The Panamint Range shimmers over Death Valley/Lee Dalton

Tortured. Tormented. Twisted. Schizophrenic. That'™s Death Valley'™s geology and geomorphic history. A tangled stratigraphy that doesn'™t have sensible stratifications.

Faults that interrupt other faults and bend rocks into grotesque patterns that don'™t have patterns. A place that could keep geologists studying and writing and mapping and arguing for as long as the millennia it took to create the place.

And that is just for starters.

A place of emptiness and beauty. A place so different than what most visitors expect the first time they drive down one of the long swooping curving lines of asphalt that take them into a place so apart from anything they'™ve experienced anywhere else that they are at a loss to find words that can describe it.

There'™s a name for this long, deep valley that bottoms out 282 feet below sea level. It came from Germany where the earliest study of geomorphology began. Death Valley is a graben '” a grave. Appropriate. The mountains on either side are horsts, those piles of dirt that flank a fresh grave before a coffin is lowered and the hole is filled. Also appropriate.

Once upon a time a continent moving westward crunched and crumbled its western margin as immense forces of friction and compression contorted it and bent it and shoved row after row of mountains upward. A vast expanse. Then the movement slowed and compression was replaced somehow by a time of tension as the continent tried to adjust itself into some sort of equilibrium. Between uplifted mounds of  mountainous rock, wide valleys began to form and drop becoming hundreds of graben spread from the Wasatch Mountains of Utah to the Sierra Nevada.

A place we call the Great Basin.

Death Valley was near the westernmost edge of all that. It took the brunt of the collision and crumpled like the front bumper and hood of a car that just met a semi-truck head on. It must have been one heck of a wreck.

CAMPGROUNDS

All Death Valley'™s National Park Service campgrounds are pretty basic. Some are simply spaces on flat ancient lakebeds. Some don'™t even have picnic tables. I hole up at Texas Springs in Furnace Creek. It'™s the fanciest of all with flush toilets, fire pits and tables. Mesquite, up toward Scotty'™s Castle is similar and perhaps about the most like a campground of all the park'™s campgrounds. When I arrive a couple of days before Christmas, there are plenty of open sites. The day after Christmas, that all changes as we enter one of the busiest times of the park'™s year. When I leave on the 28th, every campsite seems to be in use.

There are some concession operated camps at Furnace Creek and Stovepipe Wells that have hookups, but even they are not very fancy. Death Valley simply isn'™t a very fancy place and I like it that way.

SCOTTY'™S CASTLE

No trip to Death Valley can be complete without a tour of Scotty'™s Castle. The last stop on the tour in the music room is worth the entire trip by itself. That'™s all I'™ll say about Scotty'™s Castle except to add that there'™s a modest fee for tours. Get there early to be sure you'™ll find a tour with space available. Whatever you do, don'™t skip this place.

OUT TO THE RACETRACK

I'™ve wanted to visit the place where rocks move ever since I first heard of it. I ask at the visitor center and a volunteer tells me to be careful. Bits of chert, a variety of flint, hide in the road to the Racetrack. They dig into tires. Flatten more than one and you'™re in deep chert. A tow out from there starts at $2500. He tells me that many people go on out anyway and most survive with tires intact, but . .

. . eight ply tires are about the minimum for safety'™s sake. Mine are four ply. I argue with myself. Do I dare risk it?

Then I notice Farabee'™s Jeep rental place behind the Furnace Creek gas station. I inquire. A day'™s rent is reasonable '“ $240 to $290 '“ plus gas. They send you off in a Jeep with ten ply tires and a Spot device that can send a satellite signal to them if you need help. They will come to your rescue and it won'™t cost half of your children'™s inheritance.

I reserve a Jeep for Christmas Day.

Back in camp, I invite a couple from Colorado with whom I'™ve become acquainted. Christmas morning early, Bob and Lisa Eakle climb into the Jeep with me and we head out past Ubehebe Crater and the road to the Racetrack. It'™s a long and rough road and I find myself relieved that I'™m beating up someone else'™s outfit and not mine.

The Racetrack is a baffling place to fathom/Lee Dalton

We reach Teakettle Junction where the sign is adorned with a collection of autographed teakettles from all over the world. Wind from the north is ferocious and bitterly cold. We shiver and try to hold our cameras steady enough to take pictures without blurring them.

Finally we reach the far end of the Racetrack playa. A dry lakebed where mystery has held sway ever since the first miners came by here. A place where rocks that weigh as much as a hundred pounds leave tracks in the mud as they slide across the flat bed. Some have tracks as long as 1,500 feet behind them.

For a long time, the theory was that when enough rain has fallen to lubricate the slickery clay, high winds would push the rocks. Plausible. But just recently a couple of scientists named Richard and James Norris actually saw the rocks moving. It'™s a combination of wet, slippery clay and ice with a wind much less than anyone expected. 

I dunno '“ somehow I'™m disappointed. I kind of liked the idea that there are still a few things in this world that we humans have trouble explaining.

Bob and Lisa and I walk out onto the lake bed. It has to be below freezing. A roaring wind that must be upwards of 40 miles per hour sweeps across the playa and chills us right through our clothes. I shudder to think that I almost left my winter jacket in camp thinking I wouldn'™t need it. I admit that at the moment, I'™m probably no longer a believer in that climate change stuff. Not today, at least.

We take photos and walk among the rocks. We'™d stay longer, but that north wind drives us to the Jeep'™s shelter.

I need to go back again. When it'™s warmer.

Teakettle Junction's teapot collection/Lee Dalton

CHRISTMAS DINNER AT FURNACE CREEK

After a freezing Christmas at the Racetrack, it was back to Furnace Creek. Who wants to cook on Christmas Day? Not me. So it'™s off to the café where I find an intensely busy scene. Xanterra owns both the Furnace Creek Ranch and the Inn across the street. Both are on private inholdings surrounded by the park. I'™m led to a lunch counter, which makes sense because I don'™t need a whole table and others do. I have a good view of the kitchen and can see that cooks and wait staff are going nuts trying to cope with the crowds. It'™s a while before anyone pays any attention to me and I look around. The place is old and shows it. It needs paint badly. It needs a good washing even worse. In fact, it'™s pretty cruddy all around.

What I can see of the kitchen is about the same. But it'™s the only place I can afford to eat, so I guess it will have to do. Besides, this is Death Valley and it'™s far from here to anyplace at all.

One of the cooks repeatedly wipes his forehead with his gloved hand and continues cooking without changing gloves. I figure it'™s no big deal. His hands are probably as clean as mine are when I'™m cooking. Even though the rubber glove lobby has managed to convince many of us that gloves protect us from everything, I'™m sure they aren'™t any more sanitary than bare hands, properly washed. Perhaps, though, years of cooking in the woods have toughened by stomach. My battered old body is accustomed to germs.

Finally, a harried young lady comes to take my order. She looks absolutely frazzled. I order the Christmas special '“ prime rib. Then I wait. And wait. And wait some more. The young lady rushes in and out past me. So do others. There'™s a real tension in the air. I can see that the cooks are conf using orders. Wait staff tries to compensate. Everyone is keeping their tempers '“ mostly. Several people who appear to be managers are . . . . well, I guess they'™re managing, although it seems they are only adding to the confusion.

I decide that managers are the same everywhere. But one young manager actually begins trying to help and starts carrying dishes to waiting diners. Another man shows up in the kitchen. I guess they called in a third cook. The young lady who took my order so long ago pauses for a second to apologize. She promises to bring my soup.

Just then, a very important looking gentleman and his bejeweled bride or girlfriend, mistress or whatever, erupt at a table near me. Dressed in brand new designer high fashion outdoor clothing that belongs in a five-star African safari camp, they'™ve been there for perhaps five or maybe even ten whole minutes when the self-declared man of great importance stands up and calls to the young lady. He administers a loud and somewhat obscene tongue lashing that reduces her to tears. 

Then he announces that they will go elsewhere for dinner because of her obvious incompetence. My Irish temper goes into instant overdrive. I'™m furious, so as they pass my counter I stand up and ask if they are perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Scrooge. He pokes a single finger at me. A shaggy young man sitting near me laughs and nearly chokes, and then adds a few comments about the fellow'™s ancestry. The man and woman storm out muttering obscene things. Someone starts to applaud somewhere behind me. The shaggy young man says something to the girl and she tries to smile through her tears. She recovers somewhat and then tells me they'™ve run out of soup and asks if a salad will do.

She finally brings my dinner, but no soup or salad. She apologizes and I ask if she will just make the salad to go when she has a chance. The meal is okay if you'™re not too particular. At least some of it is still warm. The apple pie and ice cream are great. When I pay my bill I apologize for the man'™s behavior and give her a generous Christmas tip. She really was doing her best under the circumstances. I hope it helps to make her day a little better.

As I leave, at least 30 people are waiting near the door for seats at tables.

I take the salad in a box and have it for my Boxing Day lunch. It'™s edible '“ sorta. Xanterra'™s special Christmas prime rib with all the fixin'™s was just $29 for adults. But I did rather miss the fixin'™s. Maybe if I was important and wealthy enough to be entitled to special treatment, I'™d have sought out a manager and demanded they charge me the kid'™s price. Come to think of it, I didn'™t get any dinner rolls, either. (Later, a trustworthy source tells me that there'™s a different concessionaire at Stovepipe Wells. They tell me that Death Valley Lodging Company does a much better job and that food and conditions are a whole lot better over there. I don'™t have a chance to check personally, but will remember it for next time. For the record, I can tell you that gasoline at Stovepipe was 40 cents a gallon less than at Furnace Creek.)

ASIA DISCOVERS AMERICA

Instead of Europeans, the park was filled with Asians of all kinds. Indians from India. Japanese, Koreans, perhaps even Chinese. I noticed that Japanese seem to be in a perpetual hurry and tend to be awfully pushy. A gray haired little lady actually shoved me aside as I tried to hold a VC door open for her and some others pushed ahead of me to read some display panels. Half the population of Tokyo seemed to be in Death Valley for Christmas. I'™m guessing that they act as they do because they are so accustomed to being crowded. If you don'™t push for yourself, you get shoved aside. So push . . .

Maybe a dose of wilderness would do them some good if they'™d try it.

Even the campground is filled with Asians who have rented rigs. Some appear to have recently purchased camping gear and it'™s entertaining watching as they try to figure out how it all works and how to pitch that tent. I help a couple of them. One speaks excellent English. For the other, we invent a new form of sign language. 

Perhaps summer is European time in our parks and winter is for the Eastern Hemisphere. But then a clerk in the general store tells me that even in summer, Death Valley is a magnet for Japanese visitors. They come in droves to experience HEAT. The clerk says they become terribly bummed out if they discover that the temperature yesterday was 124 while it'™s only 120 today.

IRON RANGERS AND A PARK THAT'™S WEARING OUT

Aside from my talk about the Racetrack with a volunteer, I had no real contact with rangers. Lines at the VC desk were very long and I'™d made extensive use of the park'™s website before leaving home. Displays in the VC are in good shape and seem to cover Death Valley'™s story very well. The place was always crowded.

I notice that there are no manned fee collection stations. Instead, there are machines spotted around the park into which visitors may insert credit cards and obtain entrance and camping passes. A ranger at Scotty'™s Castle says, 'œYes. Iron rangers. Each of them can replace a dozen of us.'

But given a time when parks are strapped for funds and personnel, perhaps it makes sense to allow a machine to collect fees and let human rangers do other things.

Interpretive schedules feature three or four programs or walks every day except Christmas when only one is on tap. Night sky programs seem popular and a telescope set up in front of the VC entrance pulls visitors over for daytime solar viewing. A set of sun spots each three times larger than Earth march across the sun'™s face when I look.

"Iron rangers" are supplanting real rangers at Death Valley/Lee Dalton

Death Valley'™s climate is harsh, though. And it shows not only on people but also on the buildings and interpretive signs throughout the park. Something else is at work, too, besides the climate and sun. Many of the bulletin boards at outlying parking areas contain faded papers. Scotch tape strips that once held papers in place long ago lost their sticky and the papers lie crumpled at the bottom of the case. Interpretive panels haven'™t been cleaned in a long time and some are becoming hard to read.

At Dante'™s View, panels are so badly worn that it'™s nearly impossible to make out what they are supposed to tell us.

Campground restrooms are reasonably clean, but it'™s apparent they haven'™t had a really good cleaning for awhile. The campground itself is surprisingly free of litter. But considering the almost constant strong wind every day I'™ve been here, I'™m guessing that any litter is somewhere in transit between here and Las Vegas.

Some outlying ranger stations at Grapevine, Stovepipe Wells, and Wild Rose have been abandoned with Iron Rangers sitting outside the stations at Grapevine and Stovepipe.

Maybe climate isn'™t Death Valley'™s only enemy. There is quite a bit of vandalism evident and it appears that many visitors are day users. Maybe being so close to Las Vegas makes it too easy for some people to get here. Perhaps those who control the purse strings in Congress also have something to do with it. Maybe the very long distances between anyplace make it hard for the park to afford the travel needed for maintenance personnel to visit facilities as often as might be needed.

MISCELLANEOUS MEANDERINGS

There are two airstrips as Death Valley. One at Furnace Creek and one at Stovepipe. There'™s a fair amount of traffic in and out of Furnace. Right now, I'™m sitting here watching a powered parachute flying a few thousand feet above me as the sky sets up for what might become a beautiful sunset.

My campsite at Texas Springs sits 15 feet below sea level according to my GPS. I look out my window toward snowcapped Telescope Peak topping out at 11,029 feet. I'™ve logged nearly 400 miles on the park'™s roads and nearly 11 on trails. I'™ve done much less hiking than I'™d like '“ but it'™s so darned cold and the trails are jammed. This is one of the busiest stretches of visitation here '“ the time between Christmas and New Years. Parking lots are full, popular trails are packed. The store is jammed and there are long lines waiting at each of the eight pumps at the gas station.

Despite the crowds, there are still plenty of campsites left. (That changed the day after Christmas. Not sure that'™s the case with rooms at the Inn or Lodge. Yet it'™s still a peaceful place if you leave the main roads and trails behind.) Most of the park is designated wilderness with corridors for roads. It'™s a place that has not been tamed, and hopefully never will be. Visit Death Valley and you must do it on the valley'™s terms.

This is a place that can bite you in the butt if you don'™t watch out.

STILL, NO MATTER WHAT, IT'™S GOOD PEOPLE WHO MAKE THE DIFFERENCE

Yet a park is just a place. A big, big place maybe, but just a place. For those of us who visit the parks, it'™s really the people who make or break the experience. At Death Valley, people I meet are much like those I discover in many other places. Good people doing the best they can to protect and maintain something they obviously love. It doesn'™t matter whether they wear a green and gray uniform, or a tan volunteer'™s shirt, or no uniform. Their attitudes show it all.

I met just a few rangers and a few volunteers here. They showed me how they felt as I watched them meet and greet visitor after visitor and patiently repeat the answers to the same questions over and over again with smiles and enthusiasm. A highlight for me were the people I met at the Jeep rental concession. Farabee Jeeps is owned by a fella named Richard Farabee. It'™s a family operation with branches in some other places like Moab, Utah and Silverton, Colorado. Here I discover a bunch of friendly people who seem to be more like family or friends than coworkers. In one corner of their tiny office, a playpen holds the youngest of them. As I go through the process of renting a Jeep for my trip to the Racetrack, they are helping others '“ and their knowledge and desire to help us all makes it a pleasure.

In fact, it is from one of the folks at Farabee'™s that I learn a secret I'™ll pass along to Traveler'™s readers. Don'™t tell anyone, but the Racetrack is not the only place in the world where rocks move. Nope. Outside the park heading east on highway 267 about half-way between Scotty'™s Castle and Scotty'™s Junction, is a place just off the highway called Bonnie Claire Flat. Rocks move there, too. And you don'™t need a Jeep. I didn'™t have a chance to go and check for myself, but it makes no difference. I know I'™ll have to go back to Teakettle Junction and the Racetrack again. When I do, it will be in one of Farabee'™s Jeeps.

In the meantime, if you, gentle reader, haven'™t been to Death Valley yet, do go. Just be ready for anything the place might throw at you and remember that when you start exploring, it'™s a long, long way from anywhere to anywhere. It'™s a big, BIG place! Go prepared.

The Mesquite sand dunes offer another perspective of Death Valley/Lee Dalton