We were tired, cold, tired of being cold. All summer long, our weekend getaways were plagued with snow, freezing rain, east wind, and grey skies. In dyer need of warmth and sunshine, we headed to the Valley of Death (as my brother calls it), to hike, explore, and warm our bones.
Two pairs of shorts, a couple of Tees, flip flops, hiking boots, and 10 gallons of water, the Jeep was loaded and ready to hit the highway.
As we lost elevation, we turned off the heater and rolled down the windows. When we pulled into Lone Pine, we bared the bonnet. With the top of the Jeep off, the warm wind felt good against our faces. And then, we dropped into Panamint Valley, gale-force winds, 60mph, kicking up sand, blasting our windshield and finding refuge in every nook and cranny of the Wrangler, our clothes, our duffles, our food, and our windblown tangled hair. But did we stop and don the roof? No, we’re mountain people, wind, nor sand will slow us from our mission.
When the brutal east wind brought the desert temperatures tumbling down to the point of turning our skin to purple goosebumps, we pulled over, wrestled with the roof, and strapped down the cargo. We were FREEZING! We were frozen humans suffering in a fog of sand and mighty wind in the middle of the hottest place on earth.
That evening our dog Ansel refused to vacate the Jeep, choosing it over the tent that was lifting and whipping back and forth. In the morning, there was a calm after the storm. Herb rose and made coffee while I pretended to sleep. Usually, when Ansel hears the rustling of the coffee maker, he’s up and ready for his morning walk. Nope, not that morning, it was cold, like mountain winter cold.
Should we leave, or should we go? Ansel voted to leave; it turns out he hates the desert. At that moment, I hated the desert, and I’m a desert-loving mountain woman. The vote was two to one, and the popular vote was readying for the trip home. And then the one vote, the nay vote that had the keys to the escape vehicle, reasoned we had driven so far, battling flesh-eating bugs, ravaging winds, and pelting grains of sand encased in frost, he preached to us, we must go on. Life is an adventure, and adventure was waiting for us in the bowels of the Valley of Death. Ansel, the obedient dog and a too tired to argue wife boarded the Wrangler, like good soldiers, and headed east.
Two weeks later, I’m still tired and not yet warm, so I am going to end this miserable tale with the art that I found in Death Valley National Park.