Sunday, July 31- Monday, August 1

The drive to Estes Park takes about six hours over more beautiful–and stressful– mountain roads.Perrin and Peggy suggested a short cut, which would take us 60 plus miles along a dirt road over Cottonwood Pass, which at 12,200 feet marks the Continental Divide. Sensing my reluctance to take a dirt road up a mountain that high, they assured us that it would not be that hard.

Well.

In any event we made it, with Embry driving up and me driving down the other side, which was much easier since it had shoulders and a paved service. At the top it was raining and cold with temperatures in the 40s. Patches of snow were everywhere, and there were no trees since the tree line is around 11,500 feet . A dramatic but bleak setting.

Since most of the land in this part of Colorado is in national forests or parks, there are only a handful of towns between Crested Butte and Estes Park , the most interesting being Leadville, an old mining town at over 10,000 feet elevation that still has much of its character.

We arrive in Estes Park, exhausted, in late afternoon. Our hotel for the first three nights is The Stanley. The Stanley is expensive but worth the price of admission. Built in 1909, like the infamous Crescent in the Ozarks, it is on the National Register of Historic Places; but unlike the Crescent it is vibrant and a center of activity in Estes Park, which actually is more bland than we had expected. The carpets are a bit threadbare, and the hotel has had its ups and downs but seems to have found its niche with fine dining (best food on the Road Trip so far), a destination wedding location (averaging two or three per day), a world famous whisky bar (over 200 brands), a strong convention and conference business, and all sorts of cultural activities like concerts and lectures. Views of the mountains are spectacular from almost every one of the 140 rooms; the lobby almost always is bustling; and the 30 or 40 chairs on the big front porch are occupied most of the time.

The hotel was actually started as a guest lodge by a rich inventor and entrepreneur, FO Stanley, who moved to the area at the turn of the previous century from Massachusetts in hopes of curing his tuberculosis. He and his wife built a huge “vacation home” along with a 100-room guest lodge for their rich, East Coast friends. The lodge was expanded to 140 rooms, sold and converted to a commercial hotel before the stock market crash of 1929. Since that time it has had 26 different owners, gone into and out of bankruptcy, and for years struggled to survive. In any event it seems to be doing fine now due to an experienced and enlightened owner who specializes in managing historic hotels.

But what really makes the hotel special is that it is haunted. The hotel runs “Ghost Tours” every 30 minutes starting at 10 in the morning and going all day. They are usually packed with 25-30 wide-eyed tourists following a guide through the building. Naturally, I could not resist signing up for $20. It was worth every penny.

According to our guide, a 30-something woman with a quick wit and special affection for ghosts, sightings of dead people happen all the time at The Stanley along with doors opening and closing by themselves, guest’s finding their dirty clothes neatly folded or hung up in closets, windows opening and closing mysteriously, hair of guests standing on end, men (never women) falling out of bed, and the hazy figure of a cowboy who seems to wander routinely in the middle of the night in room 408. She went to great lengths to assure us that these ghosts were friendly ghosts and that no one had ever been hurt or really scared all that much. People come from all over the world to visit because of the ghosts and are especially interested in staying in room 217.

Room 217 is the room where Stephen King stayed in 1974 when he and his wife stumbled onto the hotel in late fall just as it was closing down for the winter and found themselves to be the hotel’s only guests. They had dinner in the spooky, main dining room as weird orchestral music was piped in, and then retired to room 217 where King experienced the worst nightmare of his life, which inspired the 1977 book, The Shining (and 1980s movie adaption by Stanley Kubrick, starring Jack Nicholson). The movie is available 24/7, playing continuously on the hotel’s television. Of course, we had to watch it. This is one weird and scary movie! (The movie was actually filmed at a hotel at the foot of Mt Hood in Oregon.)

Who knows about these things? Our guide swears she has seen ghosts many times herself and that guests have taken photos with people dressed in early 20^th Century garb, mysteriously showing up in prints. As for me, I remain a bit of a skeptic, and Embry will have nothing to do with it at all. But, hey, it works for the hotel and may have saved it from yet another bankruptcy. And they even have a full time psychic on site who takes bookings months in advance. If you ever get to Estes Park, put The Stanley on your bucket list.

Besides hanging out at the Stanley, we spend a day in Rock Mountain National Park driving along the ridge road, which is the highest paved road in the U.S. at an average height of over 10,000 feet and often rises higher than the tree line. The road is about 50 miles long and requires a return trip, so it is all-day activity if you stop at the overlook areas, which of course we did. It was quite crowded as you might expect but did not exceed the enjoyment threshold. These mountains are so vast, so tall and so massive that human impact seems almost insignificant.

We return to The Stanley for a dinner at the whisky bar and a good night’s rest, hoping we do not bump into any ghosts in the night.

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Wednesday, July 27-Thursday, July 28

Let’s hear it for southern Utah! Before this trip the only time I had set foot in Utah was about ten years ago to attend the wedding of Kamini , the daughter of our long time friend and former nanny, Punam. The Mormon wedding was in Salt Lake City and a splendid occasion since we consider Kamini and her sister and parents part of our extended family. Next to the festivities (Not being Mormons we could not attend the actual wedding ceremony, but a more conventional reception followed), the thing I remember most was ordering a martini and being presented with a martini glass with so little gin in it that it did not even touch the olives, which dangled on toothpicks above the liquid. One swig and it was over. Oh well, I thought, I will just order another, but this time it will be a double. The waiter somewhat apologetically informed me that doubles were not permitted in Utah, and that it was not until the Winter Olympics a few years before that alcoholic beverages of any type were allowed. Strict state laws, if not followed to the ounce, could land a bartender in jail. I decided to switch to beer.

That was my first encounter with Utah customs, heavily influenced by Mormons. Since that time we have attended a Mormon naming ceremony and a baptism and have observed how important their faith is for Kamini and her husband, Brandon. To put it simply, there is something tangible and real going on with lessons for all—especially with regard to family values and religious commitment. This time in southern Utah, we find ourselves amongst some of the friendliest and warmest people we have encountered on the Big Trip, and my assumption is that this is due somehow to their being Mormon or at least the influence of the LDS church.

The other thing about southern Utah is that it is drop-dead beautiful, not just in the national parks, but everywhere. And there are no billboards or road signs to be seen outside of the occasional villages we drive through. The countryside is similar to the purple mountains, red cliffs, beige sand and grey sage we have seen in Nevada and Arizona; but for the first time since we left Las Vegas, we see a few green pastures and fields of green crops, due, I presume, to irrigation.

We arrive in Bryce National Park mid afternoon and make our way to the lodge where we check in despite the fact that the lodge is full and that our reservation was for another day (again!). After they scramble around, the lodge staff manages to find one unit that has not been spoken for and sign us in. Embry’s guardian angel is at work again.

The special feature of Bryce are the hoodoos. Hoodoos are ancient people who have been turned into stone by coyotes   because they acted badly. At least this is the legend of the Paiute Tribe that has lived in the area for centuries. A hoodoo rock formation looks sort of like a giant, drip, sand castle you might find on an ocean beach. Most are tall and thin and pink. Many take on forms of animals or buildings like cathedrals or castles. Most are hundreds of feet tall. All are stunning; and when you get thousands of them clustered together like you do at Bryce Canyon National Park, the effect is truly magical.

The park is situated on a rim at an elevation of between 8,000 and 9,000 feet, looking down upon a vast valley at an elevation of around 4,000 feet. Technically it is not a canyon but rather an “amphitheater,” with the hoodoos forming a giant wall along one side of the mountain. There are numerous steep trails allowing visitors to hike down among the hoodoos (which Embry did), but most visitors drive or walk along a 15 mile rim trail, permitting spectacular views of the rock formations and the valley below. We spend the first afternoon mostly driving and the next morning walking along the rim for a couple of miles and gazing at the hoodoos along with a cast of hundreds of gawking, fellow visitors. The heavy crowds are the great achievement and the great shortcoming of the national park system.

We attended two ranger talks, one on understanding tree rings, the second on advanced life in the universe, a topic of special interest to me ever since I was nine years old and living on Sunnybrook Drive in Nashville, when my 12-year old neighbor, George Singleton, observed a space ship landing in his back yard at 3:00 a.m. The topic is especially appropriate here at Bryce because there are few places in the U.S. with less light pollution. You can see stars here that are not visible most other places, and this makes you aware of how big and vast the universe is and how small we are. So it is only natural to ask the question, “Are we alone?” and this is what the ranger attempts to answer.

Here are the highlights:

• Our sun is one of about 400 billion stars in our galaxy.
• There are about 400 billion other galaxies in the universe.
• With new technology astronomers are able to detect whether planets exist around other stars. So far thousands have been documented, and it appears that virtually all stars have planets.
• Life on Earth occurred because of a lot of moving parts coming together at the right time: being the right distance from a star so that water did not evaporate or freeze, having a warm core, gravity to keep an atmosphere from evaporating, tectonic plates to push rock up from the sea to form land, ozone to keep out damaging rays from our star, and two mass extinctions to permit the evolution of mammals—just to name a few.
• The question is how many of these other planets exist in the “Goldilocks Zone”—not too hot and not to cold, not too close and not too far from their “sun,” and about the same size and age of our own planet. So far thousands have been observed and more are being found every year.

So what are the chances that among these trillions and trillions of other planets that there is advanced life? Well, in my view they would seem to be pretty high, like close to 100%.

But here is the rub. The first is that “advanced life” might not have all that much time on the stage of their respective planets. The dinosaurs were around a couple of hundred million years, and human-type beings have been around for about a million years, but “advance life”? We are talking only a few thousand years of historic human life and a couple of centuries of technologically advanced life. And we already have the ability to blow ourselves up and are trashing the planet. We may only be around a pretty short time. In other words there is probably a pretty small window of opportunity for catching these other beings before they wipe themselves out.

The second rub is the distance factor. The closest star to us (except for the sun) is 4.4 light years away. Using the current space flight technology, it would take a space ship over 74,000 years just to get there. Any volunteers for making the voyage?

So this is where science and religion come together. Scientists basically all agree that this all started with a Big Bang about 14 billion years ago and that our solar system is about is about 4.5 billion years old, about half the way through its natural life when the sun will eventually give out. Science does a pretty good job in exploring the “what” but has no clue to the “why.” The role of religion is to explore the “why.” We humans look up to a cloudless night sky with little light pollution like you find at Bryce Canyon and you can’t help asking why? Certainly these trillions upon trillions of other stars and planets must have some purpose. Or do they? Such is the question in my mind as we depart for our next destination— Arches National Park.

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Sunday, July 24-Tuesday, July 26

Every time we depart a national park, we conclude that it will be impossible to beat. (Well, maybe not Death Valley, but it does have its own charm and is certainly unforgettable.) Sequoia, Yosemite and now the Grand Canyon—how can you say that one is better than another? They are all different, have their own distinct character; and as far as wonder and natural beauty go, they are the best the Earth has to offer.

It turns out that this planet actually has quite a bit to offer, and our country seems to have received more than our fair share of extraordinary natural places. Add one more to the list: Zion National Park.

The drive to Zion from the North Rim is only a couple of hours and retraces some of the original route we took  since we are doubling back. In some respects Zion is a miniature Grand Canyon (about one-tenth the size), but while the Grand Canyon is vast , Zion is intimate. The big difference is a change of perspective. In the Grand Canyon on the rim you are looking down with a view not dissimilar from what you would experience in an airplane. In Zion you drive down hairpin curves and switch backs until you get to the bottom where all the action is. You look up at red cliffs that tower between three and four thousand feet over your head, straight up. Of course this is a perspective similar to what you have in Yosemite Valley, but that valley is wide and spacious. In Zion the valley is narrow and enclosed, like very long, narrow, curved room, with very tall walls and a high celling of blue sky and white cloud puffs. You feel like you are being embraced by the canyon walls, the green trees and golden grass, and a bubbling stream.

We arrive in the Zion valley around three and check into our lodge—the Cliffrose Lodge and Garden, a bed and breakfast of 50 rooms, all of which have porches or balconies that permit you to look over a sparking brook (technically a river, the Virgin River which carves the Canyon) and up to a gigantic, sheer, red cliff which seems almost as big as El Capitan. The lodge is located in Springdale, a tiny, attractive (surprisingly trash-less!) tourist village, situated in the heart of the canyon, where all the hotels and restaurants are located except for the Zion National Park Lodge, which was fully booked when we made our reservations. The Cliffrose Lodge, however, is fabulous and has lots of amenities we would not find in the Zion National Park Lodge—like television, and a decent size swimming pool. The gardens surrounding the property are exquisite. Deer and chipmunks roam at will, fearless of humans, and hummingbirds dip and dive around the trumpet vines on our porch. The service is excellent, and there is even a small bistro and bar. We rate it number one in accommodations so far. The television is especially important because it permits us to watch practically all of the first day of the Democratic Convention. More about this to follow.

Zion is a fabulous park. The Virgin River meanders along the narrow valley floor, nourishing tall pines, a few hardwoods and green and gold meadows. Gentle rapids flow into pools deep enough for a dip, and plenty of hikers take advantage of that (as does Embry). The valley walls go straight up and change colors of varying shades of red depending on the angle of the sun. It should be on everyone’s bucket list. Except for one thing: it is very crowded and during the summer, very hot—over 100 degrees during our visit.

Because of the breath-taking natural beauty, lots of people are attracted to Zion. The Park Service made a decision to open it up to visitors to the maximum extent possible just as they did with Yosemite (but not  the North Rim of the Grand Canyon). Their solution was to close off the valley road to automobiles and use shuttles to carry visitors up the river several miles (40 minutes) with nine hop on/hop off shuttle stops providing access to trail heads. It works pretty well but results in opening the trails to hundreds—perhaps thousands—of people per day so that on some trails you feel like you are back in Yosemite Valley. The river trail—a two-mile, relatively easy and especially beautiful trail—was jammed with hikers of all shapes, sizes and languages the entire time we were on it. Embry’s solution was to leave the main path and walk along the river, which it turns has a narrow, sandy trail beside it with few hikers. So if you want to enjoy Zion, the idea is to find the trails less traveled. These include most of the difficult trails and those not written about in any guide book. The second day Embry went by herself and waited to hop off  the first shuttle stop where no one got off the crowed bus. So on stop 4 when no one exited, she bolted, squeezing her way out to find herself on a completely deserted trail leading to the river with pools deep enough for dipping For her this was one of the most pleasant experiences of the whole Road Trip.

Now a word about the television. One of the best  parts of the Road Trip is to find ourselves in isolated locations with little or no communication with the outside world. We are in our own cocoon—a wonderland of natural beauty. For a fleeting moment it is possible to vision the world as a happy and joyful place with beauty that could only be created by a kind and loving God. The Emily Dickenson line, “All is right with the world,” comes to mind. Not only are we in the middle of a paradise, we observe other humans enjoying it and see so many, apparently happy families. Life is good.

But we know life is actually not all good and there is a world out there where much is happening right now which could well determine whether we will move toward the good or toward the bad. We know we are missing the action, and the action right now is the Democratic Convention. Since we will be staying in national parks the next few days where there will be no TV and probably no internet or email, we devour the first day of the convention on the lodge TV.

It is too early to know how it will all turn out. As I write Trump is ahead a couple of points in the polls—and this achievement follows what virtually every pundit has described as the worst acceptance speech of all time and the worst convention, along with the news that Trump is rejoicing in Russia’s email hacking of the DNC, ostensibly in an effort to influence the election.

Watching the first day, we are enthralled by Michelle’s speech, and impressed with Corey Booker, Elijah Cummings, Al Franken and practically everyone else. We are relieved that Bernie has finally come around, but not happy with the boos and shouts coming from his “movement” every time Hillary’s name is mentioned. If the “movement” sits this one out or, God forbid, goes with the ultimate political outsider, Mr. Trump, it could spell real trouble.

At the end of the day of watching almost every moment, we are proud to be Democrats, believe our country is great, not awful, and pleased with the progressive Democratic platform that sets a course for dealing with the very real problems we must address.

We will miss the next three days as we move on to Bryce and Arches, before heading to the Rocky Mountains.

Now on to Bryce!

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Days 38-40: The Grand Canyon

Thursday, July 21-Saturday, July 23

Vegas is history and we are en route to the Grand Canyon. I can’t help thinking of the alpha and omega idea again. The U.S. is a country of extremes. Going from dark, endless rooms with people crouched around gaming tables or mindlessly pushing buttons on slots to perhaps the most sublime setting on the planet Earth—and all within a matter of a few hours by car—where else does something like this happen?

The normal four-hour trip to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon takes us close to six hours since our trusty Google Maps steers us toward the South Rim. By the time I figure this out, we are well beyond Hoover Dam. But, hey, how can you understand the Real America without driving across Hoover Dam—going and coming in our case? It is a bit disconcerting to see Lake Meade at 37% capacity, another reminder that water is a finite and limited resource, which we are using up very fast. Maybe the rains one day will return and all will be well, but you can’t help thinking that at least in the West, supply and demand are frighteningly out of balance.

Once we get our directions right,we head back through Las Vegas, and take I-15 north. We find ourselves once again in a desert with only minimal glimpses of evidence that humans or animals ever lived here. This is perhaps the big story of the Road Trip—just how far you can go in the West in what can only be described as a vast, arid, vacant wilderness of sand, sage and towering peaks. My guess is the landscape we are witnessing is not that different from what the pioneers saw in the mid 19^th Century. However, I do not believe their covered wagons had air conditioning or were able to whiz along at 80 miles an hour. One might conclude that we Americans have gotten pretty soft with all the comforts we enjoy, which we now call necessities. Maybe the awareness of our softness is behind the ultra marathons like the one after we departed Death Valley or the 180 mile event that will happen in the Grand Canyon this fall with runners responsible for carrying their own gear, food and water. I am certain that it is one of motivations of the Serious Hikers. We realize that with all the modern creature comforts, we somehow have lost something—our primeval connection with the land, the sky, and Earth itself–and yearn to restore this lost connection.

I am not sure the early pioneers would necessarily agree with this perhaps overly romantic notion, but do believe the Native Americans they displaced surely would.

The drive to the Grand Canyon takes us through Nevada, then the south tip of Utah and finally into Arizona. Talk about extremes. In Nevada, brothels are advertised alongside gas prices, booze is sold at every grocery store and drug store, and guys walk around with pistols in holsters. In Utah, if you can find an alcoholic beverage to quench your thirst, you will be limited by law to less than one ounce per drink. We are indeed a vast and diverse nation.

The Utah part of the ride is especially beautiful and spectacular as we travel through several deep canyons with red rocks before starting our long climb to the high plateau. Just as it was when we drove through southern Arizona on the way out, when you reach an elevation of around 6,000 feet, Ponderosa Pines start springing up everywhere, and the higher you climb the taller they get. By the time we reach the gate to the Grand Canyon at an 8,100 foot elevation, they are huge—some reaching close to 200 feet—and the gray sand and sage of the valley has been replaced by lush, green forests and golden meadows. The landscape is much like that of Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite but with deeper greens and no mountain peeks visible.

It is now twilight as we make our way to the North Rim Lodge. During the entire ride up the plateau, we have seen only a handful of cars, and now we see a convoy of lights coming toward us. Could a massive evacuation of some sort be underway? As the lights get closer, we see they are huge tanker trucks and count over 30 before they start to thin out. Then we start to smell smoke and look up to see a smoky haze in the evening sky turn a bright orange. This is happening long after the sun has set.

The forest fire started on June 29, almost a month ago, caused by a lightening strike. We learn when we check in that it was thought to be under control until about 10 days ago when the winds picked up, creating a huge furnace effect, which now has consumed over 14,000 acres, with some 600 fire fighters trying desperately to contain it. It is anyone’s idea as to what will eventually happen though the lodge and camping area do not seem to be in imminent danger since the fire is still miles away, and because of a southerly wind is heading north, away from the settlements in the park. The impact on tourists is that a large of the park is now off limits to visitors, and most major trails are closed.

The ranger at the front desk tells us that forest fires are not that unusual and are a natural part of nature’s renewing process. They usually burn themselves out and would not be the menace they are were it not for the danger to humans.

Since it is pitch black when we check in the lodge, our first view of Grand Canyon will have to wait for tomorrow morning.

This is my third trip to the North Rim, Embry’s first. I am always astounded. You really don’t get your first glimpse of the canyon until you walk through the lodge lobby onto the large outdoor patio, and there it is. As far as you can see, there are colors of bleached white, gray, beige and red. What really gives the Grand Canyon its character is its relationship with the sun. The sun’s angle casts deep shadows into the depths and brings out the deep red and brown colors. Because the light of the sun is constantly on the move, the canyon is never the same. The shadows are moving. The colors are changing; and from one moment to the next you are looking at a different landscape—subtle but always in transition. The most beautiful times are early in the day and late in the day when the shadows are longest and the colors the brightest, but it is stunning all of the time. Judging by the number of people at or near our age who find a chair on the patio and seem to remain in it all day, almost as if in a trance, I surmise that the Grand Canyon’s mystical power is as strong as ever. It certainly is with me.

The only thing that detracts from this sublime and peaceful setting are the fearless people—mainly  20 and 30-somethings–who feel compelled to walk a few hundred feet down to one of the overlooks and then climb up a rock with thousand foot cliffs on each side and take a selfie with their iPhone. One false move and it is over. Better yet, give your camera to a friend and ask her to take a photo of you extending your arms in an embrace of all that is beautiful around you and shouting a primal scream. Oh, to be young again!

The two days  here are well spent. We pass the time in our own trance, walk an easy 2.5 miles around the rim loop trail, take in a few ranger talks, eat in the elegant lodge dining room (great views and ambience, excellent service, mediocre food) and get some needed rest. The second afternoon Embry takes one of the Serious Hiker trails down toward the canyon for a strenuous 1.5 mile hike.

One of the things that makes this place special is how few people are here. That is because it is so far removed from civilization that day trips are out of the question, and the lodge has only about 250 rooms and a few hundred campsites. Even on a popular, easy trail like the Rim Trail, you pretty much have it to yourselves. Something like five million people visit the park every year, the second highest number in the national park system. Over 98% go to the South Rim, 20 miles away by the way the raven flies, on the other side of the canyon. The North Rim is a rare gem in the national park system.

This is our fourth national park so far on the Road Trip, and the accommodations are without question the most basic. The cabins are a small step above the tents in Yosemite ( a tad larger and they do have their own bathrooms, no small achievement). My guess this is by design—an effort to keep the lodge as close to its original concept as possible. There are no swimming pools, no luxury options like in Death Valley, no Wi-Fi, very limited cell phone connections, and nothing anywhere resembling a television set. The lack of communication with the outside world turns out to be a blessing during our stay here because we miss the last three days of the Republican Convention.

Tomorrow we set out for Zion.

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Saturday, July 6-Monday July 18

When we told people that Death Valley was on our itinerary, the typical response was, “Death Valley? Are you nuts?”

But we are in search of the Real America. How can you search for the Real America and not go to Death Valley?

We start our journey to Death Valley by visiting the two alpine lakes giving Mammoth Lakes its name. At an altitude of around 9,000 feet, we begin our descent, which will take us today to elevations below sea level. We slowly make our way down to the flat, arid valley below and turn south. The giant Sierra Nevada are on our right and a smaller mountain range with no vegetation on our left. U.S. Highway 50 is like an interstate, and there is very little traffic. After a hundred miles we turn left onto a two-lane road near the foot of Mount Whitney, the tallest mountain in the Lower-Fort-Eight. Actually, the mountain itself is a bit of a disappointment since you really can’t tell which of the high peaks it is. At 14,400 feet it is the tallest but only by a few hundred feet. The narrow road is straight and flat and seems to extend into infinity with hazy, gray mountains in the distance and no sign of any cars. We will drive almost another 100 miles before reaching our destination for the evening—the Furnace Creek Inn.

Actually I had no idea to what to expect. I envisioned Death Valley to be a flat, sandy plain with weary prospectors, staggering around in search of water. I knew that Death Valley has the lowest point in the U.S. at almost 300 feet below sea level. I did not know that it is actually part of the Mojave Desert or that Death Valley National Park is the largest in the U.S. (excluding Alaska) with over three million acres—about the same size as Sequoia, Kings Canyon and Yosemite combined. And the park is not just flat desert. It includes several tall mountain ranges with peaks as high as 11,000 feet.

We drive slowly up and down three mountains before finally reaching Death Valley. There is practically no traffic, but the drive is a nail biter nonetheless. Very little vegetation is visible, and the endless rocks of varying shades of beige and grey are quite beautiful. As we creep uphill, a sign reads, “Don’t overheat your vehicle. Turn off your air-conditioning.” I observe from the dashboard that the outside temperature is 102 degrees. Fat chance.

We arrive at the Visitor’s Center around five. We open the car door and immediately are hit with 40 mph winds that feel like a blowtorch, almost taking our breath away. The only equivalent I can think of is opening the door in a blizzard. All you can think of is getting to shelter. The temperature gauge at the Visitor’s Center reads 119 degrees, and that is in the shade. Now it occurs to me why there was some skepticism about coming here in the summer. The odd thing is that the parking lot is more than half full, and plenty of people are milling around the museum in the Visitor’s Center. Who are these people? Are they nuts?

The Furnace Creek area is the only oasis in Death Valley. Clumps of trees provide a modicum of shade and minor relief from the oppressive heat. A cluster of structures associated with a hotel –restaurant, general store, bar, post office, golf shop and a few modest houses for the workers– are situated under the trees like tired cows on the edge of a hot pasture.

The first glitch occurs when we ask the park ranger where the Inn at Furnace Creek is, to which he responds that it is closed for the summer. He suggested we might be confused and should check the other hotel, the Ranch and Resort. Perhaps our reservations are there instead. We gulp and immediately head to the Ranch Hotel, only a few hundred yards away. We are told we do not have a reservation at the Ranch either , but the clerk says the ranger does not know what he is talking about. The Inn is open and they have our reservation. Whew! Another close one. The nearest inhabitable hotel would probably be in Las Vegas, another hundred and fifty miles away.

The elevation of Furnace Creek is 190 feet below sea level. Getting out of our car, my eyes burn, my lips dry out, and I feel dryness in my throat as I stumble back to the car. What the oppressive and dangerous dry heat really does to you, however, is suck the strength out of you, leaving you completely exhausted.

The inn is perched on a cliff about a mile away and several hundred feet higher than the Ranch. It is another one of those classic historic structures, constructed in the Spanish Colonial style in 1927 and quite charming in an understated way. Offering 65 rooms, most looking out on the valley, the inn offers a 30 meter swimming pool on a deck overlooking the valley,a fitness center, quaint dining room and lobby, and best of all, fireplaces in every room and men and women’s saunas, perfect for the summer weather (though handy in the winter).

There is lots of activity with people checking in and sitting around the lobby. Our plan to avoid heat exhaustion is to remain inside, which is what we do most of Sunday, reading, catching up on the blog, watching a little CNN, and swimming laps in the pool early in the morning before the water is too hot. Late in the day when the temperature drops to around 100 degrees, we visit the famous Mesquite Sand Dunes, which are like those in the Sahara. The buffet-style food in the dining room is especially good, much better than what we had at the Alwahnee. The coldest water you can get out of the cold tap feels like hot bath water, but overall we give the inn very high marks.

The puzzle regarding who these guests are and what are they doing here is partially answered when I meet a guy in the hall about my age taking photographs of the portraits of past presidents of the Forty-Niners Association, the non profit organization that has supported the park since before it was even a park. He is the current president and is trying to determine what kind of portrait would be most appropriate for him. He is very friendly and provides a lot of history about the park. What is perplexing to me, I tell him, is who are these people here right now in this inferno. He shakes his head and says, “Well, there are not many Americans. We Americans know better than to come here in the summer. In winter ,though, it is ideal. In summer—well, it is like it is now. They are Europeans mostly. They come here to discover the Real America, to experience the real West. They love it!”

Discovering the Real America? Sounds vaguely familiar.

We learn the next day that this is a special week for Furnace Creek, which also accounts for the hotels being full. It is the annual Ultra Marathon event, which involves running 135 miles, non stop, across the valley, up the mountains and ending in Lone Pine—a vertical climb of over 14,000 feet. Over one hundred, elite ultra marathoners are gathering for the event, which starts Monday at eight p.m.—unfortunately when we will be in Las Vegas. The winner is expected to finish in under 24 hours.

The runners are an interesting mix of what must border on super-human. About a fourth are women. The oldest runner is 69, the youngest 20; and the average age around 40. They come from 27 different countries and 30 different states in the U.S.

Monday morning we drive 25 miles to the lowest spot in the country at Bad Water, measured at 282 feet below sea level, situated in a part of the valley with a white floor of salt and borax, looking much like the remnants of a snow fall. A tour bus and a few dozen cars are parked at the viewing area, and scores of people are walking out toward the low point, I suppose so they can say they have done it. Embry follows but does not get very far in the 120 degree heat and near gale force winds.

After viewing the low point we are on our way to Las Vegas. Our trusted Google Maps says the quickest way is to continue on the road we are on, which we do for another 30 scenic miles until we come to a sign saying “Road Closed.” There is another option as we study our map— a dirt road which seems to link up with the road to Las Vegas in another 25 miles. However, there is a warning posted on the map saying that the road is subject to drifting sands and at times may be impassable. This option doesn’t sound like a great idea, so we retrace our steps.

No problem since there is no specific time we have to get to Las Vegas. All the confusion causes us to forget about filling the tank with gas before we leave Furnace Creek. It occurs to me that this could be a problem, but I check the gas information on the dash board, which says we have 100 miles to go before we run out. Certainly we will see a gas station before we run out.

Not necessarily.

I do not start to get worried until we have gone about 70 miles without seeing a single gas station. Actually we did see two, both closed. By this time the gauge is saying we have 40 miles left and the warning light is on. I look at our map again, which shows a town coming up in five miles with a small symbol showing a gas station. If the map is correct, we are fine. If not, it will be at least another 60 miles before we will be in any decent size town. It could be close. I check Google Maps and scan for gas stations in the area. Negative. I am now starting to sweat.

We pull up to the small town and there is a sign for gas. Eureka!

As we pull up to the pump, we note that large oil cans block the lanes. The station is closed.

Desperately glancing across the street I see a large sign, advertising “Brothel,” next to a pink building with a smaller “Brothel” sign offering “free tours, free Wi-Fi, and free restrooms.” (Hey, this is Nevada!) And next to that sign is a smaller one simply stating, “gas.” This little station is open. Saved again.

Now onward to Las Vegas!

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Thursday, July 14, and Friday, July 15

After spending the morning visiting the Yosemite Valley museum, we drive back up to the high country a good 50 miles or so to the Tioga Pass, which is at an altitude of almost 10,000 feet and is the eastern gateway to the park. (Jessica and the grandchildren departed for San Francisco very early.) Vestiges of snow decorate the peaks, most above 12,000 feet. The road beyond the park is much easier and permits breathtaking views as we descend to the arid valley below. Another dramatic change in eco systems. Mono Lake, a huge salt water lake, sits at the bottom with sparkling blue water surrounded by a vast desert. In the Sierras of California, if you don’t like the scenery, just drive another 20 miles.

We are on our way to Mammoth Lakes. Who ever heard of Mammoth Lakes? The reason we are stopping there is because it is about half the way to Death Valley, our next destination, and was recommended by our California friends as “not a bad place to stop.” This was an understatement. Nestled on the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada, this little town of around 5,000 people turns out to be a world class resort area with dozens of ski trails, resort hotels, and at this time of year mountain biking trails. Serious hikers and mountain bikers are everywhere, carrying their bikes with them on ski lifts and whizzing downhill on the gentler slopes. There is nothing distasteful anywhere in this town—no garish signs, no in-your-face billboards. Even Burger King looks kind of nice. Once again we are impressed with how some towns in California have avoided the utter degradation of the landscape and wonder if it has to do with state laws and regulations or just blind luck.

We are thrilled to be here, probably the biggest surprise of the trip so far! Our reservation puts us in the nicest hotel, looking up at Mammoth Mountain, and only a short walk to the ski lifts. Unfortunately at the check-in counter we discover that we actually do not have a reservation and that this hotel—and apparently all others—are fully booked. It seems that some kind of classical music festival is underway. Embry feverishly searches her emails and confirms that we do in fact have a valid reservation and have already paid for the room. Unfortunately, the date for the reservation is for a date two weeks earlier. (Not an unusual computer screw up since that was the day we made the reservation, not when we needed it.)

Have I mentioned that Mammoth Lakes is basically in the wilderness with 50 miles to the next town?

So what do you do when all hotels are full and there do not appear to be a lot of other options? Plan B—back to the internet. Hotels are full, but there is one available apartment in a condo development, and it is about the same price as the hotel room. Embry books it, and we charge off, arriving at five minutes to five, the appointed time for the office to close for the evening. Nice to know Embry’s guardian angel is alive and well.

It turns out that our reservation is for a one-bedroom unit, but the only unit available is for a two-bedroom plus a loft unit, and it is the choice apartment of the entire condominium complex with stunning views of the mountains and an adjacent meadow. The manager—a slightly pudgy lady with a nice smile, probably in her 60s– gives it to us for the same price. The apartment is spacious, tastefully decorated with a Southwest/outdoorsy theme, has both a wood burning fireplace and a small balcony, and does in fact provide splendid views from every window and the balcony. We end up staying two nights and one full day using the time for doing laundry, shopping for food and preparing six home cooked meals, the first we have had for some time. It also provides a brief respite for two weary, but continually amazed travelers.

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