Following a night of enthusiastic storms, I headed east from Twentynine Palms, California. I decided to take the shortest route to my destination, which sent me through Mojave National Preserve and Mojave Trails National Monument. While this was a beautiful and intriguing landscape, it was also quite soggy from the rains of the previous hours. There were a few close calls, but I luckily made it to my destination of Las Vegas without encountering any roads that were completely washed out and impassable.

I'd never been to Las Vegas before, and wasn't entirely sure what to expect. My first thought was that it was actually a lot smaller than I had envisioned. Other than that, it pretty much lived up to my expectations... gambling, over-the-top glitz, shows, weird people, and lots of intoxicated partiers who could barely walk - including one who had literally passed out on the sidewalk. His friends were pretty concerned. I don't think I have a lot in common with the people for whom this is a dream destination, but it was fun to experience it for a day. I do love people watching.

The streets were pretty empty when I rolled out of town around 7 a.m., wild and crazy party animal that I am. The clouds were beginning to drift away, making for a dramatic and beautiful scene as my car passed through Red Rock Canyon and headed west again.

In about an hour, I was in Pahrump, Nevada, my home for the next week. I hadn't researched much about Pahrump ahead of time, only that it was the closest locale of any size at all to Death Valley National Park. I came to learn that Michael Jackson had once owned an estate here, it is home to the Chicken Ranch and some other (yes, legal) brothels, you can do some hardcore firearms training at Front Sight Training Institute, and famed madam Heidi Fleiss was once proprietor of a laundromat in the town called "Dirty Laundry." I can't say that any of that got me really excited. :-)

Salt in Badwater Basin, which was underwater during my visit

I was pretty pumped up about seeing Death Valley, though. After itching to visit this expansive national park for years, I was finally going to experience it. I had also achieved my goal of visiting during the wintertime, as a summer visit to the hottest, driest, and lowest place in North America can be worse than inhospitable. Back in July of 1913, the temperature reached a whopping 134 degrees there.

Death Valley has apparently been growing slightly wetter over the past few years, and they had received nearly half their total average yearly precipitation a couple days before my visit. This meant that the landscape was different than it would likely look in warm and toasty July. The lowest lying areas of the park were home to shallow bodies of water, not dry, cracked salt flats. Salt Creek, home to the rare desert pupfish, was flowing instead of being reduced to a few life-filled puddles. And there was certainly plenty of salty mud to adorn my hiking shoes as a souvenir of my visit.

One my surprises at Death Valley was the variety of scenery that exists there - flat, salty, lifeless expanses; beautiful multicolored striped mountains; surreal, wrinkly, colorful badlands; canyons; sand dunes; creeks teeming with fish; the well-preserved ghost town of Rhyolite just outside the park's borders; and so much more than I could ever properly describe. It literally takes hours to drive from one end of the park to another, and it seems nearly impossible that anyone could ever truly see and experience its diverse wonders.

I have found that the desert has a way of teaching you about the persistence and creativity of life. Some might think that Death Valley would be an exception to this observation, but despite everything it's up against, life creeps through even this harshest of landscapes. In addition to amazing desert fish, I spotted a brave and curious coyote, many birds, lots of darting lizards, and some very hopeful vegetation. While the guy passed out on the sidewalk in Las Vegas probably woke up the next morning wishing he wasn't living and the gold prospectors cleared out of Rhyolite long ago, these life forms slowly and quietly adapt, adjust, and amaze those who take a moment to stop and spot them. I'm glad I am among them.

Badlands at Death Valley's Zabriskie Point

Yuma, Arizona, was about as close to California as my former home of New Albany, Indiana was to Louisville, Kentucky. Within moments of leaving my hotel this morning, I was cruising down the interstate in the Golden State.

Before too long, I was in the midst of rolling brown sand dunes. On a windy day like today, that meant sand was blasting my car and all over the roadway. I couldn't believe that people were riding dirt bikes on the windy dunes, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves just fine.

My first destination was a short jaunt off of State Highway 111. I encountered Leonard Knight's creation, Salvation Mountain, shortly after passing the sign for Slab City, "The Last Free Place on Earth." I had wanted to visit the Mountain for years, and by the amount of traffic they were getting, I clearly wasn't the only one with that wish.

Leonard, a Vermont native, landed in this California desert in 1984, beginning construction of the mountain that he worked on for nearly 30 years. Salvation Mountain, which he constructed out of clay, bales of hay, latex paint, tires, and pretty much anything else he found useful that had been discarded or donated, was named a National Folk Art Site in 2000, and a National Treasure in the U.S. Congressional Record. Leonard passed away in 2014, but the not-for-profit, Salvation Mountain, Inc. continues to work to maintain and preserve his labor of love.

Unfortunately, I picked a somewhat bad day to visit Salvation Mountain. Going inside Leonard's creation or climbing the "Yellow Brick Road" stairs that led to the top were off limits, as the recent rains had made the construction wet and vulnerable to damage. I still enjoyed seeing the site and appreciated the care that was still going into its preservation.

Next, I was headed to another "weird" destination. Sometime, ages ago, I saw a television documentary about the Salton Sea. For some reason, I never quite got it out of my mind, so when I found myself in the general vicinity of California's largest inland body of water, I went for it.

The Salton Sea was a dry basin when European settlers first came to the area. Apparently, it was actually, at one time long ago, a part of the Gulf of California. When farmers in the area needed water, a man was hired to engineer a canal from the Colorado River to the basin. After a couple tries, he got the canal to flow, but it ended up flowing for over a year and filling the basin to create the Salton Sea.

In the 1950's, the sea was a popular recreational area for Californians. However, the destruction created by a couple of hurricanes combined with the increasing salinity of the sea caused the area's eventual decline. The sea continues to increase in salinity, and is currently about 50% saltier than the Pacific Ocean. It's still quite a ways from being as salty as the Great Salt Lake, but it is inhospitable to most fish except the tilapia who live there, and they don't appear to be living the dream, either. It is, however, a popular spot for abundant bird watching. I'm sure the birds don't mind the fish snacks, either. I found it to be weird, peaceful, and oddly beautiful. :-)

After my tour of the Salton Sea, I cruised until the white salt crust no longer lined the roadway, through the cities of Indio and Palm Desert, and headed up through Santa Rosa and San Jacinto Mountains National Monument to my home for the next couple of days in Aguanga, California. And now... I'm hungry for something salty...

Blog