Day 10: Monday, August 3—

Breakfast at the Holiday Inn was a buffet style affair. The line and the wait were long, the food was abundant but so-so, although the boys seemed to enjoy it. After breakfast, we packed up, checked out, and moved on. Leaving Las Vegas was bittersweet. Not that we missed Vegas much, but it seemed to be a turning point in the trip. We were still heading out and would be doing so for the next few days, but it felt like we were heading home.

We drove through the Mojave Desert toward Death Valley National Park, stopping for gas and refreshments in the town of Pahrump, Nevada. We somehow managed to get lost, but after asking for directions, got back on track. I’m not sure, however, what track we took. The map of our travels, which I highlighted, shows we took the most direct route to Badwater, which is via Nevada Route 160 to California Route 190 to Furnace Creek and then south on Badwater Road. But I don’t recall passing Furnace Creek before reaching Badwater, and I vaguely recollect driving in from the south, which would have had us taking California Route 178 soon after leaving Pahrump. (Sharon also recalls that the salt flats along our route and Badwater itself were to our left.) What I remember as if it were seared into my brain is that it was hotter than hell. And the closer we got to Badwater, the hotter it got. I pulled over a couple of times to embrace the oven and venture onto the salt flats to take photos, while Sharon remained by the car with the boys and took photos of me.

Badwater hadn’t changed much from my last visit in 1979. It was still the lowest point in the country, devoid of vegetation, and as other-worldly of a place as could be. An outhouse and small parking area, however, had been added. Sharon recalls the outhouse doors having metal handles, on which she burned her hand. We got out of the car to walk around. At first, Travis wanted to throw the Frisbee and Eric was gung-ho and wanted to run around. In one of our most treasured family photos, Sharon captured the boys pumping their arms to show how a little warm weather couldn’t slow them down. Within five minutes in this intense heat, the boys were dripping with sweat, near tears, and clamoring to get back in the air-conditioned car. Who could blame them? This was the hottest I’ve ever experienced. How hot, I don’t know. At least 125° F is my guess.

After we got back from the trip, I heard a funny commercial that reported “The average daytime temperature in Death Valley is 125° in the shade. And there is no shade.” Ain’t that the truth.

We continued through the valley via California Route 190. On a brief detour, we came upon a tunnel or alley winding through the hills with a sign warning of all kinds of dangers. I was curious what we’d stumbled upon—perhaps a mine shaft, or a tunnel leading to the molten core at the center of the earth from which Death Valley gets it incredible heat. But I wasn’t that curious—we did a quick U-turn. Our next stop in the park was Furnace Creek—a hamlet and campground with a few stores. We checked out the general store, where I bought a “Death Valley” baseball cap. Then we headed out of the Valley of Death in the opposite direction of how Jeff and I had ridden in. We passed by some sand dunes and then climbed into the hills on the winding, stomach-churning roadway. At some point in our ascent, we passed the spot where 19 years before, I had parked Jeff’s ’66 Chevy Impala to spend the night—a night as dark and spooky as any I can recall. Oh, how I love this place. It’s just you and the elements, and if you come alive, you’ve won. And so far, I’m two for two.

California Route 190 took us across a flat barren stretch and then began to ascend, wending this way and that—the type of up and around that leaves little margin for error. It was beautiful. We stopped near the top at a pull-off called Father Crowley Overlook, where I snapped a photo of Travis. As we continued through the Mojave Desert, the road leveled off, a jet streaked overhead, and the land remained desolate yet hauntingly exquisite. Eventually, we came upon the first sign of civilization in over 100 miles, that being the town of Keeler. The town was on our map of the western United States, yet it couldn’t possibly have had more than 50 inhabitants. And we didn’t see any.

The next town we came to, 15 miles farther on, was Lone Pine. It was a real town with actual people. And while on the surface it might not have stuck most visitors as exceptional, the place was damn near an epiphany to me. We stopped in town for dinner, choosing the Bonanza Family Restaurant, a diner type place, which would have been fine were it not for some oddball seated nearby who seemed to be preoccupied with us. After dinner, I had my first cigarette[TE1] of the day while Sharon and the boys visited a local gift shop. That’s when I had the near epiphany—standing on Main Street, aka U.S. Route 395, facing Mt. Whitney at the end of a remarkable day, I realized, for the first time, that I was soon going to be an ex-cigarette smoker. That is, I realized then and there in that remarkable spot that it was not only possible, but it was inevitable. Then I finished my cigarette and joined the others in the gift shop, where I found two unruly sons, so we left without buying anything.

Lone Pine is practically in the shadow of Mr. Whitney. I pulled off a side road to pay our dues and take a photo of the tallest mountain in the lower 48 states. Then we headed north on U.S. Route 395, which runs along the eastern edge of the Sierra Nevada Mountain range. It was a beautiful drive, with snowcapped mountains to our left, lush valley ahead, and rolling desert hills to the right. It would have been perfect but for a slight haziness. As the sun began to slowly set behind the mountains, we drove though the quaint town of Big Pine, which had a hotel that reminded me of an elaborate 1920’s era place[TE2] .

The next town was Bishop. Daylight was down to its last few rays, and we had no idea what the road was like ahead, although the map showed it heading into the mountains. Since we didn’t want it to run into a bunch of switchbacks in the dark, Bishop seemed like a good place to spend the night. We checked out a few motels in town and chose the Vagabond Inn. After all that we’d done today, covering over 320 miles through the desert and hills, it was still daylight outside when we checked in.

The Vagabond was a pleasant place to stay. After settling into our room, which was in the back on the first floor, I took the boys for a dip in the outdoor pool. By now it was dark, and the pool was awfully cold, but Travis loved it all the same and Eric, as usual, didn’t venture beyond the first step. Afterward, I went out to a convenience store and picked up a local map and some beer. Then we kicked back in our room and watched TV, read some, and that sort of stuff.

Note: I ranked this day the second most memorable of the year.

[TE1] Starting in January of 1998, I set out to have fewer cigarettes each week than I’d had the week before, and I succeeded throughout the year. I timed it so that on the last week of the year, I had just one cigarette. Tobacco is tenaciously addictive, and while there are several strategies on how to overcome its hold, this was my way. (Marc Evans, 10/6/21)

[TE2] I looked on Google Maps and did a general internet search for such a place in Big Pine but couldn’t find any that fit the description. Perhaps it no longer exists, or perhaps the place looked more inviting to me in person at the time than it did on Google Maps Street View. (Marc Evans, 10/6/21)