Lowest to Highest Day 3: Oasis

10/15/22

L2H Day 3
Panamint Valley to China Garden Spring
Second Valley Camp to Chex Mix Camp
L2H miles: 20.96
L2H total: 57.6
Elevation change: 1781ft gain, 1102ft loss

Another early rise to beat the heat. Like our pre-dawn start from Badwater on Day 1, Arthur and I faced many miles of hiking across a low-elevation basin that was sure to be roasting once the sun started pumping rays. For this reason alone, our alarms chimed inharmoniously at 3:30am, and I quickly fumbled mine off, more disturbed by the unnatural assault on the peace of the desert night than being jarred awake.

Nothing much had changed in the seven hours since we made camp. The strange orange point of light still burned with strength across the valley, and the breeze still caressed warmly, flowing around us like a river over stones, from darkness to darkness. The strongest indicators that time had passed were the bright points of the Big Dipper. When we went to bed, they had been diving below the horizon. Now they were climbing high once again, endlessly twirling around Polaris. Or were we the ones twirling? The moon had also trekked high into the sky, and now reflected enough cool light to see by. We packed up, pooped, and ate by the red light of our headlamps, but turned them off once we shouldered our packs and resumed our dark traverse of the Panamint Valley.

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We hiked with an easy urgency, conscious of the impending broil, aided by the smooth gravel road. This was our opportunity to fly, and it felt good to move quickly after so many slow miles yesterday. We cruised side by side, ponging Mitch Hedberg jokes and Simpsons references to reduce the illusion of being in a dream, following the road in a huge swoop down to the valley bottom from the deceptive highs of alluvial debris that had gradually flowed for eons with imperceptible slowness from mountains to valley.

The grade eased up, then flattened entirely as the road quit its meandering and straightened, no longer dodging around washes and ditches. The roadbed smoothed even further then, crunching softly with our unconcerned steps. I had finally begun to wake up, and now the pleasant monotony lulled me back into a daze. My gaze lifted to the stars. This was the good stuff. It really doesn’t get better than this. Arthur would stop to pee, and I would take the opportunity to do the same. In sync, peaceful.

We hiked straight for days, and eventually, the sky began to lighten. Soon the moonlight no longer cast a shadow, bringing into focus the depths of our desolation. We were at the bottom, in the middle, miles away from anything and everything. We had our road and a point where we thought that we were headed, but everything else was distant and uninvolved. Mountains everywhere rimmed us in with rippled ridges thousands of feet high. A distant patch of sand dunes crashed ahead at a blazing pace when compared with the geological fluidity of these solid ranges, yet looked static to our human timescale. We scurried like ants, in awe and humility.

The sky dusted orange just as we turned left off what was now just a few tire tracks disappearing into the distance. Pointing to a hulk of basalt, we set out across the trackless playa, a pale yellow flat of cracked mud. The air was noticeably cooler here for some reason. Not just cooler, actually, but legitimately cool. It was a welcome splash before the sun roasted this bone.

By 7am, the highest points of the Argus Range ahead flamed with the coming day. By 7:23am, our shadows reappeared like fantoms emerging from the light. We took a quick break then to apply sunscreen and prehydrate. Like it mattered, we flapped open our pads next to the only bushes in shouting distance, and popped off our shoes.

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An hour later, we were across the playa and across Panamint Valley Road. Popping open our umbrellas, we soon ditched another dirt road to take the shortest route to Panamint Springs Resort, where waited our resupply box and the promise of relaxation. Our basalt hulk was useless to us now, and instead we aimed for a pair of diminutive white lumps.

And our course was true, without much deviation, we weaved between bushes and gravely washes, eventually stepping onto Hwy 190. After providing us with endless intrigue, one of those strange dots on the horizon turned out to be a yellow road sign, the other the cab of a bulldozer. Drenched in sweat, but more than satisfied with how the morning had worked out, we churned up the final quarter mile to the awaiting salvation. 10am and scorching.

Arthur and I dropped our packs and posted up outside the gas station / general store at a gloriously shaded ensemble of rugged furniture. Everything had to be rugged in this environment. He collected our box of food from the folks behind the counter, and we settled in for a long sit, demolishing the beans, tortillas, and salsa that we had packed for immediate consumption.

Time flew by as we fiddled with things and watched people come and go. It was easy to spot the visitors, and easier to identify the locals. The steady procession of vacationing Europeans all stopped in because they wanted something — gas, snacks, drinks, directions — but the souls who called the desert home all came here to give.

Mostly they offered greetings, smiles, and conversation, but one dude in particular was all about advice. He loved the charcoal kilns up Wildrose Canyon Road, and was determined to share their magic with everyone he met. Without being pushy or unpleasant, he made sure to recommend a visit to everyone he conversed with. We looked on with amused smiles, knowing his spiel firsthand. His love and intention were pure, and I admired his freedom. A Prius and good vibes were all this guy needed to survive. All he wanted was to share the beauty of the desert, his home, with others.

Caleb and Kelly showed up around 12:20pm, looking absolutely blasted. We’d been wondering about them and how they had fared on the Wildrose alternate route, and hearing their tale made me grateful that we had done it our way. Tuber Canyon was awesome, and our timing strategy had so far been spot on.

Relaxed, rested, and ready, Arthur and I organized our resupplies and reconstructed our exploded backpacks. The others came back outside with a pizza while we hoisted our packs and unfurled our umbrellas. They were going to be just fine, and so were we.

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We felt a bit ridiculous leaving an oasis to brave the heat of the day, but we trusted our instincts. While we had just five miles left for the day, a maze of waterfalls and canyon scrambles awaited us and it felt imperative that we were through this major route-finding hurdle by sundown. So we sweated up the highway and then the dirt road leading into Darwin Canyon, gaining elevation on the way out of Panamint Valley. This was the hottest stretch yet, and I sucked down jolly ranchers like a chain smoker, even the green apple and grape flavors.

Within an hour and a half, we’d reached the abundant shade and flowing water of Darwin Canyon where it narrowed and steepened. Panamint Springs was now exposed for what it was, a false oasis. This was the real deal. In fact, a large pipe running out of the canyon provided the resort with all its water, and I placed my ear on the cool tube, hearing the life-giving rush gurgle and spit on its long ride to a toilet bowl in the desert. The riparian party was a riot of mesquite, cottonwoods, and many other leafed life. Surface water flowed at the bottom of a cut in the wash, and we hopped around it as we burrowed deeper into the hills.

The oft-pictured Darwin Falls did not disappoint, nor did it overpower. Water in the desert is a life-bringer, and this elegant pour-over fit the part, cascading gently and delicately into a wide pool of emerald water, split by a conical rock at the bottom into a forking splash. It was a place of peace and would have been at home in a Japanese tea garden.

Instead, here it was, hidden up a narrow canyon in a distant corner of Death Valley National Park. This place was special, I didn’t need to be a Zen master to see that. Arthur and I sat to watch the flow for a few minutes, but with bubbling excitement for the next puzzle, we didn’t linger for as long as the place deserved. The falls flowed endlessly, day and night, outlasting the seasons, and there was surely no limit to the lessons one could learn from visiting frequently and staying past the point of discomfort or boredom.

Immediately upon leaving, the complexity and lack of comprehensive information about the route ahead became apparent. The official description had been written with a verbal economy that left plenty of room for interpretation, and our vague memories of vague descriptions in blogs only confused us further. The internet had let us down. There was no consensus on the best way to scramble around the cliffs and narrows above Darwin Falls. However, maybe it was for the best. With the right attitude, figuring out where to go would enhance the fun.

After getting confused, and separately investigating two cliffy routes around the falls, we decided to stick with the written description and follow it as faithfully as possible. It was initially hard for me to give up the picture in my mind of what I thought the next half a mile was supposed to look like, but once I did, the route unfolded in front of us. Arthur read the words while I probed ahead.

I hadn’t thought that we would need to descend back to, then cross the river above the falls because I hadn’t seen a picture of it before, but sure enough, this got us where we needed to go. The precarious scramble was made slick by a thin layer of dust on water-worn stone, but with good holds we both made it safely down and across.

Then it was up a steep scree slope (right of water) that I did recognize from the internet. Whew, what a relief. We spent a few minutes being confused by what we would come to know as mini, watermelon-like buffalo gourds, then cut left above a black cliff to carefully contour deeper into the upper gorge.

Inevitably, memories of the Grand Canyon bubbled to the surface of my mind. This place felt almost exactly the same. Darwin Canyon could have been one of so many tributaries branching from the mighty trunk of the Colorado River. I’d explored many such as this with Arthur on a 23-day rafting trip a few years back — the hot sun baking the rim above, and the cool warmth and vibrant life hunkering in the deep.

We moved like bighorn sheep around ledges and across slopes, eventually reaching the water again, only to find the way blocked. Back up and around the third, and final falls. This move kind of jived with the description if you interpreted it correctly, but I could understand why there was so much variance on the internet. It seemed like most parties eventually just climbed up a random cliff to get out of the canyon, but we resisted this urge, sticking with the water, trusting the few toppled cairns marking the way, or a way, at least. Hopefully, it was our way.

The fun continued for longer than we had expected, and we eventually emerged into the shallower, wider Darwin Canyon after a long contour above the water on a crumbly slope of rock and cactus. Our old friends, the wild burros, had carved a smooth track that we followed safely back down to the bottom of the canyon, which now showed no signs of consistently flowing water.

Now we walked up a wide wash with gully and ripples in the gravel that told the story of violent floods and impermanence. Conversation related to our relief that we’d made it through with satisfyingly few reroutes and the shocking difference between expectations and reality. Darwin Canyon kicked our butts, but in the best way.

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A tired cruise soon delivered us to our home for the evening. China Garden Spring was located at a confluence of two washes and marked by a towering stand of cottonwoods and a disappointing amount of historic human garbage. Eagerly we hunted around the dense greenery for the water, finding it next to a busted metal tub, rusting and perforated with hundreds of bullet holes. However, debris aside, there was magic in the water. Streaks of orange and white danced below the surface. Hungry mouths gulped the air, wanting more. Somehow, some way, there were goldfish in China Garden Spring, and they seemed happy to see us.

We were fresh out of fish food and were ravenous ourselves, so we spread our pads after a search for camping resulted in a lackluster selection. Camping could wait. We needed to eat. We popped off our shoes, and separately began to wage war on our bags of Chex Mix. There was nothing I wanted more in the whole world at that moment. The salty umami and multi-textured crunch was addictive, and it looked like Arthur was afflicted with the frenzy as well. We each dug deep, eventually regaining control just in time to salvage a meager portion for tomorrow.

Arthur thought that there were too many ants where we sat. I agreed, but did not have the fortitude to go in search of a replacement, so I was glad when he got up to see what was on the other side of the trees. With a holler, he summoned me over, and I staggered without grace to our final resting place for the evening. We set up camp, and I stretched out all my acheables while filtering gallons of water scooped from the fish bowl. By the time those chores were complete, I was utterly ready to rest for eternity.

The wispy clouds overhead burned red. We spooned warm beans, delirious either with exhaustion or bliss. Finally, Caleb and Kelly showed up an hour and a half after us at 6:30pm, just ahead of the darkness. We were glad to see them safe and sound. Darwin Canyon was no place to fumble in the dark, and there was space and water aplenty here at this utterly strange spot in the middle of nowhere. Have I seen anything stranger than goldfish living wild in the desert?

Arthur and I watched the stars appear, talking galaxies and farting farts. Facing an infinite abyss while lying far from everything that made sense, it was easy to feel small. After our early start and hours of getting cooked, it was even easier to fall asleep. What a day, again.