5.30.16
Let me start with this moment.
I’m standing atop the tallest Panamint Dune, one foot narrowly placed in front of the other because the most pristine sand in the entire world — of that, in this moment, I’m convinced — slopes off steeply to my left and to my right. In this moment, I try to weigh as little as possible. I’m not fearful of sinking into the sand — no, I’m not in danger of being swallowed by the dune — but I want to leave as little impact as possible.
I gaze to my left down several hundred feet and spot Greg, my hiking partner for the week, maybe a dune and a half away. I look to his right. I look to his left. I do a 360 in place, and all I see is sand and blue sky.
Not a single sign of life for miles upon miles. Just desert, sand, and blue sky.
This is a it-does-not-get-better-than-this moment. I know, I know — you’ve probably heard me say this before. But when you have a place so expansive, so beautiful, and so, well, different all to yourself. When you can take in such a wide-ranging landscape and not see any other life forms, well — you have to experience it for yourself.
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Part I: The pre-hike fun
When the good friend Greg moved from Arizona to San Diego a year ago, I knew this trip had to happen. ‘G’ has been my western friend for the last four years, a man I need to visit annually for his company, to watch and talk basketball with, and to take advantage of the scenery near him. A year without a trip to visit ‘G’ is a wasted year. This tradition started with the ‘special cookies’ and Grand Canyon Part I 2012 adventure; then came the Grand Canyon Part II. Next up: San Diego.
Within about two hours, I was in love with San Diego. I had visited the city once before, but that was at the end of biking 1,984 miles down the west coast. I was kind of tired during my four-day stay in 2009. I remembered visiting the OB pier and Sunset Beach, but not a whole lot more.
Here’s what got me hooked very quickly this time around:
Dog friendly: Greg and his girlfriend and my great friend Sara’s shepherd Gatsby — the most incredible, indefatigable 11-year-old dog I’ve ever met — went everywhere with us! To the restaurant for lunch. To REI to pick up gear for our imminent hiking trip. And to a very green park overlooking the harbor.
Oh, the park. Yes, imagine a grassy urban paradise of space where dogs run freely chasing tennis balls, other dogs come lie down on your blanket as if you’re old friends, and you sip a cold beer while taking in the picturesque view. Yeah, not a bad Saturday afternoon.
And, of course, the beach! After a short hike up Black Mountain — a peak with a radio tower on its summit about 30 minutes north of the city — Sunday morning, in the afternoon we visited the OB and walked out on that same pier I had ventured out seven years prior. The sun peaked in and out of puffy clouds above large, mesmerizing waves. When we returned to the sand, thanks to the urging of Greg’s friend Ronnie, I braved the 60s weather (cold for San Diego!) and ran into the water for a minute. Refreshing.
Dog-friendly, A+ parks, a pier out of a television show, and the beach. Oh, but what about the food?
San Diego isn’t cheap, but it’s affordable compared to DC. And they serve you well! Sunday night I got stuffed on a meat combo dish from “The Hawaiian Place.” I’ll just leave it at that; if you visit SD, Google it. It’s in North Park. Then on Monday morning, we made the short drive to one of Greg’s favorite breakfast joints Cardamom Café & Bakery where we sat outside, Gatsby with us of course, and fueled for the drive to Joshua Tree with killer omelets. Klea, our waitress, knew Greg as a regular and we had a fun time chatting with her.
Within less than two days, I was already envious of Greg and Sara’s city. What a place. But it was also time for the trip’s main course — HIKING. By midday Monday, the Mercury Mountaineer was loaded up with everything we could think of that could be useful for hiking and camping. Work stuff was complete. We headed north.
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Part II: Among the boulders in Joshua Tree
Our plan was to tackle the two and half hours of driving to Joshua Tree National Park, set up camp, then get in an evening hike before calling it a night. As we got close to the park entrance, we were both hungry so we stopped at a Mexican hole in the wall joint in Yucca Valley. Not surprisingly at all, the food was incredible. Before entering the park, we made a final stop at a roadside firewood stand. The $20 bundles seemed excessive for what we might need and another guy there, Nick, offered to split one, so we took him up on the offer. Nick, a rock climber who looked the part, told us how incredible Joshua Tree and Death Valley would be. The anticipation built.
The winding road to the west entrance of Joshua Tree was skirted by myriad desert residences. But then we entered the park, and the terrain turned barren. Well, empty except for the endless vertical, almost pencil- or lacrosse stick-shaped cacti with the park’s namesake, and boulders. Red rocks were scattered everywhere of every shape, every size, you name it. No wonder this place is a rocker climber’s paradise! We pulled over at a trailhead a few miles in to take initial photos. Without thinking twice, I sped-walk to the nearest huge rock and began climbing it — channeling my inner Alex Honnold (hah!). Having gained the top, I took a seat and gazed at my surroundings — nothing but a rock- and cacti-strewn desert for dozens upon dozens of miles. I’d never been in such a place. Incredible!
The campsite we’d chosen was appropriately named Jumbo Rocks. It was an easy pick for us. As we pulled in after 6pm, southern California was no longer calm. A wild wind ripped through the large campground, making our No. 1 priority in choosing a site simple: wind protection. After a full loop, we chose one of the sites we had passed first — No. 6, set up against a towering rock wall maybe 50 feet high. Greg pitched his tent up against the wall, while I took advantage of a cocoon of space protected by several large desert bushes. As we finished setting up, a light rain began falling.
Wind and rain — exactly how we had expected the weather to act!
The coolest thing about our site was that a quick scramble up the smooth rock backdrop 100 feet or so, and we could take in expansive views of the sunset or sunrise. While the sun was beginning to set and we could have stayed put, we had vowed to do a hike so we made our way down the rock face and headed to the Skull Rock 1.7-mile loop trail that begins at the campsite. As we walked along boulders, the red sun dipped in the sky, creating that desert glow that I’d always immensely enjoyed and marveled at during my Arizona trips. We returned to camp just as the colors waned from the sky, a white glow still attracting my eyes.
That first night I learned that Greg knows how to make a fire. Even with the wind still making its presence felt, he got flames roaring in a couple minutes as I boiled water with our stoves for dinner. We hadn’t gone into the trip with assigned roles or anything — who does that on a camping trip? — but the night’s events clarified things.
Greg: Fire man.
Jake: Boiling water man.
We chowed down our freeze-dried meals and sipped tea (mine with whiskey; G enjoyed his adult beverage straight up) as darkness enveloped the spring sky and the stars came out. Millions of them. As 10:30pm hit, we crawled into our tents. I fell asleep dreaming of the possible adventures ahead of us as the wind died down.
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I awoke on Tuesday around 6am just as the sun rose. I scrambled up the rock slab and watched as the burnt-orange sphere crested a distant desert ridge. It was a chilly morning, but the wind had lost its force. I began the morning in my puffy coat, but I wouldn’t be wearing it for long. Our plan for the day was to go up Ryan Peak, a nearby 4-mile hike, in the morning and then drive the hour or so to Palm Springs to pick up my friend Libby for an afternoon climb, potentially, of San Jacinto Peak, the crown jewel summit in the region at 10,834 feet. We weren’t sure we’d be able to take on San Jacinto, and this became clearer as we took the gradual, switchbacking trail up Ryan Peak and gazed out at the snow-covered peaks. It looked like winter wasn’t ready to call it a year. Yet.
But that was a problem for later. As I came upon the summit of the 5,457-foot peak, G sat at the base of a pile of rocks. A large cairn. I immediately thought of Mt. Eisenhower in New Hampshire’s White Mountains, which has the largest peak cairn I’ve ever seen. This one wasn’t bad, though. From the exposed and very windy summit, I spun around, taking in the San Gabriel range to the west and desert in all other directions. Joshua Tree doesn’t have many mountains (Ryan is one of its highest) but it isn’t a vast flatland either. A large rock here, a jumble of boulders there, a plateau in another direction — the landscape was varied.
On the return hike to the car, we passed a few people going up — we had mostly beaten the morning rush up the popular peak. Part two of the day’s agenda awaited.
As we exited the west entrance to the park and I regained cell service, I confirmed — with a call —what we had assumed for a while. Even at the tram station at 8,000-plus feet on San Jacinto, a fresh coat of snow and ice painted the land. We weren’t hiking the big mountain. As we got closer to the Palm Springs airport — the car indicating that it was getting HOT outside — I texted Libby that she wouldn’t need the winter coat, pants and gloves I had instructed her to emergency pack the day before. All she’d need for our desert hike: shorts, a T-shirt, and gobs of sunscreen.
Our afternoon Plan B hike was in Joshua Tree, but a very different part of the park from where we’d been. After driving an hour southeast through mostly desert — passing turnoffs for Indio and Coachella — we reached Cottonwood Springs Road, the southernmost entryway into the park. In stark contrast to the west entrance, we didn’t see a residence or any sign of life, outside of a couple passing cars, as we headed north into the park.
The Palm Oasis Trail is just a few miles into Joshua Tree, and we weren’t alone anymore. A handful of cars shared the small parking lot. The midday desert heat bore down on us — imagine this place in July! — as we layered on the sunscreen for a solid five minutes. This wasn’t a time to mess around with an exposed 7-mile hike in front of us. Finally, it was time to trek.
We didn’t actually expect to find the trail’s namesake, an oasis, at its terminus, so that wasn’t a disappointment. Rather, the descent from the desert into a grove of palm trees provided a quick change in environment and a perfect excuse to finally cease walking — for the time being — and chow down on cheese and crackers and other delectable trail foods.
Fully satiated and at the end of the official trail, we continued down a well-beaten spur path through the most green vegetation we had seen all hike and up and over rocks. When we reached an overlook of the canyon below, we breathed in the view before turning back. After climbing out from the palm trees, we regained the flat trail and enjoyed a pleasant stroll back to the car — the late-afternoon sky becoming more and more alluring with puffy clouds set against a range of small mountains to the north.
Rightfully tired from 8 miles under the sun, we headed back north. As the sun dropped precipitously in the sky and we bid Libby goodbye in Palm Springs (not a bad location for a conference!), I realized that sunset was going to be spectacular. But the sun was quickly dropping in the sky and we also needed wood. This time there was no Nick, so we got a full $20 bundle. The fire would be roaring on Night 2, especially sans any wind.
As we drove through the western portion of the park, I wondered if making the trek to the proclaimed top sunset viewing spot, Keys View, would even be worth it with darkness nearing. But something I’ve learned over many hiking trips — always trust your curiosity. The view from 5,185 feet was spectacular, even with the sun having descended below the San Jacinto range. Gazing down toward Indio and Palm Springs, the post-sun sky turned an attractive pink and I framed photos with the foreground of a reaching tree branch and an isolated (hopefully not lonely) Joshua tree. As all light was extinguished from the sky, I thought of how special a place we had all to ourselves (no, we didn’t get too romantic but instead headed back to Jumbo Rocks for dinner).
One note on the evening: G began his run of dominance in Uno. As I would learn much too late, “skip” cards are powerful when there are just two players, and G beat me in five straight. Thankfully, I could take a sip of tea whiskey and look up at the stars after each loss to remind myself that life was still pretty good. An established Uno loser, I hit the sack tired, defeated, and yet ebullient.
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I slept in until 6:45 Wednesday morning. I missed the sunrise, but that didn’t stop me from still scrambling up the rock face and taking in the early morning views while doing some stretches. After our customary oatmeal and tea breakfast, we broke down camp and headed to our last Joshua Tree hike before the drive to Death Valley — Pine City.
We hiked probably about 2 miles through the desert before turning around. If we had gone farther, it would have gotten more interesting, but we did have places to be. What I’ll remember from our final hike in the park is the portion after which the marked trail ended. From there, we picked our path into a wash that led out to an expansive canyon. Choosing your route down a rocky and loose rock-strewn hillside is never an easy task, but we skidded our way to the wash and then proceeded maybe half a mile before picking a snack spot and turning around. The hike illustrated what I’d gotten a sense about Joshua Tree — that while there are marked trails, often times you can find your own path to that particular boulder or sweeping canyon view.
It’s an explorer’s paradise, and we only got a taste of it. But it was time for our next destination — Death Valley.
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Part III: Death Valley
Before reaching Death Valley, we had four-plus hours of driving. With G manning the wheel per usual — what can I say, the dude loves to drive! — I considered maybe taking a nap during the trip. Quickly, our surroundings put those thoughts to rest. The drive was spectacular because of the vastness around us.
Upon exiting Joshua Tree from the north, we weren’t sure whether we should go out of our way a bit to get gas. But I saw that there was a station in Amboy, a town 100 miles or so north of us directly on our route. We could make it to Amboy. That century of miles was something else, as we drove up and over a pass and then descended into a desert that seemingly went on forever in all directions. We kept going down, and down, and down. I was impressed when we passed a group of hard-core touring cyclists. With no services close to us and the midday heat bearing down, this wasn’t exactly an easy place to tour on a bike!
Finally, we made it to Amboy and the only discernible business in town — Roy’s Cafe/Motel (and gas). As we pulled in to the only pump, a grizzled man with plenty of apparent wear and tear inquired about how much fuel we needed (self-service, this was not). With the price $4.99 a gallon, we pondered for a moment how much we’d need to reach the next services, and we decided on $20.
More on Roy’s: This was a motorcyclists’ hangout, with dozens of guys and gals hanging around their bikes. I walked inside to pay for the gas, and bought a thing of sunscreen for $3 (steal of a deal!). While at the counter inside the dark cafe, which was pretty darn short on actual food, I asked about the quality of the tacos from the food truck outside. “Best tacos in town,” the burly man behind the counter chuckled. I walked over to the truck and bought three tacos, and they were pretty damn good. Amboy, in total, was G’s and my tiny western desert town experience of the trip. It was a combination of intriguing, depressing and entertaining.
With the blue sky dotted with wispy clouds, we continued north from Amboy and began driving through the Mojave National Preserve — seeing very few signs of life along the way. At the tip of the preserve, we stopped for gas at the intersection of Interstate 15 and the smaller road we’d been on. We were probably 90 minutes from Las Vegas, and many of the gift shop trinkets were Vegas-themed. But from there, we headed in the opposite direction for an attraction about as different from the glitz of Vegas as you can find.
Our introduction to the park was surreal and not at all what I’d expected. Instead of a still, vast desert greeting us, a raging windstorm said hello. Visibility was extremely poor as we entered the park on 190 from the east. There are a few campgrounds around Furnace Creek, the main hub in that portion of the contiguous United States’ largest national park, and we decided on the Furnace Creek site that sits right around sea level. We chose a site with trees that provided shelter from the wind, but here’s how crazy the gusts were: We didn’t even think about trying to set up the tents in the late-afternoon sandstorm (yes, the gales were sweeping up sand all around us).
Our campsite reserved at least, we decided to check out a lookout/hiking spot — Zabriskie Point, which is one of those spots where anyone can walk up the paved trail a couple hundred feet and take in views of Gower Gulch below. On a typical evening, the point is probably packed with people, but not this time around. As I walked up the path, I spread my arms to each side and tested the wind. 50mph gusts tried to push me from side to side. What a storm! The weather was nuts, but we weren’t about to allow it deny us an evening hike, so we ventured maybe three quarters of a mile into the gulch that during the late 19th and early 20th century contained mines, camps and roads. Nowadays, the path down to the wash cuts through lime-colored crusted walls. As we trekked down the wash, we heard distant thunderclaps.
Wait, what? Wind and now rain? In Death Valley?
Yes, indeed! Upon completing the ascent to the parking lot, a light rain began to fall. I couldn’t believe it and laughed in wonderment. The initial hours of our Death Valley experience taught Greg and me that truly, in any place, you can’t predict the weather.
As we drove back to Furnace Creek, the rain picked up. We decided that trying to do dinner outside would be near impossible. This was the night to take advantage of being close to the little village and its amenities. We would treat ourselves to a restaurant dinner! After I set up my tent in the rain (I wasn’t about to tackle such a task later in the night), we went to the saloon near the Furnace Creek Ranch and the park’s upscale visitors. We enjoyed an evening of drinks, nachos (subpar, though) and basketball on the two televisions in the establishment. The rain didn’t calm down until close to 9:30, but after hustling from the SUV — which G made into his sleeping place — to my tent’s dry interior, I had no problems falling asleep as the rain continued to patter on the tent’s exterior.
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I woke around 6 Thursday morning to a new Death Valley. Minimal wind. A beautiful sky full of clouds. This was going to be a spectacular day — I was sure of it. After walking around for a few minutes, I knocked on the car window to wake G up so we could drive somewhere with great views for breakfast. We took Badwater Road south, going lower and lower into the valley — the snow-capped peaks of the high range to our right, the smaller Amargosa Range to our left. After 8.5 miles, we turned onto Artists Drive, a one-way loop that took us up and through the lower reaches of the Amargosa. As the road twisted and turned to the top of the alluvial fan, we took in the many rock colors. It was like we were in a mini grand canyon.
After completing the 9.6-mile drive, we pulled over, grabbed the breakfast items (oatmeal packets, raisins, tea) and walked across Badwater Road to a pile of rocks that looked like good seats. And what a breakfast spot it was! Sitting there, gazing out across the flat-as-a-football-field floor at the mountains 8,000, 9,000 and 11,000 feet higher than us, I began to get a sense of just how dynamic, large and diverse Death Valley is.
And it was time to experience the place from some different perspectives. So we turned back north on Badwater, returned to Furnace Creek, and then pulled a sharp right on 190 to go south, again, but on the east side of the Amargosa to popular Dantes View at about 5,500 feet. As I stepped out of the car, I was reunited with the wind and layered up. The view from the parking lot was spectacular (such a common occurrence in national parks; you can take in so many incredible views without having to walk a mile … not that I would ever consider such a thing), but it got even better as we walked down the rocky trail. Views of the salt flats at Badwater (-282 feet, lowest elevation in the Western Hemisphere) opened up about 6,000 feet below us. If I didn’t know better, I would have confused the salt with snow. It was that white and wove patterns in the Mojave. Gazing north, the grove of trees at Furnace Creek stood out. And directly west, of course, stood Telescope Peak (11,050 feet) and the other high peaks of Death Valley.
The contrasts were striking, stunning, astonishing. What a place!
After shooting several photos and scrambling out to a few pointy rocky outcrops, we returned up the path to the car. The next stage of our all-encompassing Death Valley experience awaited us — it was time to visit the high peaks.
But the ranger at the Furnace Creek Visitor Center didn’t think that was a great idea. When I asked about the conditions on Wildrose Peak, our 9,065-foot potential destination for the afternoon, she informed me that the high peaks had received snow the previous day AND that the afternoon might bring more rain and/or snow at higher elevations. Our original plan to hike a ways up the 4.2-mile trail and camp was kibitzed. So we settled on an alternative plan: drive to the Wildrose trailhead and hike as far up the mountain as possible before conditions stop us. We returned to our campsite, packed up, reorganized the vehicle, and got going west.
The hour or so drive demonstrated the diversity of the park. We went from desert, to passing sand dunes, to nothing but green on both sides of the road (and in the distance, horses — I’m not sure if they were wild or not). After 2.2 miles on a wending dirt road, we arrived at the 7,000-foot trailhead around 1pm. There were two cars in the lot. It was 50 degrees outside. Fully expecting the trail to turn wintry within a couple miles, I packed everything — fleece, puffy coat, outer shell, winter hat, gloves, pants, wool socks. My backpack was heavy, but you can never be too prepared.
Of course, I hardly needed any of it (spoiler alert). As we walked up gradual switchbacks, the sun shone through the alpine pine trees, and I quickly undressed to my base layer. It barely mattered — within a mile and a half, I could feel sweat on my back. The contrasts between the trail and our experience in Death Valley to that point were striking. We had gone from a lifeless land to a place dotted with pinecones and green. I couldn’t believe we were in the same park!
After two miles including a needed snack break, the trail began curling to the north as it gained a ridge. We started to see views through the pines down into the valley where we had eaten breakfast just hours before. And after we cut another hard left, heading back west, openings in the trees allowed for glimpses of Telescope Peak some 3,000 feet above us. Immediately, the snow-covered mountain lodged in my mind as one of the most majestic, can’t-take-my-eyes-off summits I’ve ever viewed (and I’ve seen a few). All of the slopes build up symmetrically to the top. I relished each section of the trail where it came into sight.
We stopped about 3 miles up at a perfectly placed log for a beef jerky snack. While sitting, I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard humans coming down the trail. We had company! Sure enough, two people emerged from the pines smiling and not looking battered by any winter conditions. We learned soon enough from the retired married couple from Idaho that there was no snow atop Wildrose and that the climb up it wouldn’t be too difficult. Woohoo! I was elated. We had seen another couple on the lower reaches of the mountain who clearly hadn’t gone that far up, so these were the only other summit-ers. They said they were equally surprised to see us!
The rest of the journey up was switchbacks as we slowly gained the summit cone. It was grueling, but the top was oh, so close. And man, when I emerged from the pines and out into the open, the top some 100 yards ahead of me, it was one of those glorious moments I never forget from such hikes. As I walked toward the small, flat cairn marking the summit that G had already gained, I glanced in all directions and breathed in the 9,065-foot air: to the north, small peaks dotted the desert landscape; to the east, I stared 9,300 feet down to the salt flats; to the south, there was Telescope, looking ever more regal; and to the west, way in the distance, stood the Sierra Nevada. Holy cow!
In a matter of hours, we had gone from -200 to 9,065 feet. Not bad.
The temperature was still moderate (maybe in the low 50s or high 40s) with a mild wind. There were only small signs of a recent snowfall (including an interesting snow cactus). The mid-afternoon sky was perfect, the blue broken up nicely with puffy whites. G wrote an entry for us in the summit journal and I leafed through pages filled with hikers’ exuberant posts about making it to the summit during much harsher conditions. We broke out a full food and drink spread — cheese, crackers, rice cakes, peanut butter, mini Reese’s, Fireball — and dug in.
On the descent, the late-afternoon light created incredible shadows on the trailside trees as well as distant peaks and hills — the scenery continuing to impress. We strolled down the easy grade, arriving back at the car at 6:10. Not surprisingly, the Mercury was the only vehicle in the lot. We poked around in the interesting kiln huts adjacent to the lot, did some stretching, and then got back in the Mountaineer — fully content from a whale of a hike.
The drive to our campground for the night, Panamint Springs, didn’t disappoint, either. As we drove north on Emigrant Canyon Road, the evening sun bathed the grassy hills in a most beautiful light. I convinced G to pull over a couple times for photos. When we turned west back on 190 toward the campsite, the colors continued to impress. The final completely flat stretch across Panamint Dry Lake was spectacular, the dunes we would hike the next day appearing tiny to our right and the desert floor extending for miles to our left. We passed by a honeymoon-looking couple taking photos in the waning light and I again had to stop to shoot some myself. What a place.
The Panamint Springs site is privately owned, and we had to stop at the gas station across the road from the campground to book it. But the site was pretty cool, our space right on the edge overlooking the dunes and the surrounding desert. It was dark by the time we set up our tents in another windstorm (not quite as bad as the night before, but still pretty fierce) and dinner wasn’t just about cooking and eating but also not letting anything blow away. We succeeded. Then G beat me in quite possibly the longest game of Uno ever played on Earth (I kid you not). In the 90-minute marathon game, during which I had a plethora of down-to-one-card opportunities, G prevailed by sticking to his “Keep my Skip Cards” strategy. Skip, skip, skip, and boom. Just like that, I was done. Lights out. Bedtime.
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I awoke at 6 just as the sun crested Panamint Butte (6,585 feet) on the other side of the dry lake. Waking up to sunlight in a beautiful setting is the absolute best way to start a day. Instantly, I felt alive and excited for what lay ahead — our last adventure. After a final breakfast, breaking down camp, and setting up G’s hammock for the first time on the trip — hey, it needed to get at least some use — we drove back across the dry lake, our eyes peeled for an unmarked road on the left side that would lead toward those miniscule-looking, far-off Panamint Dunes. We had to slow down considerably and some rumbling semi trucks (yes, Death Valley is so huge that semis travel through it) barreled past us, but we did find the completely nondescript dirt road to the north.
I didn’t time it, but the 5.6-mile drive probably took half an hour (makes sense, considering we were going at about a 10mph clip). At one point, I got out of the Mercury and ran the road, keeping up with G for over half a mile. That was after we passed an old, incredibly rusted car off the road riddled with bullet holes. As we continued into the desert, completely alone and off the beaten path, we theorized about fate of the car. Mobster murder? Desert shootout? Someone who just really hated the car? It’s worth noting that Death Valley National Park is just 22 years old (crazy, right?), and it’s conceivable that the bullet-filled car met its fate during the pre-national park days.
Anyway…
At exactly 5.6 miles as the map and trail book suggested, we came to a small parking lot marked by a perimeter of rocks. At 8:30am, it was time to hike. There was no path, nor was a path needed. The dunes sat 3 miles of desert to the northwest of us, still looking small. Our Camelbacks full of water and with a thick layer of sunscreen applied, we began our trek through a volcanic-rock littered desert. Getting an early start was important, as the sun was already bearing down on us but not too bad. As we walked, we made guesses as to the number of lizards we’d see, setting the over-under at, I believe, 16.5. The lizards we did see were incredibly fast, darting between the tiny desert shrubs so quickly that I often questioned what I was seeing. I was surprised by how much plant life I saw in such a brutal place to grow — little straw plants, a few colorful wildflowers, and even some green flora inhabited the sand.
Finally, after 2 miles, we could comfortably say that, yes, we were getting close to the dunes and that they were legitimate and large. I’ll have a hard time describing the next hour or so, but I’ll try. Gaining elevation at a gradual grade, we emerged from the plant-strewn desert into a sand-lovers paradise. Ripples in the sand indicated how it’d been windswept, but on this day everything was calm. The only signs of life were tiny animal imprints in the sand (nothing big; most likely from lizards or, dare I say, snakes). The beginning of the range was marked by a handful of short, mostly flattened dunes that we strode up between. Eyes were set on the large, perfectly pointy bad boys that served as the backdrop to the rest of the sand structures.
Upon reaching the base of the largest dune, I began climbing up its pointed spine, and the going was not easy. Never before have I treaded so lightly (thankfully, we hadn’t eaten lunch yet), trying to keep from sinking. Some steps, I was successful. Others, I failed. But I made it all the way to the top of one dune, where another spine ran to my left and the top of another big boy. This is where I pivoted 180 degrees, gazed down at all of the sand and nothing else — except for G — and laughed.
WHAT A FREAKIN’ PLACE!!!
We had it all to ourselves. Nothing else stirred. No noises. Nothing. After a few moments of taking in the otherworldly, I continued along the upper spine — talk about ridge hiking! — before reaching another dune intersection. I yelled down to G to take a video of me as I then proceeded to run down a few hundred feet to him. That run was crazy, as each step varied in its firmness. I either felt like I was stepping on concrete or sinking in sand. Thankfully, I stayed balanced and exhilarated all the way down through the basin and to G in the area in between the lower and upper dunes.
We ate a final glorious lunch under the sun and I took my shoes off for the first time, the sand not too hot — not yet, at least — for my toes. As I stared out at just everything, I tried to focus my mind on simply enjoying the moment. Forget everything else in the world. Worries. Work. Family. Social life. Etc. Nothing else mattered. In that moment, in that place, anything was possible and everything was perfect. The sand. The surrounding mountains. The rice cakes and peanut butter. The refreshing water.
The return trip was a slog, the desert heating with each step, it seemed, but I was able to go barefoot for the first mile or so. We ended up seeing 19 lizards and a black-tailed jackrabbit, one of 56 mammals that survive in Death Valley. The drive was uneventful, and the bullet car was still there.
Love. This. Place.
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Speaking of love, San Diego continued to show me plenty of it during my final day in the great city. With Sara back from a retreat, we all had another great breakfast at Cardamom. Then after helping Greg and Sara move stuff from their current residence to their new house, we all headed to the beach for a final hurrah. I swam twice at Sunset Beach and threw the tennis ball countless times to the tireless Gatsby, enjoying top-notch company, an impeccable sunset, and a very desirable place. I can’t say I’m moving anytime soon, but San Diego and this trip left me wanting more.
What will I remember most?
The dunes, definitely. Wildrose. Joshua Tree’s countless boulders. G’s fires. Every great meal. San Diego’s food. Sunset Beach. The lizards. Gatsby’s energy. Death Valley’s crazy weather. Amboy, our desert town experienced. The cacti. The wildflowers. The campsites. The whiskey. And so much more.
What a trip! Thank you, Greg and Sara, for making it a reality, hosting me, and being a part of it during your busy lives! I wouldn’t have done it without you!
— Jake, 5.30.16
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Great trip, Jake. Death Valley is on our wish list. We've spent one day at Joshua Tree, and I'd be happy to go back for more.
ReplyDeleteOutstanding! I was there and I still enjoyed reading every single word of this!
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