So many ways this could go...

Bless me travel gods, for I have sinned.  It has been three weeks since my last proper blog post and in that time I have taken the name of travel in vain, had impure thoughts about Antarctica, and acted in a slothful manner as regards packing and planning. 

In short, before setting off this morning I should have known there was going to have to be some sort of sacrifice made in order to get things straight between us.  That is where Death Valley comes in. 

Now, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t go to Death Valley as a form of penance.   I have always wanted to go to Death Valley.  I went to Clemson after all.  It is practically a requirement that at some point in your life you go to our stadium’s namesake and take a photo with the sign.  Plus, Death Valley is a national park and as most of you know by now, I have a thing for NPs.  And it has such a cute name. 

Before anyone asks, no I did not go on any hikes.  I will barely hike in Griffith Park, a place with the sweet lazy word park right there in the title.  Did you really think I would be dumb enough to hike in a place with death in the power position? 

I have not so much a ritual as a code of conduct when it comes to national parks.  Once I pass the sign (and almost always I will stop for a picture), I turn off the radio, roll down the windows, and barely speed.  Most NPs have a really low speed limit but it is there so that you can drive slowly while taking in the view.  Plus in a lot of national parks you should drive slowly to avoid wildlife such as deer and campers.  I started out in good faith with DV.  Two hours in I cracked and rolled up the windows for some AC time.  I could not bring myself to speed though.  Even going the speed limit of 60 (unheard of for the main thoroughfare of a national park) seemed exhausting.

What I realized around hour three in the park was that it had pretty much sapped my will to live.  The sand dunes were lovely.  The salt flats were salty.  You can bet your booty I made it to the lowest elevation in North America. What I really truly wanted was to get out.  The guide books warn you right up front that you should take maps with a grain of salt.  The information is correct, it is just that nothing is as close as it seems.  When I caved and turned on the AC I had just finally made it ¾ of the way across the skinny part of the park and was about to head south for a 17 mile detour.  On the map the skinny part is about two inches across.  The long part is six or seven.  At this point I was grateful for three things:  1) that my AC is in glorious working order, 2) that I had filled up with gas at the last service station [this is always nice when encountering signs that say ‘next services 67 miles (or 72 miles, or 167 miles – all signs I have seen in the last 24 hours)], and 3) that I am in a car at all.  There are signs everywhere about the original Death Valley 49s -poor bastards who had tried to find a shortcut through DV to the gold fields of California.  There is a marker where the less brazen gave up and headed north.  There is a marker where those who continued on burned their wagons and proceeded on foot.   I left the park about an hour and a half after that and have never been so happy in my life as when I saw the Nevada state line sign.  Bullet holes and all.

When I finally got to the campground I managed to set up my tent in under ten minutes (a personal best and long cry from last year’s initial attempt which took an hour), and tucked myself in next to my pepper spray shortly afterward.  I also decided that next year I will not be spending high noon on the first day of summer in the hottest point in all of North America.