     *     *

Ubehebe Crater

We, too, returned to the car and made our way north, taking a detour down a winding road, shrouded by steep walls of rocks and imposing hills, to a breathtaking scene: Artists Palette. It is a richly colored mountainside, boasting the most extreme range of colors I've seen in nature. Deep blue to turquoise to peach to red to chocolate to ivory. On and on, titillating the imagination and pushing the notion of the color wheel. We viewed the scene for a while before moving much further north to Ubehebe Crater, a dinosaur of a volcano. Dormant, dark and desolate. The land rolled and bounded away from us, pocked and ashen from the last eruption -- over 2,000 years ago.* Ubehebe is Timbisha for "big basket in the rock."

Joshua tree with seeds. French was very excited.

Leaving the road to Ubehebe, we headed south west and away from Death Valley, passing a ranger station -- the last building for 90 miles, by the crow. It was a desolate, remote part of the park. The land sloped up away from the road, dotted with stunted Joshua trees. The mountains beyond were marked by diagonal colored stripes and pinyon pines, providing cover for bighorn and mountain lions alike -- open wilderness.

Climbing the monadnock in Racetrack

We passed no cars and, eventually, left the paved road altogether, signifying our arrival in Racetrack Valley. The road was graded to prevent washouts, making it appear like it had been driven on by a tank, giving us a bumpy ride. It was fun for the first few miles, but after an hour, the novelty had worn off. Alice taught me how to spot old survey mine entrances -- bleached white mounds on the side of the mountain -- and we got quite good at spotting them along the slow drive. When we got to the bottom of the playa, we pulled into a parking lot next to a vacant Winnebago. It was still hot, but a pleasant breeze from the south made it enjoyable to walk about. The ground was cracked into strange geometric shapes, where water had escaped the sun by draining beneath the clay. Out on the flat stood a monadnock. We made for it and spent some time climbing over the bulbous brown rocks, spotting little lizards lurking in rocky crags. Watching where I put my fingers and toes -- one must be ever-conscious of scorpions and buzzworms -- I made my way to the very top of the rock and looked out on the land. The pan around us was flat (playas are geologically the flattest surface on the planet) and ecru. The mountains beyond were a mix of maroon, gray-blue, white and dusty brown, slopping gently towards the valley floor.

I noticed tire tracks carved into the playa floor, whipping around in donuts, figure-eights, and other winding shapes. Climbing down, I asked Alice and French about the tire tracks. They told me that a few weeks before, shortly after a rain, some asshole -- perhaps the King of the Assholes, or at the very least a duke -- got the inspired idea to drive his truck over the dried lake bed. Because America. Whether or not he was aware that the playa was wet when he drove on it was not known, but what was known was that he had a notion that driving on the playa was illegal -- there are signs everywhere indicating this. Because the pan was still wet when he took his metal steed out to the ancient lake bed, and water has a tough time getting through clay, the surface of the ancient lake bed was mud, allowing his tire tracks to become embedded in the clay for all to enjoy. What's more, the individual didn't do this act in the dead of night, or when no one was around. No, he did it in full view of a host of tourists. One managed to snap a few shots of his license plate and showed them to the park rangers. Before long, every park ranger and park lawman was on the lookout for the gentleman, and it wasn't long before they found him. When he was finally pulled over, the arresting officer was surprised to find that he knew the man, because the perp was a local cop. Perhaps this explained the donuts.

Racetrack Valley from the Homestake Mine

*     *     *     *

Magic rocks!

We traveled further south in the valley to the other end of the playa to explore Racetrack Valley's most famous feature. At the end of the lake bed is a hill made up of broken rocks. Occasionally, the rocks roll off the hillside and onto the pan. And, every so often, these rocks move across the valley floor, carving trails as they grow. For a long time, folks thought this was some sort of magic, strange magnetic feature, or alien meddling (many still do, especially the last part. The desert does strange things to people's heads).

The best -- or most reasonable -- theory is that when the playa gets wet, the clay becomes viscous and strong winds can blow the rocks around, creating the trails. When the water evaporates and the clay hardens, the trails stay. No matter what theories are out there, no one has ever seen the rocks move, and no one knows how it really happens. Maybe it is aliens (the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence!).

French walking on the playa

Splitting up, we followed the mysterious trails as they zigged and zagged across the desert floor. But soon, our stomachs rumbled and we made our way up the road to the Homestake Dry Camp at the southern end of Racetrack Valley. There were a few clearings in the creosote bushes and we picked the one farthest from the main road and the back country toilet (because, well that should be obvious). After we'd set up camp and had a bit to eat, we grabbed a couple beers and made our way down an old road towards the edge of the valley. On the way, I spotted a large, fairly fresh scat on the side of the trail. It had folded in the middle and had a piece of burned toilet paper sticking out of it. Despite the presence of paper, it was certainly not human -- bits of bone and hair stuck out of it. The scat was still dark and malleable (touched it with a stick, I swear), so we knew it was less than a week old. Excited about my new Scats and Tracks app by Falcon Guides (worth every penny), I looked up the feces and was unsettled by my findings. I showed the suspect to French and Alice and they agreed: Mountain lion. Normally, this would have put me on edge, but we decided there were enough burros and mountain goats to keep a cat happy. Besides, they move far and fast, and this one probably wasn't around anymore. 

Old water truck.

Ahead, we spotted a rusting, yellow water tank trailer sitting atop a hill, riddled with bullet holes and a few bits of graffiti. There was an old foundation nearby and the ground was strewn with rusty cans (archaeologically quite significant, I'm sure!). We perched on the old foundation and viewed the landscape before us. To the east and west, imposing mountains ran the length of the valley. Because this was an ancient lake bed, the valley bowed to the north and the south. The parallel mountain ranges never met, but merely dipped below the flat horizon line, giving us the feeling that the world simply dropped off at the northern and southern ends of Racetrack. Nothing could be seen beyond the distant horizons. We were sitting at the edge of the world, with truly nothing around for miles. The silence was absolute. It is the farthest from anything I've ever been, and the closest to nothing. 

Free boots! They didn't fit.

Shadows stretched from the mountains as we made our way further up the road. Passing over hills, we could see the distant lights of RVs and campers in Saline Valley, twinkling in the early dusk. Ahead, structures jutted out from the mountainside. Sun burned wooden structures and gnarled metal piping of ore chutes and old mines were arranged haphazardly on the bluff, with jackknife trails leading to older mines high up on the mountain -- the Homestake Mine. The place had an eerie vibe to it. It had obviously been long forgotten, but felt as though someone might return at any moment, like being in someone else's house, waiting for them to come home -- must be a condition of living in the city, always expecting more people. Walking toward one open mine, I spotted a derelict pair of cowboy boots on the road, waiting for some forgetful owner to come reclaim them. We peered inside the mine shaft. About five feet in, the way was blocked by horizontal wooden beams. Alice told me that this was to let bats come and go from the abandoned mines and to keep intrepid morons out. (It's almost surprising how many people venture into these old holes, only to never return. Almost surprising.)

Homestake Mine

It was growing darker and there was catamount shit nearby, so we hightailed it back to the site to enjoy the best camp meal I've ever had. With onions, peppers, kielbasa, Near East rice mix and a couple cans of Bumble Bee canned chipotle chicken (which is absolutely delectable. Side note: Dear Bumble Bee, please sell this in Boston.), they made a scrumptious jambalaya, which I could have eaten ad infinitum. 

By the time our dinner was finished, the night was upon us. We sat around and talked, our headlamps providing light (did you know campfires in the desert aren't always a good idea? The more you know). After the bright moon slid below the mountains, we walked two miles down to the Racetrack playa. We took our shoes off and walked across the warm dry clay, letting my hobbit's feet absorb the day's warmth, looking up at the brilliant stars above. Never had I seen such lights, the Milky Way Nebula, any of it. It was brilliant and made me feel like I was spinning, dizzy. French, Alice and I laid down on the tepid ground and watched the stars slowly glide over our endless canopy as I drifted to sleep. 

The stars at night are big and bright.

Continued in Part III

*Evidence shows that the last eruption happened between 1,000 and 2,000 years ago, with some estimates ranging from 7,000 years to as recently as 800 years. So really, no one know -- but it was a while ago.

The Valley Of Death: Part I

A Study in the Shades of Brown

Death Valley National Park, CA - Late April, 2012

After visiting the American Southwest, there's this feeling I get sometimes that envelopes me. No, it's not Valley Fever. It's this rush of energy I feel inside: My stomach jumps, my arms tingle, and -- but for a moment -- I can feel myself back there amongst the red rocks, with that dry air blowing over me, the ringing in my ears of a silent, empty landscape. It is a fleeting feeling, and try as I might, I can never fall fully into it. Until I go back.

And so I found myself sitting in Denver International Airport, witnessing one of the most extreme displays of lightening I'd ever been privy to view. We'd just landed a short time before, clouds around my plane had been illuminated by the violent lighting in the thunderhead we had passed through (quite a rush, I might add). Normally, I love thunderstorms, but I was in no mood for one at this time. It was nearing midnight and I was stranded in Denver; my flight for Las Vegas could not leave until the storm passed. Lighting silhouetted the distant Rockies, and I frantically texted my friend Alice "Road Runner" Hunt, who was patiently waiting for me at the Las Vegas Airport. Digital apologies flew hundreds of miles while I waited to leave. When I finally got to Las Vegas, it was after 1 AM and I was cracked out from too much coffee. But the excitement of seeing my old friend and the anticipation for our adventure perked me right up.

Alice and I go back a bit, to my freshman year at college (which college? I'll never tell). She's a scrappy sombitch, earnest, honest and completely loyal. Crass when she needs to be, but always good to have around. We lived in a dorm flooded with Latin-studying classics majors and budding archaeologists. Alice was somewhere between the two. I, on the other hand, was an ad kid with good connections and a Latin-filled youth, so I got to live in this beautiful brownstone in Boston. Alice and Tomek (you might remember him), both older than me, took me under their wings and we became the three musketeers of the dorm. We were family. Over the next three years, we went on myriad adventures -- though none quite appropriate for this blog, so we'll start here. In Nevada. At 1 AM.

Alice, originally from the Midwest, had gone to work for several parks after graduating: Yosemite, Sierra and finally Death Valley. Being out west and all made it hard for her to come back East to visit Tomek and me, so we decided to head out to visit her. Besides, it'd be more fun to explore the Mojave than Boston's numerous swamps. The problem was Tomek pushed off buying his ticket until the prices soared above $500. So he was out and I went alone. It happens. The drive to the park was a bit of a blur. The land was dark and only a few stars managed to shine despite the ambient light of Las Vegas (no joke, you can see the lights of Vegas from Death Valley, over 100 miles away. It's atrocious, as is Las Vegas). We passed Pahrump, stopping for some supplies (it's the nearest place to the park to get anything), before continuing into the desert night.

Looming shadows of mountains passed on both sides. Ghostly sage brush and desert holly -- caked in dust -- were illuminated by our headlights. The bright green glow of a kit fox's eyes stared at us from up the road, before it darted off into the unknown. Our headlights reflected off of the white stucco wall of the Amargosa Opera House, a lonely hotel that stands in a ghost town on the border of the park. Alice pointed out sandy bluffs that indicated we'd passed into Bureau of Land Management (BLM) land (there are wild horses there, somewhere). We passed between two low mountains and I spotted a sign ahead:

Death Valley National Park

Homeland of the Timbisha Shoshone

We'd made it. By now it was 3 AM and fatigue was overtaking me. We pulled up to her apartment -- a cinder block building atop a hill, surrounded by tall, sandy bluffs -- and I fell into a deep sleep that would last for, oh, about four hours.

*     *     *     *

In the morning we woke early, ate a hardy breakfast, and I got to meet Alice's boyfriend French Gilman, a delightful, friendly and fun young fella, with wild hair and a scraggly beard. Calm and cool, he's instantly likable and I spent my time there making sure I impressed him (which, being that I'm the long-time friend, isn't it supposed to be the other way around? Oh well, I liked the guy). 

It was still early when we grabbed our packs, food and water and hopped in their white Izuzu Trooper. My first view of the Mojave from their front door was vast; if it hadn't been for a distant sand storm, one could see clear across the valley. The sky was a blinding blue and the air was dry, with that warm, sandy smell. The Mojave desert is quite different from the Sonoran. While the Sonoran is full of tall creosote bushes, towering Saguaro and countless prickly pear and cholla cacti, the Mojave is barren. Small bushes scatter the landscape -- a desert holly here, some sagebrush there. Where in the Sonoran, you can hear the rustling of lizards and quail, spot cactus wren darting between thickets, and spy some raptor cruising the thermals above, the Mojave is quiet, still. Almost hauntingly so.* On a distant road, a caravan glides across the empty landscape, silent and distorted by the heat reflecting off the ground.

The road to Grotto Canyon. We were stuck here

The park seems infinite. When you leave one valley, you just pass into another vast, empty wilderness. On the road, my eyes were glued to the window, watching the endless mountains pass us by. These were not the granite behemoths of my native land, but appeared like layers of packed mud that had erupted from the horizon in myriad chaotic angles -- which is exactly what they did. Not hidden beneath a blanket of flora, the mountains displayed the dynamic geological history of Death Valley; it's no wonder the area was once -- and still would be without the Department of the Interior -- a rather viable mining region. Ancient layers of mud, rock and detritus paint the mountains in a brilliant palette of browns. Green browns, red browns, blue browns, brown browns. Alice quipped that Death Valley had been referred to as "a study in the shades of brown."

We took a left off the main drag and followed a dirt road five miles into the bush. The road was on a steady incline as we neared the mountains and Alice informed me that we were on our way to Grotto Canyon to do a little light canyoneering. The smaller mountains ahead were a tan color, with those looming behind them rust brown, blood red and black. The smooth dirt road slowly became more sandy and our car struggled over some deeper pockets of loose dirt. When it seemed that we'd made it past the rough patches, the wheels of the car emitted a high-pitched whining. We'd become stuck in the sand. Alice took the wheel while French and I got out and pushed. It was no use -- the sand was so deep; even we were sinking into it. The wheels kicked up dirt, covering us in a thin layer of dust.

"Well," I shrugged. "Couldn't have gotten stuck in a purdier place."

Entrance to Grotto Canyon

I was surprised to learn that a car dubbed "Trooper" didn't have four-wheel drive; it seemed unAmerican. We would have to get out with just two-wheel drive and our wits.

We tried every trick we could think of. Floor mats under the tires. Digging out the tires. Pushing some more. We were five miles from the main road, exposed to the sun in a remote part of the park and the day was getting hotter. It was after ten and the heat was already in the 90's. We couldn't walk back to the main road without succumbing to the heat, our cell phones had no service, and Alice and French weren't too keen on using the satellite phone to call a ranger for help. The embarrassment would have been worse than death itself.

French climbing up a dry fall

We'd been working on the car for the better part of an hour when we came up with an idea. Digging through the trunk, Alice produced a car jack. We lifted the rear tires a few inches off the ground and filled the pits below the tires with large stones. Digging trenches in front of the tire tracks, we filled those with large rocks as well. Once we were satisfied with our makeshift cobblestone road (being from Boston, I'm kind of an expert on those), French hopped in the driver seat and gunned the Trooper while Alice and I pushed like our lives depended on it -- which they did. After a troubled start, the car made it out of the sandy patch and shot up the road. There was much rejoicing. Alice and French asked me if I still wanted to go on the hike or if I was too freaked out to carry on. I said I was good to go -- it's not an adventure unless you almost get stuck in the middle of nowhere, after all. We headed up the road and came to its nexus. Ahead was a sheer wall of  rock with a gnarly opening in the middle: Grotto Canyon.       

Chuckwalla!

We climbed through the winding canyon. Smooth rock slides, trenches and falls had been carved by a millennia of rushing water. Rocky overhangs gave us shade from the sun and the canyon was cool and breezy. Spires of sunlight poured through openings overhead. Here and there, we would come to big bends in the dried river where the canyon would open up. The sky was blue and cloudless above, and the heat radiated off the tall, sloping canyon walls. A chuckwalla -- my favorite lizard -- sat basking on a rock. This one was unlike those I'd seen in Arizona, however. It was black and a white-tan, with a leopard pattern and dark, black circles around its eyes. Before I could get too close, it darted under a rock and inflated itself in the crag. The trail brought us to many small, dried waterfalls and we had to shimmy ourselves up these narrow rock slides. Occasionally, we would come to a fall that was too high and broad to climb up, so we would launch French up and he would drop a line down to pull us up. After stopping for a small lunch, we came to a fall that was too great for any of us to ascend and we turned back.

Pesky buzzworm

Coming back down the waterfalls was much easier. Aside from the steep drops where we had to use rope to get down, we simply slid or jumped down, using the deep pool of sand at the bottom to brace the shock of our landing. We came to a bottleneck in the canyon, where the hard rock walls stood high above and close together, when Alice shouted my name and French grabbed my shoulder. They had seen it moments before I had unwittingly nearly stepped on it: A young sidewinder. El crotalo cornudo. It couldn't have been more than seven inches long, but that is when they are the most deadly. You see, most venomous snakes learn over their lifetime that they do not need to use their full supply of venom to incapacitate prey and predators. Small amounts will make the point. But the younger asps have yet to learn this. So if you are bit by a young viper, you are more likely to die. Most of the folks I've known from the Southwest are very keen at spotting snakes -- more so even than me, a person who loves all things herpetological. I was very lucky these two had picked up this trait. The sidewinder coiled itself tight, ready to strike, with its small rattle shaking furiously. The rattle itself was so small that, even a foot away, I could not hear it. Like I said, I was very lucky Alice and French stopped me. We gave the snake some space and watched it slither off -- to where? I don't know, there was a waterfall up ahead that it would be unable to summit. Oh well, not my problem.

A mountain lamb! Photo Cred: Alice

Coming back to the opening where I'd spotted the chuckwalla, I was no doubt telling some long story at an obnoxious volume, when I rounded the corner and spotted six bighorn sheep standing right in front of me.

"Whoa! Fuck!" I shouted, causing them all to pause and stare at me before darting up the steep slope to our right.

Grotto Canyon Skylight

They hadn't heard us coming -- strange, because I am not known for speaking quietly -- and were caught quite by surprise when we came around the bend. The slope they'd hopped up grew too steep for them to climb any further, so they stood where they were and watched us pass, giving us a wonderful opportunity to view them. There were two adult females, two juveniles and two lambs. We all stared at each other silently for a time before our group moved on, giving them the opportunity to run and hide deep in the winding canyons.

*     *     *     * 

Mesquite Dunes

It was late afternoon when we made it back to the car, and we gunned the Trooper down the sandy road so we would not get stuck again. We took a short reprieve at the expansive Mesquite Dunes, where I took off my shoes and socks and let my feet sink into the sand.

French and Alice took me out of the park to a podunk old mining town in Nevada called Beatty. It's a rough little desert community, a little run down, but quaint and welcoming. Western-style buildings, stucco houses, trailers and cinder block garages stand beneath cottonwood trees. The mountains were casting long shadows when we parked the car.

Happiest Place on Earth

We walked to the Happy Burro Chili & Beer and sat down around an old wood spool on the side porch, beneath a canopy of Christmas lights. The building itself was little more than a shed, but it had beer so I wasn't going anywhere. The bartender came out to greet French and Alice and ask me for my ID. I presented it and she asked how old I was. I wasn't prepared for an interogation, so my brain managed to fire off "It's July 4, 19XX so I am 23 years old." Completely unsuspicious. French brought out a pitcher of the coldest PBR I've had the pleasure of drinking -- the pitcher had a frozen gel pack in the middle that kept the beer cold in the Nevada heat. Drinking from mason jars, we were delighted when three bowls of chili came out. I am here to tell you, hand to my heart, that it was the best damn chili I have ever had, will ever have. Big beans, chunks of steak, and delightful ground beef filled my small bowl. It took great self control for me to not suck the whole thing down immediately; every bite needed to be savored, like I'd never relish in its goodness again.

There was no time to take a photo
of a full bowl

We enjoyed some more pitchers of Pabst while engaging with the local color. An old coot, sporting a false visor hat with fake hair on the lid, called Uncle John, came and chatted us up a bit, asking Alice when she would leave French to marry him. A dog named Hooker sat on a stool at the bar and came over occasionally to see if I would give him some of my chili. I was told the canine was the true owner of the bar -- indeed, a sign inside reads "Hooker runs this bar" -- but it didn't help him get any of my coveted chili. A younger couple, about our age, sat down next to us and the young woman quietly ordered a glass of white wine. It took a great amount of effort for me to not turn around and stare at her. Yeah, I thought. They'll go bust out their vintage Carlo Rossi for you. A man in a long, black duster and cowboy hat appeared at the entrance and sat at an empty table -- he looked like he was straight out of Tombstone. The Cimarron Kid. Alice and French warned me not to interact with him/look at him; he was a mean drunk with a quick temper. And he was armed. Two six shooters and a big knife. Finishing our beers, we brought the empty pitchers and glasses inside, paid our tab -- no joke, less than $20 -- and headed out. The gunslinger peered at me from under his black Stetson hat, his cold, sunken eyes surveying us as we left.

Back in the park, Alice took a sharp right off the main road. I was confused, as I knew we weren't back at their place yet. They told me they had something cool to show me. It was pitch black as we drove up a dirt road, unable to see far ahead. The ghostly visage of an abandoned building stood on the side of the road, a sign in front indicating that it was -- at one point -- a bank. They'd taken me to one of the area's numerous ghost towns: Rhyolite. Passing several gutted, dilapidated buildings, we came to the top of the road, where a grand old train station stood, surrounded by tall Joshua trees. We couldn't get too close, as there was a fence surrounding the building, but we admired the lovely Turn of the Century architecture. Walking past a an open mine shaft in the ground, French peered in and jumped back just in time to dodge a bat that shot out from the abyss. We wandered for a bit more before French and Alice said we needed to head back home. We had a long day ahead of us.


Continued soon in Part II.

*This is certainly not to say the Mojave is devoid of life. On the contrary, Death Valley is home to a plethora of unique and wonderful plants and animals. This needs to be noted so Alice and French don't chew me out next time I see them.


Rory's note: Yeah, the names in this are very much nom guerras.