Yosemite Sam Don't Give a Death Valley Damn

"When you get to the top of a mountain, keep climbing." - Zen proverb

We lost cell phone reception shortly after entering Death Valley. The dashboard thermometer gave a reading of 96 degrees Fahrenheit, and it was early yet. A steep, winding road through the Black Mountains took us 5,500 feet up to Dante's View overlooking the Badwater basin, which at 282 feet below sea-level is the lowest surface point in North America. What looked like mystical stretches of lakewater was in fact salt deposit. From here we could look down on birds in flight. Amid the arid desert soil grew one solitary purple flower.

When we told the ranger at the Death Valley Visitor Center we intended to visit the dunes, he puffed out his cheeks and replied "Ooo, it's going to be hot out there." In fact venturing onto the desert dunes was literally like standing next to an open oven cranked to full blast. It was easily 105 degrees and the sand was blistering. Tracks were routinely swept away by the wind, and it was easy to envision yourself as last man on earth in some apocalyptic deathscape.

Speaking of which, northwest of Death Valley lies the Manzanar Internment Camp where the Japanese were rounded up during WWII. Nothing really left of it but a guard house and a memorial sign with Nazi-esque lettering. The word manzanar, incidentally, translates from Spanish as "apple orchard."

We passed near Mount Whitney, tallest mountain in the United States, though had to guess which one it was. When you're driving alongside a mountain range, all of the peaks look pretty damn tall. When you hear something is the tallest whatever, you expect it to stand alone, towering mightily over its peers. But in a mountain range the designated "tallest" might be in the lead by only a few meters. Less impressive somehow. An intervehicular dispute was sparked over what constituted a "sawtooth peak."

You can't venture any significant distance in Yosemite without hitting a majestic rock formation or waterfall. The landmarks are plentiful - Cathedral Rock, Bridalveil Falls, the oft-scaled El Captian with the heart-shaped cleft in its side, the Half Dome, Glacier Point. We hiked up to Sentinel Dome, elevation 8,122 feet, arriving at the peak just as dusk was setting in, which made for some dramatic photography. Attempting to capture on film a panoramic view such as the Sentinel Dome provides is frustrating. The camera lens simply cannot see what the eye can. Imagine watching Lawrence of Arabia on pan-and-scan, where the sweeping deserts become little more than a sandbox.

Night had fallen by the time we returned to the car. No deer jumped out in front of us on our way down the precarious mountainside road, but we did spot a white wolf prowling the roadside. A billboard notice at our campground warned of a mountain lion which had been spotted in the park earlier in the week. I lay in my tent well into the night wondering whether it would be a bear, a wolf, or a mountain lion which finally would get me as I slept. The night-time temperature dropped as low as 35 degrees.



The second day we set out early on a sixteen mile hike (eight miles each way) to the top of the notorious Half Dome. The first four miles were mostly vertical ones, making demands on muscles that are seldom called upon in citylife. Jagged rocks slick with spray formed steps up the side of the roaring cascade. Sometimes there was a guard rail, sometimes not. When we reached the top of the falls we looked down at an elegant rainbow spanning the gorge.

There were noticeably less people around during the second four miles. Anyone beyond this point was in it for the long haul. At a junction we stopped for a lunch of crackers and cheese and dried mango. We achingly reached the final ascent where the air was growing noticeably thinner. Snaggletoothed stone steps were cut in the sheer face of the mountain, waggling erratically to the crest. Glancing down was a bad idea. At an elevation of 8,800 feet, one misplaced footing would be a fatal mistake. I don't know about fear of heights, but let's just say I have a healthy respect for them. Unbelievably, at the top of the steps there was farther to go. Steel cables allowed the insane to hoist themselves up the vertical face of the rock to the absolute top of the Half Dome. A mad German in goggles, running shorts, and no supplies whatsoever who had breezed past us on the trail earlier pulled himself effortlessly up to the top of the world. The week before, a woman had lost her grip on the cables and fallen a thousand feet to her death.

I came down the mountain with eyes trained directly on the steps ahead, making a concentrated effort to block out all peripheral vision. The endless eight miles back to civilization were murder on my legs. Every step was a searing poker driven through my heel and deep into my calf. The first eight miles had been almost entirely uphill, which meant the way back was nearly all down. When your legs are screaming in pain, downhill is nearly as bad as up, because you land heavily with each step on the very same muscles you wore out on the way up. Not to mention you have to watch your footing on the littered fragments of rock to avoid fracturing an ankle. That night we collapsed into sleep the instant heads connected with pillows.

The next day began with a drive down to the Sequoias to see the General Sherman Tree, which is billed as the largest tree in the world, in terms of mass. Didn't seem particularly impressive to me, and I was skeptical that every tree on the planet has been properly cataloged to allow such a bold statement. Climbed to a 6,700-foot vista called Moro Rock to look out over the entire universe. This time there were plenty of secure guard rails. We intended to visit the Crystal Cave but missed the last tour by half an hour.

Outside of Lancaster in the Mojave Desert we located the Antelope Valley Poppy Reserve. Unfortunately it must have been a bad season, for the place was deserted and there was nary a poppy in sight. Lancaster is probably best known as the home of the Edwards Air Force Base and SpaceShipOne, but to me the town has more significance as the place where Frank Zappa and Captain Beefheart met. It's pretty obvious how much the Mojave Desert inspired much of the dusty Americana of Beefheart's lyrics.

Wind powered turbines lined the hills on either side of the road leading to Los Angeles. Soon we became ensnared in urban freeway traffic and left the hinterlands behind.