issue #9 Death Valley is Seriously Trippy

Five days in one of the hottest driest places on Earth

The desert is a vast, silent realm where mysteries abound, and the secrets of the ages are whispered by the winds…

~unknown

Sunset at Zabriski Point. I would return the following morning alone, and experience one of the highlights of the trip…

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The first time I visited Death Valley, I felt like I spent the entire trip shielding my eyes from the blinding glare of the sun while hiding beneath rock walls to protect myself from the relentless wind and blowing sand. The desert didn’t open her arms to me, and I struggled to find and appreciate the sublime beauty of one of the hottest and driest places on earth.

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Fading light at the Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes.

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This time was different. Our journey into this surreal landscape felt like it began as we entered the park from the south. Driving along the Panamint Valley road, the Panamint range, for which it’s named, towered above us to our right, it's scale hard to comprehend. The rich blue sky was dotted with immaculate white clouds, and the multihued rocks that comprised the mountain walls created a kaleidoscopic scene around us.

To the north, we could see a deep cirque of mountain peaks, where the range bends to the west. At the upper end of the valley, on a steep rise in the plain, the Panamint dunes glowed in an ethereal beam of light. The compact dune field is one of the most remote on the continent, and its commanding position at the head of the valley reminded us of the ruins of an ancient civilization. The pyramidal shapes of the largest dunes appeared as crumbling monuments in an otherworldly landscape.

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Retreating to the car to escape the midday heat.

View from the tent at sunset.

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Death Valley National Park is huge. From the entrance to the central zone of campsites and amenities at Furnace Creek, it's a 50-mile drive across barren terrain. Looking out the car window, especially during the day when the sun is at its height, the land is a bleak, burning white dreamscape where distances are muddled and objects seem to vibrate in the haze. I couldn’t stop thinking about how dangerous it would be to enter the backcountry of the park unprepared and have something happen, like getting a flat tire.

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Sunrise on the Panamint Mountain Range.

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Our first evening was spent in an overflow campsite, which I was initially disappointed about, but quickly learned to love as the sun dipped and the distant mountain peaks were bathed in a glow that faded from yellow to red. In the last hour of day, the colors of the landscape were revealed in endless shades ranging from rich, deep reds to almost unnatural-seeming purples and turquoise hues.

Over the next few days, we learned to readjust our schedule to take advantage of the best desert light and make the most of the optimal time to explore, i.e. we learned to get up early, bask in the morning glow radiating across the peaks and valleys, then hide out in the shade until late afternoon when we’d venture out again and wander among canyons and flats stretching to the horizon.

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Golden Canyon. The canyons in Death Valley can provide respite from the midday sun and heat.

Near the “Red Cathedral” at the top of Golden Canyon.

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A highlight for me was rising in the dark, crawling out of the tent alone in a predawn gale that shook the rainfly violently, and driving straight to the iconic area known as Zabriski Point. On our previous trip, I didn't visit this spot due to its popularity—I opted for less crowded areas—but this time around, I knew I didn't want to miss it. I arrived at the parking area as the sky morphed into a deep blue, and the overlapping folds of earth for which the area is famous slowly started to become visible. I knew I didn't want to place my tripod next to all the other tourists and photographers who were sure to start showing up, so I scrambled up a hillside to the north and began to traverse a small trail up and around a knife-edge ridge, farther and farther from the parking lot. The huge basin, comprised of ancient lakebed sediments, fell away to my left in a pattern of colors and swirls on a scale that I couldn't comprehend. The parking area receded behind me, and the few other people who had risen on the cold windy morning to watch the sunrise shrank until I could barely see them.

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Predawn light at Zabriski Point.

After I found the solitude I needed, I perched on a ledge overlooking the landscape below and paused to watch the cosmic light show that was about to illuminate the scene. Beneath my dangling feet were the psychedelic rock formations of Zabriski Point. Beyond, in the middle ground, barren rock mountains jutted into the sky, and miles away, in the farthest distance, the highest peaks of the Panamint mountains were just beginning to glow. A pastel pink light filtered through the desert haze, slowly working its way across the scene from the east. I squinted my watery eyes in the icy wind and wrapped myself tightly in my down jacket. The scene moved me on a deep level, and I felt connected with an ancient version of the American landscape that is increasingly difficult to find and experience in our modern world.

Gazing around in all directions, I could see rugged mountain ranges and deep valleys proudly receding into the distance. The only sound was that of the wind. No one joined me on my desolate little ridge, but in the distance, I could see a few more tiny dots slowly making the trek up to the main viewpoint half a mile away. The trivial details and worries of my life—that typically occupy too much space in my mind—seemed to evaporate into the dry, wind-blown vista stretched before me. The panorama fully captivated my senses, and the spirit of the desert seemed to prevent any insignificant thoughts from distracting me from the present moment.

I stayed until the sun crested the ridges to the east, and the light immediately increased to a powerful glare that would last until the late afternoon. I rose and trekked back down the ridge, looking forward to coffee and breakfast back in camp.

Sunrise at Zabriski Point. I quickly learned that it’s worth it to make the effort to see the iconic spots during times of day when the sun is low in the sky.

The swirls and colors at Zabriski Point are the settled silt remains from an ancient lakebed. Notice the small dot near the center of the frame - a person.

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The next few days were spent lounging and relaxing at our campsite, as well as exploring some off-the-beaten-track canyons. I found myself falling in tune with the planetary rhythms that define life in Death Valley. Initially, the afternoons spent hiding from the scorching sun felt painfully long, and I fought against restlessness. However, as our last few days approached, I found myself relishing the downtime. I enjoyed watching lizards dart around the camp, and witnessing the rare desert flowers swaying in the wind next to our tent. My mind was calm and contemplative, and the vast expanse of wilderness energized and refreshed me. 

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Uliana wandering the surreal landscape in the late afternoon.

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The nights were spent under a flickering canopy of stars, and I felt like I spent more time gazing upward than I had in many years. The bright moon was beautiful, but it also made me long for a return visit when the skies would be even darker, offering a chance to see the Milky Way stretching from horizon to horizon. Stepping out of the tent each morning was a joy, a chance to revel in a landscape so far removed from my ordinary day-to-day existence. I could have easily stayed longer than five days, but we were running out of food and knew our time was limited.

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An unnamed vista along Artist Drive in Death Valley.

Tourists scramble on the hillsides surrounding Zabriski Point.

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On our final night, I took a moonlit walk around the campground. The sandy washes and scrub brush through which the campsites were spaced were clearly visible in the moonlight. I saw families sitting around campfires, simply enjoying each other's company with soft, rhythmic conversations, while smoke from the fires rose in straight columns into the clear, windless night. A coyote darted across the road in front of me, no doubt scavenging from unattended picnic tables. There is almost no cell service in Death Valley, and during my walk, I had a profound reminder of what life was like before smartphones and devices took over our world. I didn't see a single face illuminated by a glowing screen or hear any sounds emanating from electronic devices. I couldn't help but feel like I was walking through one of the vintage national park posters I had seen in the gift shop earlier in the day.

The next morning, we were subdued and quiet on our drive back to the coast. The empty space of those expansive valleys seemed to have penetrated our minds and imaginations. The modern and civilized world we passed along the highways seemed loud and chaotic, filled with mindless distractions and meaningless concerns. As we rounded the southern tip of the mountains near Bakersfield, the landscape changed back to green, and the desert faded into the rearview mirror. Glancing over my shoulder, I felt waves of that particular nostalgia that occurs when you know it will be a while before you return to a place that's dear to your heart. Death Valley became that type of place for me on this trip. I look forward to once again hearing the siren call of the desert.

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Uliana miles out into the Mesquite Flats Sand Dunes at sunset.

A dust storm blowing across the valley. An hour later we would be engulfed by it and have to run for the car.

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Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this post! I’d love to hear more from my readers about what interests you. Is it personal life updates? Trip reports and stories from past adventures? As always my goal is to bring you refreshing and inspiring content!

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