2010 - Spring - Panamint Spring 2010
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Under the waxing moon of the Vernal Equinox, George and I tossed our backpacks into the truck and headed off for our annual Spring trek into the wilderness country of Death Valley.
Actually, this beautiful part of the world was named prejudicially. It is more accurately a land of Life and Light, Water and Fire, Wind and Space. But more than anything else, it is the place where some of the planet's most stubborn organisms cling to life with a combination of uncanny resourcefulness and defiant fortitude. It is a place of cyclical rejuvenation and conviction to persevere against scorching odds, making the desert a spiritual spring for both healers and mourners. We didn't spend 40 days and 40 nights doing that, but 5 felt just right.
When the high passes are deep under snow, visitors from Northern California need to skirt the Southern toe of the Sierras. We drive through the booming winery country East of Paso Robles, crawl through the oil country of Lost Hills and Oildale, dash through Bakersfield , hammer over Tehachapi Pass , and descend into the shimmering Mojave Desert . From there, we take back roads through basalt statuaries and phacelia gardens to Trona, and soon enough, the escarpment of the Panamint Range leaps into view. We're almost there….
This year, however, instead of barreling straight across Highway 46 to the San Joaquin Valley, we took a desultory detour down Bitterwater Valley Road. We glided through gentle hills absolutely covered with wildflowers, nodded to some truly relaxed free range steers, and scrambled with cameras around every corner. Some Easterners scoff at the concept of “Golden California.” Clearly, they need to get beyond the tea party.
Death Valley 's spring bloom can be fickle in both timing and intensity, and this year was “modest,” despite our welcome reprieve from 3 consecutive dry years. There were no legendary carpets of color, but we certainly saw some remarkable flashes of brilliance.
Actually, this beautiful part of the world was named prejudicially. It is more accurately a land of Life and Light, Water and Fire, Wind and Space. But more than anything else, it is the place where some of the planet's most stubborn organisms cling to life with a combination of uncanny resourcefulness and defiant fortitude. It is a place of cyclical rejuvenation and conviction to persevere against scorching odds, making the desert a spiritual spring for both healers and mourners. We didn't spend 40 days and 40 nights doing that, but 5 felt just right.
When the high passes are deep under snow, visitors from Northern California need to skirt the Southern toe of the Sierras. We drive through the booming winery country East of Paso Robles, crawl through the oil country of Lost Hills and Oildale, dash through Bakersfield , hammer over Tehachapi Pass , and descend into the shimmering Mojave Desert . From there, we take back roads through basalt statuaries and phacelia gardens to Trona, and soon enough, the escarpment of the Panamint Range leaps into view. We're almost there….
This year, however, instead of barreling straight across Highway 46 to the San Joaquin Valley, we took a desultory detour down Bitterwater Valley Road. We glided through gentle hills absolutely covered with wildflowers, nodded to some truly relaxed free range steers, and scrambled with cameras around every corner. Some Easterners scoff at the concept of “Golden California.” Clearly, they need to get beyond the tea party.
Death Valley 's spring bloom can be fickle in both timing and intensity, and this year was “modest,” despite our welcome reprieve from 3 consecutive dry years. There were no legendary carpets of color, but we certainly saw some remarkable flashes of brilliance.
More important to backpackers, thanks to the restored snowpack on Hunter Mountain, Cottonwood Springs were flowing generously, and Deadhorse Spring once again pushed water to the surface. Last year, we drank questionable, viscous liquid from one pathetic, bitter puddle. This year, there was enough water to make some bona fide noise!
We spent our last night “dry camping” in Upper Marble Canyon with just the water we carried…appreciating the unimaginable supremacy of “liters” over “liter.” In fact, the power of water is apparent everywhere in Death Valley. The Panamint Range once boasted Himalayan stature, but now it's a mere 11,000' at the Telescope summit. Torrents of water, perhaps decades or centuries apart, have moved boulders as large as houses for miles, dumped debris into alluvial fans a mile deep, sculpted some of the hardest rock in the world, and left ballistic impact craters against canyon walls high above any man's head.
Perhaps equally powerful, a few drops of water can entice a plant the size of a child's pinkie to hoist a pink blossom above the gravel. Brine shrimp paddle frenetically in a thimble that will evaporate in another day.
Walking at times on primeval schist, whispering through polished dolomite narrows, or scuffing through a wash cobbled with fossils, it's easy to imagine we were the first souls to see these geological marvels. Then it becomes exquisitely clear that guys have been doing this for 1000 years and probably much longer. Our predecessors were artists and hunters, lovers and providers, and doubtlessly, dreamers and imaginers. They saw the same constellations we do, and they probably howled with the owls and hooted with the coyotes under the full moon, too. They'd probably love my backpack, water bottle, and Spyderco ® blade. Wild grapes grow around nearly every canyon spring, and I'm pretty sure the ancients also would appreciate some contemporary Salamandre Primitivo. But they'd probably wonder why in the world we moderns put peculiar boots on our feet. Mostly, though, it's comforting to feel a kinship with Mankind and share a conviction to preserve this beauty for the others who will follow.
We'll be back for the lunar eclipse on the winter solstice. In the meantime, lots of European tourists will visit Death Valley in the full throttle furnace of summertime, curious, I suppose, to experience the hottest weather on Earth. Good luck, and welcome to California, friends!
Wells Shoemaker MD, Winemaker
We spent our last night “dry camping” in Upper Marble Canyon with just the water we carried…appreciating the unimaginable supremacy of “liters” over “liter.” In fact, the power of water is apparent everywhere in Death Valley. The Panamint Range once boasted Himalayan stature, but now it's a mere 11,000' at the Telescope summit. Torrents of water, perhaps decades or centuries apart, have moved boulders as large as houses for miles, dumped debris into alluvial fans a mile deep, sculpted some of the hardest rock in the world, and left ballistic impact craters against canyon walls high above any man's head.
Perhaps equally powerful, a few drops of water can entice a plant the size of a child's pinkie to hoist a pink blossom above the gravel. Brine shrimp paddle frenetically in a thimble that will evaporate in another day.
Walking at times on primeval schist, whispering through polished dolomite narrows, or scuffing through a wash cobbled with fossils, it's easy to imagine we were the first souls to see these geological marvels. Then it becomes exquisitely clear that guys have been doing this for 1000 years and probably much longer. Our predecessors were artists and hunters, lovers and providers, and doubtlessly, dreamers and imaginers. They saw the same constellations we do, and they probably howled with the owls and hooted with the coyotes under the full moon, too. They'd probably love my backpack, water bottle, and Spyderco ® blade. Wild grapes grow around nearly every canyon spring, and I'm pretty sure the ancients also would appreciate some contemporary Salamandre Primitivo. But they'd probably wonder why in the world we moderns put peculiar boots on our feet. Mostly, though, it's comforting to feel a kinship with Mankind and share a conviction to preserve this beauty for the others who will follow.
We'll be back for the lunar eclipse on the winter solstice. In the meantime, lots of European tourists will visit Death Valley in the full throttle furnace of summertime, curious, I suppose, to experience the hottest weather on Earth. Good luck, and welcome to California, friends!
Wells Shoemaker MD, Winemaker