The 2004 Death Valley Run
by Bob Burns
Regardless of whether your means of conveyance is a car, a bus, or (Heavens forbid!) a motorcycle, exploring the eastern Sierra Nevada mountains and the adjacent deserts offers the traveler a healthy sensory overdose in terms of its history, its natural beauty, its people and, of course, its roads. If indeed you’re aboard a motorcycle as you perambulate this area, brother or sister, you’re in hog heaven, as they say.
The area around southeastern California and southern Nevada is a study in extremes. The highest point in the contiguous United States, Mt Whitney, and the lowest point in North America, at Badwater in Death Valley, are just 85 miles apart, as the crow flies. In just a short hop one can see forests of pine trees on the slopes of the eastern Sierras, and the lifeless salt pan of Death Valley. It is a place where dreams of wealth were dashed in the final stroke of a miner’s pick axe and where hundreds of millions in minerals, gold and silver wealth were taken from the ground. This area is a place of intense dryness interrupted by occasional cloudbursts of precipitation on an unimaginable scale. Twenty feet of winter snow can accumulate in a couple of good winter storms on the Range of Light, as naturalist John Muir termed the Sierra Nevada, while 40 miles to the east but an inch or two might fall on the desert floor. Towns are either dead many years, or dying in bits and pieces. Or they are oases from which tourists from around the globe strike out to drink in the incredible beauty and, yes, the mystery, of the place.
And so it was that our fearless leader and COG Southwest area director, Kerry Perkins, organized his evidently annual tour of Death Valley. I say evidently because this was my first trip with Kerry, and I’ve been a COGer for only a year. Being a native of San Francisco myself, this part of the state, though I had visited it a hundred times in my lifetime in a car, was unknown to me from a point of view aboard Rocinante, my 2000 Concours. The weather was predicted to be “iffy.” I had emailed Kerry a day or two before kickoff and asked if he still intended to go through with this ride. The response was not only yes, but hell, yes! Being up in Belmont, just 15 miles south of “the city” I knew I had to ride 400+ miles just to get to the start point in Lone Pine, CA; but, having been defeated by Mother Nature two weeks previous in an attempt to make it to the Four Corners area, I was determined to make this ride come hell or high water.
The “headquarters hotel” in Lone Pine was where we kicked off the trek to Death Valley.
Once there, I met Kerry for the first time and was introduced to the other 8 riders who made the trip. Normally, Kerry said, he would get 25 or more riders to this event, but the weather had surely scared some of the less intrepid into staying in the crib. But no matter. We would go first thing in the morning. We were 6 riders from SoCal, 2 from Reno, Nevada, and a solitary soul from NorCal. We were 9 males and a single female (more about that later on!)
The view from the sweep position. This is Hwy 395 just north of Lone Pine, CA.
On Saturday, April 17th we headed north on the famous US 395, aka “The Backbone of the Sierras,” to Big Pine, CA. Temps were in the mid 50’s or so. We had decided that whatever rain we were to encounter, it would be marginal; a minor inconvenience. And that’s what actually happened a little later.
Once clear of Big Pine, we turned eastward on to CA Rte 168 and up over the Inyo Mountains, which roughly parallel the Sierras. At first 168 starts out rather fast with some sweeping turns here and there but in short order one is leaning hard to either port or starboard. The road in places is very narrow and the shoulder consists of 60 or 70 foot rock walls. Fascinating, to say the least.
Westgard Pass, which signifies you’re headed downhill only to climb out again!
At Westgard Pass, atop the Inyos, and which is above 7,000 feet, we stopped to re-form the group. Slightly north of where we stood lie the White Mountains with their famous Bristlecone pine forests, trees which live in the harshest environment imaginable and yet are the oldest living things on the planet. (Some of these hardy little trees are nearly 5,000 years old!) Temps were naturally considerably chillier than in Lone Pine below. Once we had collected everyone we pushed on and down. Way down! Way down, fast! Down to yet another catch basin called Spring Valley, basically just a dry lake bed with a 7 mile stretch straighter than the part in your hair. Here many of us decided to, um, blow the carbon out of the cylinders in a spirited manner!
This is a look back at where we had been. It’s an interesting picture in that you can see three distinct mountain ranges: the snow-capped Sierra Nevada, way off in the horizon, hardly detectable; the Inyos, the dark band beneath the clouds’ and the Silver Peak range, from which this picture was made. The three ranges, but primarily the Sierras, manage to wring nearly every drop of moisture from the incoming storms off the Pacific Ocean so that by the time they reach Death Valley, there is nothing left to precipitate out of any incoming low pressure system. For that reason. Death Valley receives only about 3” of moisture a year, making it one of the driest spots on earth..
And then back into climbing out and into the Silver Peak range. We summited yet again and pushed on, crossed into Nevada (the highway is now called NV Rte 266). Along the way we pass Lida, NV which is an old mining camp as yet occupied by a broken down house trailer or two and what’s left of some stone buildings put up during one or another silver boom in Nevada’s history. If you turned your head in the wrong direction you may have missed seeing the town at all. But fear not! If it’s ghost towns you want just a few more miles down the road lies Palmetto, NV., which is totally deserted.
Lida, NV. Blink and you’ve missed it!
Photo © by David A. Wright
By now, we’ve settled out on the high desert. We are screaming along, sucking in the dry air, actually enjoying the monotonous drone of the big Kawi engine as it purrs along at ridiculously high revs. Now we are spread out again over a mile or two. And by the terminus of Rte. 266, Kerry was already there waiting on those of us who were inclined to take it a little slower. Ah, but what a great place to re-form.
Answer: The intersection of US 95 and NV 266 is famous for this famous Nevada cat house.
Question: What is the Cottontail Ranch?
I had seen this place only once before in the middle of the night trying to get back home to California. My young son was asleep next to me. It was like a dream. Something that one sees and then doesn’t see in the endless monotony of the high desert road! And now, 15 years or so later…Damn! I did see it! We all laughed like heck, making the usual “guy” jokes (at which I suspect Kelly, our lone female rider, also enjoyed. Or at least I hope she enjoyed.) Once reformed, I mean, re-formed, we headed down US 95 to Death Valley, our ultimate destination, so to speak.
Since I am no longer married I think it’s okay to publish this picture. I won’t show the faces of the other riders who may have been here at the same time. There are no cattle raised at this ranch, folks! The only thing raised here is a little pricey, if ya’ know what I mean!
In short order, we were headed west on NV 374 toward Scotty’s Castle, now inside the national park The ride there entails about a 3,000 foot drop to near sea level by the time you get to Scotty’s. There are a hundred legends about this place. If you want to know more about it, just go here and you can get the full story. Suffice it to say that I was surprised at the number of tourists I found here. I was even more surprised at the number of motorcycles here. Maybe 40 or 50. I was shocked (I tell you!) to see that the majority of them were Harleys! (I mean, where were the trailers??)
Rocinante and friends at Scotty’s Castle, Death Valley N.P.
Here we broke for some chow and a much needed chance to talk a little shop about what we had just accomplished. After lunch, we saddled up and headed farther into the park. Interestingly, you descend from this point and hover at or slightly below sea level. Kelly, our lady rider, myself and Brett decided to take a side trip down to Badwater for a picture of us being at the lowest point in North America. Inasmuch as there was little traffic, we had plenty of opportunities to test our mettle. The road from Scotty’s Castle has some interesting reverse-camber turns but some really fun whoops which, at certain speeds, can raise your eyebrows a bit.
Chasing Kelly
At this point we began to experience a strong wind coming out of the south. As we raced southward the wind hit us smack in the face. At one point Kelly and I rode hell bent into the eye of a dust devil which was crossing the road just as we got there. Our bikes were pushed hard to one side and than to the other, all in the space of a second or two.
Kelly, the only lady rider I’ve ever encountered, had the lead. I was in the rocking chair, and Brett was bringing up the rear. Well! Where does it say lady riders are naturally inhibited? This girl can ride, sports fans! We were leaning into turns like you can’t imagine, made even more intimidating, for me, by the hellaciously strong wind. I was feeling like an overweight, overage, Kenny Roberts as I leaned into a sweeper trying to just hold my own against this…this….GIRL! In short order I was a believer. My respect was total! This lady could make a fool out of any chauvinist like myself. And she did!
We continued southward to Badwater, about 25 miles additional miles from Furnace Creek. We were buffeted by one gust or another all the way the valley. At last we made it, though. We were now 282 feet below the level of the sea! The wind was howling so badly we had to lean into it just to get to the signpost to make another picture. It really was amazing.
Here we are at the lowest point in North America! Bob, Brett and Kelly .
Badwater, Death Valley National Park, CA
Brett and Kelly at Badwater
Backtracking Like the Wind
By now, we were headed back north….with a 50 mph tailwind. And a live wire female leading the pack. And whoops in the road! Gentle readers, I will not post numbers at this point but lets just say that my speedometer and tachometer could have gone places where no man (on a Concours!) has been before! I did say “could have gone,” right? If one wants to know if there is any reason to actually print 160 on the speedometer, this was the place and time to find out! All I kept thinking about was my old friend Art Dorrigo, who tore the guts out of a Porsche Carrera when he got airborne somewhere in Baja, spun the engine and landed with it screaming bloody murder. But alas, there are strict speed limits in the national part system!
Finally, (?) we got back to Stovepipe Wells, where we had gassed up before heading to Badwater and where we had bade the others goodbye and we’ll see you all back in Lone Pine. We headed back west. Fortunately, the wind mitigated as we rose out of the desert and into the Panamint Range. We came down into the Panamint Valley and than up again over the Inyo Range, down into the Owens Valley and into Lone Pine. Between our highway speeds and fighting the wind Rocinante had somehow managed to guzzle up 5 gallons of Death Valley’s best $2.50/gallon “go juice” in only 163 miles.
Epilogue
Inasmuch as I had promised my youngest son Brendan that I would take him dirt bike riding on Sunday in nearby Hollister, CA, the day after the ride to Death Valley, I had a choice to make: The darkening skies and the lateness of the day really dictated that I stay over in Lone Pine another night and make a run for it on Sunday when the weather was supposed to improve; or I could just gut it out and ride through the night. I wasn’t tired and had actually ridden from Phoenix to San Francisco in one 12 hour marathon stretch a few months before. My only concern was the possibility of encountering rain at night. I chose the latter, and now wish I hadn’t. I got home safely but not without a lot of white knuckle riding. I caught big rain just outside the little town of InyoKern, and it didn’t stop for another 80 or so miles to Bakersfield. This stretch is nearly all freeway riding and between the semis and cages tossing up spray, it was, to put it mildly, difficult, dangerous and really stupid. I admit it, folks! To make things more interesting the temperature got down to just above freezing as I passed over the Tahachapi Pass and on into the San Joaquin Valley. Never again! Birthdays or no.
I rolled into the driveway at 0130 on Sunday. Brendan got me up in time to load his bike on to the pickup and we headed out for Hollister. While he bounced up one hill or down another, I slept in my truck and halfway listened to the Giants lose their third game straight to those hated Dodgers. Oh, well! (What do you want for $80 million? Perfection?)
My son Brendan and his father, the writer! Note my clean riding style!
This was one of the best group rides I’ve ever done. My fellow riders were all great folks. My encounter with Kelly and Brett was not only satisfying to my need for speed but also highly instructive. I hope to repeat this ride with Kerry next year, too. One can do this year after year and never get tired of it because, contrary to what one would think, the diversity of things to see and do is enormous.
Touring this country on a motorcycle has its pluses and minuses. The pluses are that you are flying on two wheels. As Brett told me over lunch, if you don’t ride, it is impossible to understand the joy of motorcycle touring. And it’s no use in trying to articulate something like motorcycle riding in the desert to someone who doesn’t ride. They think we’re all crazy and that’s okay, I suppose. Their loss. The minus is that you want to go back and do it all over again. One is never satisfied. Like sex, one should want more. And like any great love, it will get better with time. Maybe next time I’ll change speeds and enjoy Death Valley in slow motion. God knows there is a lot I missed this first pass! There are two places where I can best decompress: the deserts of the Great Basin country is one of them. A mountain stream with a fly rod in hand is the other.
Kerry Perkins has a good thing in this annual event and COGers are strongly encouraged to try this one out sometime. You won’t be disappointed. Of that you can be sure.
April, 2004