My friend Xavier and I have been friends since the third grade. As a way to celebrate our recent college graduation, we completed a 160 mile trek across Death Valley National park over the course of two weeks. After getting a ride from a stranger on New Years Day in Las into Beatty, we began our walking, traversing three mountain ranges, two valleys, and dozens of miles on the shoulders of highways. We blistered, burned, sheltered from biting winds, fended off fox attacks, prayed for our lives, laughed, played, and slept uncomfortably, but deeply. We slept at sundown (or at least that’s when we entered our sleeping bags) and rose at dawn (though usually not leaving our sleeping bags until the sun was properly up), with only a foam mat under us and the stars above.

Instead of a day-by-day account of our trip, I’m going to focus on some of the key topics and themes of our trip. The following mini-essays are what I thought most pertinent to sharing in blog format, and most reflective of what we learned from the desert, illustrated with relevant tableaus or anecdotes. Now that I’ve graduated and I have the overwhelming luxury of this blog being my main productive focus, I’m planning to put more effort in—planning, reflecting, researching, and even proofreading! I digress…

On Our Beautiful Surroundings, and the Distances Between Them

And beautiful they were, indeed. Varied to the extreme, the environments we passed were each striking and unique. We were spoiled really, to experience such a variety of what we came to call micro-biomes. In one day we could walk though a towering rusty canyon, a huge gravel wash, a paved road, barren sand sprinkled with scraggled brush, and moon-like salt flats. The speed with which we changed environments made for fascinating and exciting hiking. At the same time, the scale of the park was overwhelming. There were times when we had a clear view of two full days of walking, laid out in front of us. Estimating distance was a fruitless endeavor. I looked across Death Valley, thinking that our next stop, Stovepipe Wells Village would be perhaps five miles from us. Nope, said Xavier, thirteen! 

Day Three was a prime example of a biome spree paired with staggeringly distant views. We woke up in the mouth of a canyon in the Amargosa Range on a cloudy day. We trudged down a massive gravelly wash that gave us our first view of the vast Death Valley before coming to a main road. After an hour spent plodding down that wash, we started looking for cars on the road, expecting to see one soon, and relatively close. Dismayed, we soon realized that we had been searching far too near— we saw a tiny black speck moving at a snail’s pace along the road, still at least two miles away. Even with all the practice we had using cars as reference points for distance, a reliable grasp on the scale of our surroundings remained elusive for the duration of the trip.

The periods of the trip that were the worse (as we came to call them) slogs were those with monotonous, homogenous terrain, especially if it was on an incline. On Day Seven we put our heads down, rumbled our stomachs, and marched uphill for what felt like hours over a mountain of coarse sand and an even distribution of the same four kinds of shrubs. In conditions like those, the appearance of a novel cactus or bush was big news! The terrain most dedicated to its sloogginess was the road itself. Our days 13 and 14, our two last, each demanded about 20 miles of walking along the shoulder of roads, usually uncrowded two-lane highways. With long straights whose first curve was well beyond the horizon’s melting point, these miles felt like being on a treadmill. Look up, soak in the view (one of the best of the trip— our terminus, Lone Pine, sat at the foot of one of the most dramatic sections of the Sierra Nevadas, including Mt. Whitney, California’s highest point), look down, walk for an hour, look back up, and soak in the same exact view with no change. 

Neither Xavier or I had spent much time in the desert before. When we first arrived to the Death Valley floor— our first taste of real desert— we were giddy with excitement. It’s foreignness was so apparent, not just because we’re New England Boys, but because it is not a place where much life exists at all. What little life there is has to fight for every little grain of sustenance it has. Every plant is cruelly barbed or spiked, defenses on high alert at all times. It feels like the desert says with contempt, “I dare you, life, to survive here, for I am wickedly designing the harshest conditions I could ever conceive of”, and life, almost as if out of spite, responds elegantly by persisting anyways. We had no choice but to follow suit.

On Hunger, Thirst, and Their Respective Satisfactions

     Covering distances such as we faced burns a number of calories. We were in the unfortunate position of having to carry almost all of these calories with us, or at least the food holding their replacements. Our route took us through two small towns where we knew we could refill our water, but not much more. This meant that we had to take 14 days worth of food with us, as well as enough water to last us each stint between towns. 

Our diets were relatively in varied from day to day. Breakfast would be a cliff bar, or two on a good day. We would break for jerky and GORP (good old Raisins and Peanuts, though our mix also included M&Ms and later edamame, corn nuts, candied cashews, toffee peanuts, almonds, and all other kinds of bits as we re-filled our bag with gravelly bits of snacks we purchased at gas stations in our town stops) during our daily morning de-layering when the dawn chill was chased away by the rising sun. Lunch was a tortilla or two decorated with peanut butter and either jelly or honey. There re many ways o fold a tortilla, we found. The shape of our lunches may have been novel but the labor certainly grew tiresome. However, despite the mundanity of our food, our unending hunger made each meal delicious, anticipated, and received with groans (more from me than Xavier) of satisfaction. 

For dinner we rrhhydrated a pack each of dehydrated hiker slop, in one of six varieties. Our favorites were chicken and rice, beef stroganoff, chicken casserole. Chicken Adobo and Chili Mac were more slop-like, and the scrabled eggs were downright off-putting. Nonetheless, our evening hot meal never felt like a chore, and the food was really not so bad, a least to our grumbling stomachs. 

And grumble they did. We knew going into the trip that we would pretty much constantly be in a deficit. Out energetic debt was deepened when, on night six, we had a visitor at camp. The previous night we had woken around four to a scuffling noise: a kit fox snooping around our bags for an easy meal. It scampered off quickly, admitting defeat. Close to its bedtime and our rising time, we did not get another visit. We commented on our good luck! Thank goodness the fox came at 5am instead of 7pm. We should have known better.

The next night, right around 8pm, another fox arrived in camp. Us deeply slumbering, the sad bag of tortillas in my bag, resting just feet from my head, were left without a guard. We woke to the crinkling alarm of plastic being dragged through sand, the same sound that taught the fox that our camp was an easy source of food. The fox was a strong student of the subject, and was determined to find more meals in our camp. Along with a week of double-tortilla lunches, we lost a full night of sleep. Much of our next day was spent cursing that fox. Never had Boggis, Bunce, and Bean been so relatable. 

Along with our food, we had to carry our water, sometimes up to five days worth of it at a time. We bargained for about 3L each per day, including cooking water. At peak, I carried 14L and Xavier 15L. That’s 14kg, or almost 31 lbs. Or top of food, sleeping bag, pad, stove, book, charger, and all kinds of bits and bobs. The water and food weights mercifully receded, with our refill days demanding dread and groans galore.When we made it to town, water bladders and bottles near empty, we felt speedy, free, knowing the weight we were about to bear. 

On Our Bodies, and the Things on Them

Carrying packs of around 60lbs 10-15 miles across sand and gravel, often with decent elevation, is no stroll in the park. Our backs became stiff, our hips burned for the first handful of days, our legs became tight. Our legs and ankles became scratched from hostile and surly brush, our hands became scabbed from sliding spree.  We did not become emancipated or ompletely skin and bones, but we certainly slimmed down. round day 12, my hips, well worn-in at tha point, began to hurt again, as they had lost all their pudgy cushioning. We had blisters each our own, and I was joined on day so by that subtle sprite of ankle pain.

Our poor sleeping conditions did not lend themselves well to strong or rapid recovery. We slept poorly at best, tossing often, hops, butt, and back bearing the brunt off our weight, cushioned solely by a thing sheet of foam that’s main purpose was insulation, not padding. Some nights we were disturbed by wind, once by a sprinkling rain, and, as described, by foxes. The nights were often cold, the desert shedding all its heat in preparation for the next day’s sun, emptyin itself so as to be better filled.

Nigh twelve promised to be our coldest of the trip. High elevation and unyielding winds filled us with trepidation as we brainstormed makeshift shelters we could make from our simple tarp and rocks. On our route laid an odd pin found on Xavier’s map, called Boxcar Outhouse. We had grown accustomed to the classic squat movements, but a seated toilet sounded luxurious.  We expected the titular boxcar to be a rusted out mess, similar to lots of the old mining equipment and general detritus we’d passed by. As we reached the pin, we were surprised too find a fully functional, free, open, and public boxcar cabin. 

The cabin had two rooms, one with a small yet full bookcase populated with donated books and board game, and a small desk with numerous guestbooks. The second room had a sink, small shelf stocked with canned goods, and a wood stove. The best part of the cabin were the walls— every square inch was covered in dated signatures, drawings both beautiful, strange, and off putting, and funny messages. WE found signatures dating back to 1983! The overwhelming message was one of appreciation foe this place and the faith that it’s maintained good shape restored in humanity’s generosity, cooperation, and love of the outdoors. We slept the night there, sheltered in creaky walls and glowing outdoors legacy. 

On Time, (Well) Spent and (Brutally) Killed

Days are long. Or at least they can feel that way in the desert, especially on the days when we achieved our mileage earlier. Our trip lasted fourteen days and covered 160 miles. The last 40 miles were spent on the road and conquered in just tow days. That left us with 120 miles in 12 days, which, for two strapping lads such as Xavier and myself, is very achievable. It wasn’t easy by any means, but we did take care to pace ourselves well. This meant that, a handful of times, we had nothing to do but sit around, read our one book each (which did not last us long, even after swapping), and entertain ourselves. A favorite of ours was desert Bocce, a remix of the classic Italian yard game in which two sets of four similarly colored rocks are selected from the desert’s functionally endless supply to serve as our balls. This adds a new dimension of strategy to the original, since selecting a diverse range of role-playing rocks is essential for success. You might select a splatter, a roller, a big heavy one, or just one that feels good to throw. One particularly long day at camp led to the invention of micro-bocce, which is similar to desert Bocce with the exception that the stones are merely small pebbles thrown no more than a few feet. 

Our other camp games depended on access to a sand canvas (almost always readily available). Once we played a series of checkers with black and red stones placed upon a drawn grid, though we concluded that it is a game of opponent’s mistakes and quickly returned to our preferred Bocce. Twice we had the fantastic experience of lounging among massive dunes seemingly dropped into the desolate wastes, sweeping themselves up majestically in little isolated cluster. We used these opportunities to play Giant Tic-Tac-Toe (only once, it is an even sillier game than checkers), as well as two rounds of its more mature cousin Tic-Tac-Tic-Tac-Toe, which I highly suggest learning if it is unfamiliar. 

Though our trekking demanded much of our bodies and minds, we had plenty of cranial capacity left over to play games as we walked. We must have played a hundred games of 20-questions, always trying to think up obscure, archaic answers to stump the other. Wavelength was another pastime, a classic talking game, as well as a creation of ours, reverse wavelength, feel free to inquire if you’d like to hear the rules. Chief among our talking games was GHOST, a single game of which was played each day, making for a fourteen game series (9-5 Xavier), highly anticipated and scrutinizingly analyzed until we were left with just a handful of starting letters that were not automatic losses or wins. 

More than we played games, though, we simply talked and joked. Early in the trip I mentioned to Xavier that I was curious to see if we would meld into even similar people than we already were. Regardless of our coalescence, we were able to banter well throughout the whole trip. There were silent stretches, especially during our sloggiest slogs, but we never bickered or fought or really truly ran out of things to talk about. On day 13 we re-entered phone service and I jokingly begged Maggie, a dear friend of mine who happens to be Xavier’s girlfriend, for a list of conversation topics, citing a torturous depletion of subject matter in our discussions. She supported admirably, but there was really no need. 

At the start of the trip, I had had the idea to take a Vow of Silence for an entire day, preferably during one of the more desolate days of the trip, primarily inspired by the book Goatwalking, quoted at the header of my blog and a formative read for both Xavier and myself (another high recommendation). We decided to pilot out silence, committing to an hour march in silence leaving Panamint Springs, our last town stop. It sucked. Granted, that was when we had the heaviest packs of the whole trip, but the silence itself was torture. A million things popped into my head I wanted to talk about, or interesting plants or pieces of metal or cool rocks or birds or just big gusts of wind passed by, and I had to bite my tongue. We decided to not do the whole day. 

Silence, funnily enough, was a regular companion on the trip, when we let it show its face. Many times when we  set down to have a snack or at camp, a still moment would pass and we would be covered in a permeating silence. No rustling of our clothes or packs, no planes, no wind, no insets chirruping, no creatures rustling, no birds singing, no running water. Simply true, eerie, penetrating silence. A ringing in our ears that passed unnoticed in all other circumstances rose to the surface, but it was never long before one of us filled the silence with a warm voice, usually commenting on the unsettling quietness.

We did not just play, but also engaged with the arts. As I mentioned, we each read our books, Xavier Cats Cradle by Vonnegut and I A Travelers History of India, and sometimes played audiobooks in our sleeping bags, which housed us for more than half of the day. One night I wrote a poem about our adventure (read on), and did my bes to journal some paper notes with which to feed this here blog post. The real creativity came from Xavier, a talented photographer, who brought his camera and a bag of tricks.  Few times we set up long-exposure shoots, casting ourselves as beings of light against a starry background. Once we shone light on our trekking poles, attempting (and succeeding!) to transform them into lightsabers on the camera!

The most involved shoot was a sunset time lapse. In Death Valley we had played on the huge dunes I mentioned earlier alongside dozens of tourists and driving park-goers who had parked a few hundred feet away. Perhaps even more magnificent dunes lay, virgin and unfootprinted in Panamint Valley, which we took full advantage of for most of a day. Xavier set up his camera for a glorious wide shot of the dunes, the mountains behind them, and the valley floor. We cast ourselves in the shot, walking slowly up the ridge of the hundred-plus foot dune and eating dinner at its zenith, perhaps the single coolest dinner spot imaginable, with razor sharp edges of the dune receding in three directions, the valley view sprawled in all its glory in every direction, lit by a gentle, timid sunset.

We descended the steep face of the dune, sliding on the loose sand, and retrieved Xavier’s camera from its vantage point that he had selected some hours earlier. It was dark then, and our camp and bags lay some three miles away, separated by rolling washes punctuated with wide, steep ravines. Recently scarred by our not so fantastic run-ins with foxes, our minds flooded with images of shredded packs, stolen food, and laughing vulpine families greedily feasting on the calories that we needed in order to finish our trip. So we hustled. Xavier led, not holding back any of the alien hikers pace he contains, and I often broke into a jog to follow him. When they weren’t focused on the ground directly in front of us, our headlamps often lit up the glowing eyes of a fox hidden in a nearby bush, fixed on us, calculating, then sliding away. We arrived back to camp fully adrenalized under the light of a nearing-full moon to ind our bags safe and untouched, before indulging in a luxuriant second dinner and snuggling into our respective sleeping bags.

On the Grievous Afflictions of Desert Brain and Planning Well

Xavier and I had the unexpected and honorific experience of being two confirmed cases of Desert Brain, a sad affliction that affects those who spend time in the Desert. Symptoms include but are not limited to Clay Blood, Dust Lung, Sand in One’s Soul, Pebble Snot, Dehydrated Piss Teeth, Lizard Foot, Miner’s Disposition, Sock Salk, Cactus Spine, Dirty Skin, and, of course, Desert Brain itself. The titular condition is characterized by difficulty in performing cognitive tasks that were once considered easy, like word retrieval or basic mathematics. More than anything, it is a settled feeling of a dusty, dry, shriveled, wizened, desiccated, and desolate mind, free of much other than the task immediately at hand, unconcerned or unable to engage in long term planning or stress. More than a few times we chuckled that we were losing our minds. In hindsight, it was quite nice to be lost in that way.

Despite our mental degradation, we (who am I kidding, Xavier did 95% of the work here) did execute a beautiful plan beautifully. We made dozens of game time decisions along the way, none of which we regretted. These minor adjustments were almost planned for— both of us have done enough trips of various natures to know that some improvisation is necessary. However, to me, the most thrilling, or certainly memorable, parts of our trip were the least expected, the most challenging, dangerous, or off-plan. To any concerned readers, pleas know that we were at all times safe and in no serious danger. The tales of Wallace and the Day 8 Descent are best preserved not in blog format but as pearly memories left unshared. These were among the most unexpected and electrifying moments of the trip, along with a handful of other hurdles and obstacles, many detailed above. Perhaps there is little duller than a solid plan well and meticulously, robotically executed, or nothing more disappointing the unremarkability of planned success achieved with no detour, no speed bump, no chance to grow or make a mistake or laugh. These harrowing moments welt similar to the hot sauce we doused the freeze-dried meals with on occasion. They made us grateful for the moments in which the plan was well executed, as well as for the challenges themselves, which surely are the most enduring stories and memories of the trip.