"He picked the right place," said Andy as we climbed into Little Red. "Death Valley at Furnace Creek Weather Station averages less than two inches of precipitation a year.
Chilly morning temperatures greeted us at the Devil's Golf Course, an interpretive spot in the salt flats of Death Valley. Far above us, Telescope Peak at 11,049 feet stood snow-capped. As we picked our way among the clumps of jagged rock and deposits of gypsum, calcium, borax and sodium chloride, another car barreled down the gravel road. "I wonder what's his big hurry," commented Andy.
"He has an early tee-time, I figure," I said.
Andy chickened out on the road to Natural Bridge after the first mile of solid washboard bumps, mostly because of the story we heard yesterday about a family towed from the sands near Teakettle Junction after being stuck. They had been considered lost by the police for three days. The manager at Stovepipe Wells General Store reported it cost $2,500 to pull out their camper truck.
Badwater, 282 feet below sea level and the lowest point in the western hemisphere, got its name from a fluke on a surveyor's map. The surveyor labeled the spot bad water, because his mule refused to drink. The name stuck. "We could walk across Death Valley here," I suggested, only half in jest.
"Well, if you want to," said Andy. "It's five miles. Distances are deceiving."
"Five miles one way? I guess not."
We hiked out over the flat salt path a good half mile. Under our feet closer to the road the salt, moistened with ground water, mushed like an ice-treated driveway. Farther out, where the bed of sodium chloride stretched completely dry, our steps crunched the pure white crystals. We looked for the endangered Badwater snail in the pools near the visitor pullout. It's hard to imagine it lives in a tiny puddle of salty water surrounded by a few pickleweed bushes in only one place in the whole world. We didn't see any.
Ashford Mill, stark and lonely against lava mountains, stood in crumbled ruins at the south end of Death Valley, a reminder of prospecting days gone by. Here with igneous mountains on both sides, miners smelted gold ore before it left the valley. "Do you remember this spot?" asked Andy. "It was probably 1983 and workers repaved this road. We got stuck here maybe 20 minutes, waiting behind the asphalt trucks, and the sun blazed down. Miserable."
We hiked out over the flat salt path a good half mile. Under our feet closer to the road the salt, moistened with ground water, mushed like an ice-treated driveway. Farther out, where the bed of sodium chloride stretched completely dry, our steps crunched the pure white crystals. We looked for the endangered Badwater snail in the pools near the visitor pullout. It's hard to imagine it lives in a tiny puddle of salty water surrounded by a few pickleweed bushes in only one place in the whole world. We didn't see any.
Ashford Mill, stark and lonely against lava mountains, stood in crumbled ruins at the south end of Death Valley, a reminder of prospecting days gone by. Here with igneous mountains on both sides, miners smelted gold ore before it left the valley. "Do you remember this spot?" asked Andy. "It was probably 1983 and workers repaved this road. We got stuck here maybe 20 minutes, waiting behind the asphalt trucks, and the sun blazed down. Miserable."
"Was that when Tara drank the beer?" I asked, noticing a sign near the road about radiator water.
"Yes, I think so," said Andy. "When Tara saw the sign for radiator water, she whined that she was so thirsty. We told her to get something from the cooler. She did, only she took a Coors Light and drank the whole can, unbeknown to us until after she finished it. She was about six then."
"She slept the next two hours," I said. "I remember that, and Drew didn't even want a sip."
"No," said Andy. "He didn't like beer... then."
We drove past the Black Mountains through Jubilee Pass at 1,290 feet to Salsberry Pass at 3,315 feet before turning around. At one point a lone coyote stood in the road. "He's a young one," said Andy. The animal walked back and forth in front of Little Red three or four times, trying to decide which side of our vehicle offered less of a threat. "It's very young and really naïve," said Andy.
"It's not going to live long if hit doesn't learn fast," I said, "but at least its mom's taught it to look both ways." 
We wondered if its behavior was prompted by tourists who had tossed goodies from car windows or if its motivation was actually starvation or just unbridled curiosity. The animal looked fairly healthy.
We wondered if its behavior was prompted by tourists who had tossed goodies from car windows or if its motivation was actually starvation or just unbridled curiosity. The animal looked fairly healthy.
Before heading back to Stovepipe Wells, five feet above sea level, we braved Natural Bridge Road again. Little Red chugged over and around the ominous pot holes at 5 m.p.h. Five other cars made it to the canyon parking lot before us, much to our surprise. The mile-long trail, inches deep in loose pebbles, followed the run-off stream bed under a natural bridge and dead ended at a dry falls of polished rock. The setting sun peeked over yellow canyon walls for a beautiful end to a lovely day.
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