Here are some facts about Death Valley, according to Wikipedia. Death Valley is the lowest, driest, and hottest location in North America. It holds the record for the highest reliably recorded temperature in the Western Hemisphere at 134°F, and the average
annual precipitation totals about 1.58 inches. You might wonder why then anyone (especially someone with a propensity for hating heat and tanning) would venture into such a wasteland. This is a fair question, and let this picture be the answer.
A large, flat plain in Death Valley National Park is known as the Racetrack Playa, and is famous for what are called "sailing stones". These stones, as pictured above, move like slugs across the landscape over the course of 3-4 years, gouging paths in the dry mud behind them. Conflicting theories offer explanations as to why exactly they shift and slide; their rate is too slow to record actual movement. They are the photographic darlings of the park, and we were so intent on witnessing these mysterious trails and collecting our own set of eerie pictures that we were willing to brave the promise of the scorching valley heat.
We made our first stop at the Eastern Sierra Interagency Visitor's Center and were handed the standard newspaper and pamphlet outlining the park's features, notices, and maps. At Adam's casual mention of the Racetrack, the ranger asked what kind of car we were driving and recommended against trying to visit the stones. Unwilling to let her deter our spirit of adventure however, we decided to ignore her suggestion. As I began sorting through our new papers and making sure the route we had planned to the Racetrack was correct, Adam started heading towards Stovepipe Wells so that we could fuel up and get some ice for our completely melted cooler. After a bit of map comparison, I started to get concerned when I realized that the only path to the Racetrack was marked as a "4-Wheel ONLY Road" on the park map (ranking higher on the warning list than the "Low Clearance" roads). We had already learned at Yosemite that just because a road shows up on the GPS doesn't mean it's a traversable route, and Adam's ground-skimming Civic loaded with extra weight hardly qualified as a high-clearance vehicle.
Torn about how to resolve this dilemma, Adam decided that he would ask the entrance station for advice once we reached Stovepipe. We figured that they know the roads better than anyone, and they could indicate whether or not the warnings were really as severe as they seemed. The temperature continued to climb around us as we drove deeper into the Valley and we began to understand that the decision was not to be made as lightly as we had anticipated. Out here at sea level, in the middle of nowhere, the sun felt dictatorially oppressive; even with the air conditioning on the temperature barely felt pleasantly warm at full blast and I could feel my skin tanning despite efforts to keep myself in the shade of the car, my hat, and my SPF shirt.
Eventually we reached Stovepipe Wells and Adam went in to buy ice as the car sat getting refueled. When he came out, we worked to pour the quickly dissolving cubes into our cooler while he explained that we still needed to get our entrance pass from another building. With the car set and ready to go, we headed a few blocks down to get our pass. This time when Adam came out, he had bad news. When asked about the road conditions leading to the Racetrack, the ranger responded without even stopping to inquire as to what kind of car Adam was driving. His response was immediate and unconditional; he strongly urged us not to attempt it. Emergency situations were more acceptable in winter months, he explained, because help would come if our car became disabled. In heat such as this however, a breakdown would potentially enter us into a life-threatening situation in which help might not arrive quickly enough. Unsure of just how much we had already taxed the car beyond its abilities and knowing we had low clearance and front-wheel drive, we agreed to abandon the plan. Devastated at the loss of the sailing stones from our itinerary, we tried to regroup and figure out what to do next. We looked at the map and decided instead to head for Artist's Drive, a beautiful road through hills of naturally tinted dirt, and Badwater, the United States' lowest elevation point.
Disappointed in our sacrifice, we began the trip to Artist's Drive which would take us on a 9-mile loop road through the desert and put us back on track for Badwater. With nothing to do but try and stay cool, we started to enjoy the rollercoaster of roads that rose and dipped over the dry land. Soon however, we started seeing signs encouraging us to turn off the air conditioning in efforts to prevent overheated vehicles. We were intrigued by the signs, having never seen any like them before, but did not take them very seriously and continued to cling to the cool air for comfort. Before long we were astonished to see Adam's temperature gauge rising quickly and threateningly. Shocked at a sight neither of us had ever encountered before, we quickly turned off the air conditioning and glued our eyes to the dashboard, desperately crossing our fingers that the needle would creep back down to its safe and proper location. After about 5 minutes, it finally returned to normal and we realized that safety precautions in a place like this were the result of legitimate risk and not the overprotective paranoid tendencies that we're used to. When there are tanks of water stationed every couple miles to offer an emergency coolant for your radiator, there is probably a formidable reason. Unable to sit completely sans air conditioning for longer than 5 minutes, we danced a carefully alternating tango with the engine's heat gauge all the way to Artist's Drive.
Though not as viscerally arresting as the sailing stones, Artist's Drive did not provoke regret at our change of plans. The hills resembled piles of colored powder, embellished dust in dark pastel hints ranging from caramel to violet, with roses, whites, maroon and Tiffany blue mixed in. Itching to preserve these miraculously unpolluted pigments, we took turns hopping out of the car and frantically collecting vial samples before our skins crawled with calidity. Before long we had a small spectrum carefully preserved in our miniature glass prison, full of every color that we could reach without considerable effort. Unfortunately the energetic colors refuse to hold captive in print, fogged by a hazy sunlight that has somehow failed to bleach and rob them of their identities. Regardless, we were content with our samples and headed to Badwater, where the temperature again defied our challenged notion that it could not possibly get any hotter.
A sign indicating sea level on the hill, 282 feet above where we stood.
Getting out of the car at Badwater, we were confounded to see what was surely an unusually persuasive mirage; there was a small pool of water before us. Between the torrefying air and tyrannical temperature, water was an inexplicable sight. Certainly there was either a continuous source or the heat had taken its final effects and we had lost all sanity. Soon enough we read that the pool was indeed spring-fed, and were equally astonished to learn about creatures able to thrive in these conditions (the ground we stood on was nothing more than an expansive salt flat). The water would be dangerously saline to anyone foolish enough to attempt drinking it, and full of (visible!) larvae. After exploring the perimeter of the pool, some small round mini-springs, and the sparkly, parched earth for a couple minutes I started to feel faint from the heat and headed back to the car. My legs and arms reeled from the touch of a sun that felt like it was 4 feet away from me. Adam seemed to fare slightly better, but even he could not last more than a couple minutes beyond what I had. We got back in the car and started to exit Death Valley.
On the way out, we saw a couple formations with caves visible from the road. They appeared to be dwellings, but we were not sure whether or not they were currently in use. Since we were not allowed to go near them I debate if they might belong to the Shoshone tribe that lives in the area. Either way, they were an unexpected treat and served as our farewell from the park.
Right outside Death Valley we stopped to pick up some souvenirs. I don't know how well you can see this in the picture, but above the door to the small shop was a thermometer. Here we were 1. in the shade (5-10° cooler) after 2. exiting the valley (another 5-10° cooler), and the needle was still resting comfortably above the 100°F line. We never got a chance to figure out exactly what peak temperature we experienced during our visit, but from these indications alone I would wager we sat in a furnace of about 112° to 118°F. Out of the hell-ditch we continued on our odyssey of opposites, away from the inferno in the valley to the cool, towering metal spire of the Stratosphere Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas.
{pri}
A large, flat plain in Death Valley National Park is known as the Racetrack Playa, and is famous for what are called "sailing stones". These stones, as pictured above, move like slugs across the landscape over the course of 3-4 years, gouging paths in the dry mud behind them. Conflicting theories offer explanations as to why exactly they shift and slide; their rate is too slow to record actual movement. They are the photographic darlings of the park, and we were so intent on witnessing these mysterious trails and collecting our own set of eerie pictures that we were willing to brave the promise of the scorching valley heat.
We made our first stop at the Eastern Sierra Interagency Visitor's Center and were handed the standard newspaper and pamphlet outlining the park's features, notices, and maps. At Adam's casual mention of the Racetrack, the ranger asked what kind of car we were driving and recommended against trying to visit the stones. Unwilling to let her deter our spirit of adventure however, we decided to ignore her suggestion. As I began sorting through our new papers and making sure the route we had planned to the Racetrack was correct, Adam started heading towards Stovepipe Wells so that we could fuel up and get some ice for our completely melted cooler. After a bit of map comparison, I started to get concerned when I realized that the only path to the Racetrack was marked as a "4-Wheel ONLY Road" on the park map (ranking higher on the warning list than the "Low Clearance" roads). We had already learned at Yosemite that just because a road shows up on the GPS doesn't mean it's a traversable route, and Adam's ground-skimming Civic loaded with extra weight hardly qualified as a high-clearance vehicle.
Torn about how to resolve this dilemma, Adam decided that he would ask the entrance station for advice once we reached Stovepipe. We figured that they know the roads better than anyone, and they could indicate whether or not the warnings were really as severe as they seemed. The temperature continued to climb around us as we drove deeper into the Valley and we began to understand that the decision was not to be made as lightly as we had anticipated. Out here at sea level, in the middle of nowhere, the sun felt dictatorially oppressive; even with the air conditioning on the temperature barely felt pleasantly warm at full blast and I could feel my skin tanning despite efforts to keep myself in the shade of the car, my hat, and my SPF shirt.
Eventually we reached Stovepipe Wells and Adam went in to buy ice as the car sat getting refueled. When he came out, we worked to pour the quickly dissolving cubes into our cooler while he explained that we still needed to get our entrance pass from another building. With the car set and ready to go, we headed a few blocks down to get our pass. This time when Adam came out, he had bad news. When asked about the road conditions leading to the Racetrack, the ranger responded without even stopping to inquire as to what kind of car Adam was driving. His response was immediate and unconditional; he strongly urged us not to attempt it. Emergency situations were more acceptable in winter months, he explained, because help would come if our car became disabled. In heat such as this however, a breakdown would potentially enter us into a life-threatening situation in which help might not arrive quickly enough. Unsure of just how much we had already taxed the car beyond its abilities and knowing we had low clearance and front-wheel drive, we agreed to abandon the plan. Devastated at the loss of the sailing stones from our itinerary, we tried to regroup and figure out what to do next. We looked at the map and decided instead to head for Artist's Drive, a beautiful road through hills of naturally tinted dirt, and Badwater, the United States' lowest elevation point.
Disappointed in our sacrifice, we began the trip to Artist's Drive which would take us on a 9-mile loop road through the desert and put us back on track for Badwater. With nothing to do but try and stay cool, we started to enjoy the rollercoaster of roads that rose and dipped over the dry land. Soon however, we started seeing signs encouraging us to turn off the air conditioning in efforts to prevent overheated vehicles. We were intrigued by the signs, having never seen any like them before, but did not take them very seriously and continued to cling to the cool air for comfort. Before long we were astonished to see Adam's temperature gauge rising quickly and threateningly. Shocked at a sight neither of us had ever encountered before, we quickly turned off the air conditioning and glued our eyes to the dashboard, desperately crossing our fingers that the needle would creep back down to its safe and proper location. After about 5 minutes, it finally returned to normal and we realized that safety precautions in a place like this were the result of legitimate risk and not the overprotective paranoid tendencies that we're used to. When there are tanks of water stationed every couple miles to offer an emergency coolant for your radiator, there is probably a formidable reason. Unable to sit completely sans air conditioning for longer than 5 minutes, we danced a carefully alternating tango with the engine's heat gauge all the way to Artist's Drive.
Though not as viscerally arresting as the sailing stones, Artist's Drive did not provoke regret at our change of plans. The hills resembled piles of colored powder, embellished dust in dark pastel hints ranging from caramel to violet, with roses, whites, maroon and Tiffany blue mixed in. Itching to preserve these miraculously unpolluted pigments, we took turns hopping out of the car and frantically collecting vial samples before our skins crawled with calidity. Before long we had a small spectrum carefully preserved in our miniature glass prison, full of every color that we could reach without considerable effort. Unfortunately the energetic colors refuse to hold captive in print, fogged by a hazy sunlight that has somehow failed to bleach and rob them of their identities. Regardless, we were content with our samples and headed to Badwater, where the temperature again defied our challenged notion that it could not possibly get any hotter.
A sign indicating sea level on the hill, 282 feet above where we stood.
Getting out of the car at Badwater, we were confounded to see what was surely an unusually persuasive mirage; there was a small pool of water before us. Between the torrefying air and tyrannical temperature, water was an inexplicable sight. Certainly there was either a continuous source or the heat had taken its final effects and we had lost all sanity. Soon enough we read that the pool was indeed spring-fed, and were equally astonished to learn about creatures able to thrive in these conditions (the ground we stood on was nothing more than an expansive salt flat). The water would be dangerously saline to anyone foolish enough to attempt drinking it, and full of (visible!) larvae. After exploring the perimeter of the pool, some small round mini-springs, and the sparkly, parched earth for a couple minutes I started to feel faint from the heat and headed back to the car. My legs and arms reeled from the touch of a sun that felt like it was 4 feet away from me. Adam seemed to fare slightly better, but even he could not last more than a couple minutes beyond what I had. We got back in the car and started to exit Death Valley.
On the way out, we saw a couple formations with caves visible from the road. They appeared to be dwellings, but we were not sure whether or not they were currently in use. Since we were not allowed to go near them I debate if they might belong to the Shoshone tribe that lives in the area. Either way, they were an unexpected treat and served as our farewell from the park.
Right outside Death Valley we stopped to pick up some souvenirs. I don't know how well you can see this in the picture, but above the door to the small shop was a thermometer. Here we were 1. in the shade (5-10° cooler) after 2. exiting the valley (another 5-10° cooler), and the needle was still resting comfortably above the 100°F line. We never got a chance to figure out exactly what peak temperature we experienced during our visit, but from these indications alone I would wager we sat in a furnace of about 112° to 118°F. Out of the hell-ditch we continued on our odyssey of opposites, away from the inferno in the valley to the cool, towering metal spire of the Stratosphere Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas.
{pri}
Great risk management call on your part, guys, but it's a shame you had to miss the sailing stones =(
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