The very name “Death Valley” conjures up all sorts of imagery in the mind. To those who haven’t been, you might think that it is some desert valley that is really hot – it is. You may know about the heat records that have been set there, or perhaps that it is the lowest altitude in North America – both are true. Some may have even warned you, as though the name doesn’t warn you enough, that it can be a very dangerous place to visit – it absolutely is. These are all well-known “facts,” but I want you to know that they are nothing close to the truth of Death Valley.
Here’s the truth: Death Valley is extremely well named, and the brutal reality of it’s danger is only rivaled by its otherworldly beauty.
Death Valley itself has occupied a larger than expected spot in my mind since I returned from it two plus years ago. Having visited it by myself, one of the first solo trips I’ve made to a National Park, it still has tinges of “this was stupid/this was awesome” whenever I think of it.
While Death Valley National Park is the largest National Park in the lower 48 States, know that the area around the Park is no less dangerous and intimidating to pass through. As you cruise along Interstate 15 between Los Angeles and Las Vegas, sharing the road with thousands of party-people and reading the countless billboards extolling the virtues of the virtue-less playground of Sin City, it can be easy to forget that you are in the midst of a dangerous desert. It is only after you gas up, buy some snacks, and then start to head north from the interstate off-ramp that you begin to wonder if you made the right decision.
A mere five miles from the bustling interstate, I noticed for the first time the temperature gauge on my rental car’s dash: 109 degrees.
Well.
As someone who has lived for the past two decades in sunny Florida, I felt that I knew a thing about heat.
I knew nothing.
One nice thing about the two hours of driving north to reach Death Valley is that the speed limit is just a suggestion. In those two hours, I encountered less than a dozen people on the road – this is not a popular part of the world.
As I entered the Valley, my outside temp gauge read 114° F, and throughout the day, some parts of the park reached 120° F. Prior to this, I had no concept of what that actually feels like, but it is not something I’m eager to again. Stepping out of the car to explore Badwater Basin, the lowest point in North America, each breath in warmed my lungs, and the very air around me seemed to want to steal every bit of moisture I had.
Exploring the Valley floor I felt as though I had been transported to one of those videos from the Mars Rover – everywhere I looked, it was the same: barren, rocky, devoid of life. In fact, the entire five hours I explored the Park, I saw no signs of life except a few other brave, or foolish, humans. Vegetation was few and far between, and none of it embodied any characteristics of what I would normally define as thriving.
Yet in this alien world, I encountered wonders. Ancients remnants of volcanos past, evidenced by vivid hues of colored rock and soil. Salt flats that stretched into the shimmering void. Sahara-like sand dunes, crafted over millennia of winds rushing through the canyons that feed into the Valley. And even a gas station with the highest cost per gallon I’ve ever witnessed pre-pandemic.
Death Valley challenges you with it’s oppressive heat, the looming dread it impressives upon your psyche, and it’s barren expanse void of life – but I get why it was set aside as a National Park.
It’s there to allow us to marvel at just how extreme this world can be, how terrifying and big nature is, and that some places we’re meant to visit, but not reside.