Death Valley Colors

At the base of a large alluvial fan, Mesquite Springs Campground sheltered a collection of gnarled trees, a dump station, a couple campers and ten small tents. A woman dressed in sweats climbed out the doorway of one, stretched and visibly shivered. Clouds blanketed Death Valley, keeping the ground a cool 50 degrees. We sipped our morning coffee and munched granola bars.
"We're going to walk the two miles around the volcano crater," announced Andy, pulling into the parking lot at Ubehebe Crater.
"Oh goodie!" I told him. The wind picked up as we started up the first rise along the rim. I pulled the cord on my windbreaker hood a little tighter.
"This is the one place I figured a high probability of sun every day," called Andy from the top.
I watched my feet going up the hill. Little clouds of ash poofed up with each step. Then the volcanic ash changed to cinders. I could hear the crunch in spite of the wind. Poof, poof, step. Crunch, crunch, step. Puff, puff, breathe. I climbed; the crater dropped straight down on both sides.
"Come on, you can do it!" shouted Andy from the top edge.
Cheerleader Andy, I thought.
"You can't fall here," he yelled.
"You don't think so?" I challenged. "You oughtn't to test that one." I stayed in the middle, with a foot of trail on each side and 500 feet straight down.
"It's easy," he yelled again. "Stay on the edge where the ground is harder."
"I don't think so," I called back. Not on your life, I said to myself and just kept climbing.
An hour later we had circled Little Hebe, a half mile from the parking lot, and Ubehebe, two miles from the car. Only four or five other visitors had been specks in the distance at "Waso, Coyote's Burden Basket," this 2,000-year old place of sacred inspiration for the Timbisha Shoshone peoples.
"Experience Your America!" The words introduced the trail guide at Scotty's Castle. So we did--experience our America, that is. The mile-long self-guided Tie Canyon Trail wound around the castle grounds at Death Valley Ranch and into the hills nearby, where construction workers had lived in the 1920's and where Walter Scott, miner and castle construction foreman, and his dog Windy are buried. The tribute to Scotty from the 49ers included his own words: I got four things to live by: Don't say nothing that will hurt anybody. Don't give advice; nobody will take it anyway. Don't complain. Don't explain.Even though railroad tycoon Albert Johnson wised up to Scotty's "gold mine" stories, the two left a lasting reminder of days gone by and of their unlikely friendship at the north end of Death Valley. We have toured Scotty's Castle inside before, but walks outside at Ubehebe and the Castle were prohibitively sweltering during trips gone by. Not so today.
We bumped along the dirt road toward Mesquite Dunes. Andy pulled over for a jeep to exit. "We might as well get out for a picture," I suggested.
He walked around toward the passenger side of Little Red. "What's this?" he asked, pointing to a dry piece of wood sticking up from the ground. It looked like what was left of an interpretive sign post on the dirt road to the original well, identified by a stovepipe. "Oh my, it's a grave!"

I traced my finger gently over each letter to read the carving: Val Nolan, died 1931, buried here Nov. 6, 1931, a victim of the elements. Poor Nolan, only a thousand feet away from water and probably safety at the well between Rhyolite, Nevada, and Skidoo, California. He (maybe she) died about 100 feet below sea level in the middle of Death Valley. Only our inadvertent stop identified the unlikely marker and reinforced the harsh realities of this dangerous yet beautiful land. Breathtaking in every way!

Salt Creek Trail, an extensive boardwalk between hills, followed Salt Creek, home to one of ten distinct varieties of pup fish. We didn't see any in what remained of Salt Creek, but an interpretive sign said the fish often don't live a whole year. Their home, the remnant of the huge Lake Man from the Ice Age, dries up after the mating season. The eggs hatch with spring rains. Regardless, the colorful pickleweed, the occasional killdeer, the winding boardwalk and the sun breaking through cloud layers all painted a lovely panorama.

Even more beautiful, the setting sun turned the eastern mountain slopes pink as we climbed the sand dunes to watch. "In all the times we have been to Death Valley," said Andy, "I can't think of a single evening that was not pleasant."

About five ridges away from the road and out of view of the parking lot, I thought, how easy to get disoriented and lost. Maybe that was what happened to poor Val Nolan in 1931. But today Death Valley drew silent admiration from visitors on other nearby dunes, their cars only some sand hills away.