On A Desert Highway

by Diana Pratt

August of 2018 we took the first of our national park road trips. After a morning hike in Sequoia, we headed out of the park on Highway 198 toward Three Rivers, California. The descent into Three Rivers is a steep winding road, which was undergoing road construction with one lane closed for several miles. One of the first things we noted on the first of our park visits to Kings Canyon and Sequoia is that visiting the national parks involves a certain level of commitment — the parks are often located miles away from any major town and involve moderately treacherous terrain, and there is typically a significant amount of time required just to get to the park gates. Three Rivers is a cute little town that has several lodging options right outside the southern park entrance (noted for future reference).

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From there we traveled southwest across the San Joaquin Valley to Highway 99 and south from there to Bakersfield. There we stopped to fuel up with gas and coffee. This was a good idea because from that point, for the next several hours, facilities were limited as we traveled northeast across the desert to Death Valley National Park. Our route took us through Ridgecrest to Trona and up the Panamint Valley Road.

Hint:  When traveling in remote locations print out your directions before you leave. We were glad we did this. Out in the middle of nowhere GPS and cellular service can fail. Our printed Google map directions were fail proof and dead on.

Armed with our printouts and paper maps we headed into the desert into remote stretches where we didn’t see more than three or four cars all afternoon and very little else in the form of civilization.

At one point we ended up behind a semi truck — just the tractor, no trailer. He slowed to let us pass but at this point we were glad to have someone to follow, even though he seemed a little sketchy and had no license plate. I backed off to indicate my desire to follow, and we all continued happily along. However, after we came to a stop sign and both turned north, I noticed that he was slowing down, and down, and down. Out in the middle of nowhere with no cell phone service and no other cars in sight for hours, our imaginations running wild, the only logical explanation was that he was trying to get a look to confirm that we were indeed two women, alone in the wilderness and easy prey. As he slowed down, I decreased my speed accordingly remaining a safe distance behind. We went from about 50 MPH down to less than 25 MPH. At this point I confided to Sarah my fear, not to alarm her, but just to put her on alert. In the heat and solitude of the desert, paranoia is real!

We continued to follow the semi into the remote town of Trona. According to Wikipedia, Trona is known for its isolation and desolation (and boy is it). Trona is named for the mineral found in the Searles Lake dry lake bed. Trona, the mineral, is a source of soda ash used in manufacturing glass, chemicals, paper, and detergent. Trona, the town, is also the home, apparently, of our friend in the semi tractor who turned off onto a private street.

Trona to us looked like a deserted little town built to inspire, or maybe inspired by, all B rated horror films. Although there were a couple of gas stations available, we were significantly scared enough by now to keep driving straight through. We went a safe distance outside of town, where we made our own facilities on the side of the road...next to a cemetery.

With the horrors of Trona behind us we headed on. Sarah is always a bit nervous when I am the one behind the wheel so I made a point of driving the speed limit. When I saw a left curve ahead warning sign I slowed accordingly to the recommended 30 miles per hour. It’s a good thing I did. The ninety degree curve in the road that followed came up suddenly and took us winding down a red rock canyon, red dust covering the roadway, into the high desert. We had thought we were already in the flat desert, and not only did we not anticipate such a rapid descent, if we had missed the turn we would have plunged straight over the cliff. In the flashbacks of my traumatized memory there wasn’t even a guardrail. In reality it may have been there but the startle it gave us woke us up and put us back on high alert. Later as we settled onto the desert highway and my heartbeat slowed, I mused over that cliff being a part of the Trona horror plot.

Rush now blaring on the radio we were soon back in the zone, racing due northeast on that straight, flat desert road. 

After awhile I started to notice the crack in Sarah’s windshield was right in my line of sight.  Funny I hadn’t noticed it before. Then I remembered we weren’t even in Sarah’s car, but our rental. Did we get a crack in the windshield? Was it a bug? Was it moving? And just as I said, “is that a plane?” Sarah turned to the right and looked straight out her passenger window into the cockpit of a jet fighter plane, close enough to see the whites of the pilot’s eyes, looking straight back at us. Then SWOOSH, and it disappeared without a trace. Even in that wide expanse we couldn’t see it anywhere. I tried to convince to Sarah, as well as myself, that the pilot was just having a little fun. Being the only car for hours on this lonely road, the opportunity to swipe someone didn’t present itself often. Swiping is fun if you are a jet fighter pilot; at least that’s how it was in “Top Gun.”  Sarah is not familiar with “Top Gun” and she was not amused.

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At this point it was futile trying to convince Sarah to stop for a “Ghost Rider” photo. In his books, Neil Peart writes about, and shows pictures of, his BMW GS motorcycle on deserted roads.  When no one is around he stops and sets the kickstand and takes the photograph from behind, giving the impression the motorcycle is driving itself down the road. With one of the major themes of our trip being WWND?, What Would Neil Do?, it was appropriate for us to take a Ghost Rider picture of our rental. Sarah wasn’t having it — it took me several more miles but she finally agreed to take the famed shot near the Death Valley National Park sign.

Having seen the sign and taken the picture, and this being our first trip to the park, we were surprised when the journey took us east, up and over Towne Pass, elevation 4,956 feet, at a rate of about 1,000 feet per mile. The warning sign advised us to turn off the air conditioner which kept the car from overheating, but outside the temperature was a sweltering 120 degrees. It was a long, hot twenty minutes before we dropped back down into Death Valley, a decrease in elevation to a mere 10 feet at Stovepipe Wells, brakes touch and go, but the air conditioner back on.

Sarah instantly fell in love with the park. To me it looked like a hot, dry desert, but she thought it was beautiful. We both found it immense and eerie in a good way. Our final destination at The Oasis in Furnace Creek, in contrast to our day, was luxurious and relaxing. 

I sent a text to my friend to tell her we made it.  “How was the drive?” she asked. My reply: “Terrifying, but uneventful.”

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