Siteline | That’s Life in Death Valley

My husband, Adam, and I had reason to be in Las Vegas—more on that later—so when his mom expressed interest in going somewhere warm and dry, I suggested we tag on Death Valley National Park. I had been twice before and loved it both times, and the national park struck me as the kind of place where you can revel in nature without having to work too hard for it.

I solicited recommendations on where to stop during the five-and-a-half-hour drive, and the most intriguing one—factoring in that Barbara is a vegan—came from D.: “Voyager Restaurant at the Mojave Air & Space Port is several blocks off the main road, but easy to get to. The food is strictly basic, old-school café, but the location looking out at the planes and the Space Port memorabilia are outstanding.” That description is spot-on; the menu was unremarkable—except for a burger with peanut butter, bacon, melted Swiss cheese, and lettuce that did not tempt us—but we loved seeing the aerospace research center’s airliner boneyard.

This was the first time I’ve arrived from the west, via Panamint Springs—it’s a scenic drive with long, straight roads that undulate over hills. We paused for a late-afternoon stop at Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes, where it must have rained recently because the smell of creosote bushes filled the air. From an article about White Sand National Park in New Mexico, which has even better dunes: “This enchanting scent is part of the broader phenomenon known as petrichor, the earthy aroma that arises when rain falls on dry soil and plants. Petrichor is created by a mix of natural oils, including nearly odorless stearic and palmitic acids, which are released from the soil into the air when raindrops land. The interaction of these oils with the creosote bush’s aroma adds layers to the delightful scents of a desert rain.”

We stayed at The Inn at Death Valley, formerly known as the Furnace Creek Inn; it’s part of a collection of lodgings, The Oasis at Death Valley, operated by Xanterra Travel Collection as a National Park Service concession. The location is amazing, and the hotel—built in 1927—has extraordinary stone bones, including a dramatic tunnel between the parking area and the elevator.

In 2018, the property underwent a $200 million renovation, much of which was spent on building 22 casitas in front of the resort. Backroads had snapped them all up, or we would’ve booked them.

We were glad it worked out that way. The casitas are a fair distance from the restaurant; each casita comes with a golf cart, if you prefer that kind of thing. And there’s no view like the one we had from our Deluxe King rooms. Adam and I had been worried about the hotel, because last time were were there, in 2016, we cut our stay short by a day. (You know things are bad when I’d rather be in Vegas.) It’s still very much an old building—note the HVAC system that toggles between warmer and cooler, but never turns off—but it was fine. And the bathroom was even nice. I’d strongly recommend the property as long as you understand that any national park concession comes with limitations as to exactly how plush things can get.

The bar gives you a sense of the decor in the communal rooms.

And the pool is drop-dead glamorous.

During our two full days at the park, we planned to minimize backtracking by heading north one day and south the other. North came first, and after a restroom stop with a dehydration chart that I’d put on souvenir T-shirts…

…we continued on to Ubehebe Crater, which is “only about 2,000 years old. Rising magma—hot, molten rock—turns groundwater to steam. Intense steam pressure builds until the superheated combination of steam and rock explodes, creating a crater like this one. The explosion spewed shattered rock over a six-square-mile area, in some places to depths of 150 feet.”

On the way back, Barbara suggested we stop for a roadside ramble. Some other folks soon joined us—I guess they figured there must be something worthwhile. And there is, if you’re into stones of every color.

A local had recommended Smokin’ J’s BBQ in the town of Beatty, Nevada, and we should’ve listened even though Barbara would’ve been forced to order the macaroni and cheese. Instead we went to a restaurant that was among the worst I have ever patronized. Looking at the photo now, I can’t fathom why we didn’t turn right around and leave. But no one got sick, and it gave us a good running joke—and a low-end benchmark—for the rest of the trip. No matter how disappointing something was, it was better than Mel’s.

Beatty, meanwhile, isn’t much of a town, aside from the surreal Exchange Club Casino building, which appears to be a work in progress. One can only imagine what it’ll be like when it’s done.

A lot of the roads are like this. And yes, that’s rain on the windshield.

We had ventured to Beatty not for only lunch, but also to check out the ghost town of Rhyolite, home to a handful of decrepit structures and, my favorite, the Tom Kelly Bottle House (1906), “one of the few remaining examples of bottle house architecture in the United States. In Nevada, where wood is scarce and expensive, miners often built their houses with whatever was cheap and readily available. In many cases, glass bottles fit the bill. The bottles would be used like bricks and mortared with adobe. Bottle houses are great in hot climates because they are cool in the summer, hold heat in the winter, and allow for natural light.”

Nearby is the Goldwell Open Air Museum, where “a group of prominent Belgian artists, led by the late Albert Szukalski, created a self-described art situation consisting of seven outdoor sculptures.” Below: Dr. Hugo Heyrman’s “Lady Desert: The Venus of Nevada” (1992). She’s built like a you-know-what—mighty-mighty, just lettin’ it all hang out.

At dinnertime, the rain came down in sheets. The Furnace Creek area, site of the hotel, received .6 inch; thankfully, the staff had recommended visitors park at the sister property, out of the way of flooding. But the Internet died for 24 hours, and the fire alarm got fried, blaring intermittently for an hour that night.

Morning brought clearer skies and even a glimpse of sun (with snow on the mountains in the distance). Photographs don’t do justice to how magnificent the desert is; you have to be there, under the broad, open sky.

We drove south to Dante’s Peak for a view of the basin…

…and stopped at Zabriskie Point on the way back. I didn’t remember it being as spectacular as it is.

But the rainstorm closed the road to Badwater Basin, which meant no lowest point in North America (282 feet below sea level), no Devil’s Golf Course, no Artist’s Palette, and no Natural Bridge. Instead, we drove north again, for a hike in Mosaic Canyon and lunch with an extremely sassy server—when I went to the restroom, she hid my drink—at the Toll Road Restaurant in Stovepipe Wells.

Having exhausted everything else we could reasonably do, we headed back over to Twenty Mule Team Canyon, where there’s a dirt road you can walk on. It was too muddy, so instead, we wandered over the land. It’s liberating to walk wherever you want, rather than hewing to a trail, and it ended up being a highlight of the trip—not to mention a bit of a life lesson.