Cameron Dawson

As I watched Dan and Greg drive off, a cloud of dust blew away perpendicular to their travel. That was always what you hoped for while driving in Death Valley. Especially if you were driving behind another rig. A cross wind meant you weren’t breathing the dust kicked up by the lead vehicle.

I turned to Stuart and he was looking across Badwater at the hills in the distance. We were standing near Shorty’s grave. We’d decided that we’d go ahead and hike across Badwater itself. Go as low as you can go in this hemisphere.

He said, “You know, it only looks like about 20 minutes from here…” I laughed. He was right. It didn’t look like 8 miles. It looked like you’d start wandering that direction and be there in about, yes, 20 minutes.

Dan and Greg went to drop off one of the vehicles. They’d be back in about 20 minutes. But it would take us far longer to walk that 8 miles.

It had been an amazing trip so far. We’d done so many things. This, however, seemed like it would be a kind of pinnacle. As it turned out, it truly was. This was, and I think still is, the hardest hike I’ve ever done.

I remember telling Stuart that I was studying Tae Kwon Do. It was actually a big deal to tell him. I’m not the kind of person that keeps secrets. I usually end up blabbing everything about myself to my friends. But this one, I decided to keep to myself for 6 months. I wanted to make sure I was going to stick with it before I went bragging to my friends that I was going to learn Tae Kwon Do. But I had received my first colored belt just prior to the trip, so I felt I had proven to myself I would stick with it. It felt good to finally tell someone.

Soon after, Dan and Greg came back in the Scout. They were talking about those damn washes on the West Side Highway. The water comes through from the alluvial fans in little rivulets across the highway. The result is small trenches across the road about 1 foot wide and 7 or 8 inches deep. Just enough to knock the hell out of your vehicle. They had hit one hard and gave the Scout a good slam.

Dan decided to leave Reepacheep in one of the vehicles because she wasn’t walking so well. I think her paws were sore from the gravel she wasn’t used to.

We set off and started joking that it looked like the other side was about “20 minutes from here.” The ground itself was surprisingly spongy. It was sort of like a chocolate chip cookie that was crispy on the outside, and chewy inside. My boots crunched through the thin shell at the top and sponged into the soft earth beneath. Very weird, but also very cool.

As we continued to walk, the clouds in the sky reminded us that there was occasionally a bit of moisture in Death Valley. The sky above the hills were amazing to look at in all directions. The spongy groud, however, slowly transitioned into something altogether more moist. The further we went, the muddier it got. The treads on my boots were caked with it as I continued to walk. I could feel the weight every step I took. As we continued on, the mud became deeper and deeper. Each step I took was not “lifting” my foot, but “pulling” it free of the mud. The effort, after a few miles, was intense. I would stop for short rests as we went and I realized that the longer I waited, the deeper I sunk. The faster you kept moving, the less you would sink and so the less you’d have to pull to get your foot to the next stride. But the fatigue was incredible, yet it still looked like “20 minutes from here.”

I looked back to see Stuart close behind me, clearly not enjoying his fatigue. I said, “You’re really living now, huh?” I laughed, but I don’t think he felt like joining me in that laugh. He acknowledged me and just kept plugging along. What else could we do? We’d come too far to go back. The only choice was to go on.

I turned around at one point and the sky was just breathtaking. I decided it was worth sinking a couple inches into the mud to get that shot. So I pulled out my camera and snapped a few pictures. One, in particular, is my favorite. You can see all our sets of footprints in the mud beneath a sky peppered with rain clouds as you look back to the Panamint range. Satisfied, I put my camera back in my pack and began trudging again.

I remember cursing Greg because he was waaaay ahead of the rest of us. He’s just a great hiker. I can’t deny it. I would like to say that it was easier for him because he weighs less than I do. But mostly it’s that he’s got an amazing constitution. Fucker.

A little further on, I saw something I truly did not expect. The glare of what sun there was on water. My mind quickly did some calculations: Dirt + Water = Mud. Dirt + MORE Water = DEEPER Mud. And if it was completely submersed, then the bottom of that water was likely a slog of strange and unpleasant goo. I thought of my camera with my Pulitzer winning photos. If I had to swim through that water, my camera was toast. But what if it was too shallow to actually swim through, yet the mud was thick enough to be… a bog? Hmm.

I admit, I was nervous for about 5 good minutes, then figured, “What the fuck. What’s the worst that could happen? I’d die? I’ve had it coming for years… Plus, Greg will die first cause he’s in the lead…Fucker.”

Interestingly, when we got to the water, it did not produce an increase in mud. In fact, the water was a god send. There was an icy layer of salt at the bottom of the water. All fresh water has SOME salt in it. And when the lake that once filled Death Valley evaporated, the salt couldn’t evaporate with it, so it just stayed down there. That’s actually what makes up the Devil’s Golf Course. Just brown salt instead of white salt. This stuff was all white. And the water itself was completely saturated with salt. It was so lousy with salt that it felt like gasoline on your fingers. Fortunately, it was only 2 deep where we walked through. As it splashed my hands and legs, then dried, the salt looked like white paint. I was happy that I was wearing shorts. I think walking through that with pants must have felt a little ugly.

But the good part was that the mud was gone. The going in the water was MUCH MUCH easier. I looked back at Stuart and he was smiling. I’d almost say “giddy.” I know *I* felt a whole lot better.

Perhaps another mile of that and we were on the other side. We got there and all hugged. I looked down at my legs and they had salt crystals forming on the hairs. They felt like Velcro when they touched.

We met the road where the Ranger was parked. A little tourist parking lot where people can hang out at -282 feet. Greg said that some people saw him coming to the road and asked him, “How far out did you go?” Greg said, “I came from the other side.” Apparently they didn’t look like they believed him. Oh well… This was OUR day. OUR hike. We didn’t need anyone to believe us. We did it. Now it was time for some beers.