a trip to death valley, part 6 - ubehebe crater, nevada blm, and red rock canyon on the way home

This post is part of a series. To read the first post, click here. To see more Death Valley photos, click here.

What do you do when you've just toured the remote Depression-era desert palace of several offbeat characters, and you only have about an hour left before you need to start driving toward Nevada? You visit a volcano, of course.

Yes, Death Valley has volcanoes. Called maar volcanoes, they are huge craters made when boiling magma rose up to meet groundwater and instantly vaporized it into steam. The resulting explosions sent rocky soil far into the air, where it dispersed and settled around the newly formed holes as cinders. Inside these craters you can see streaks of color. These are fanglomerates, layered alluvial deposits hardened into rock that were exposed by the eruption. At the bottom of the crater is pink and brown mud, the site of many temporary lakes. Cinders surround the crater for miles and can be found as far away as the dry bed of Lake Rogers on the valley floor north of the volcano.

This crater is called Ubehebe; there are clusters of other maar volcanoes to the south and west of it, slightly older than Ubehebe. The oldest were probably formed 2000 years ago. Ubehebe itself may be only 300 years old. In geological terms, that's only a few seconds before now.

It's astounding to consider how recently such violent transformations occurred here, and to imagine what it looked like when magma blew the former contents of these craters into the sky. The site of this drama is peaceful these days, though the rough wind that blows hikers on the rim feels anything but tranquil. We walked up a short, steep path to peer down into the chasm, holding on to our hats and coats, fearing we might be swept in by a sharp gust. Across the vast gap we could see tiny human-shaped figures taking the path around the edge to reach the nearby smaller crater known as Little Hebe. We declined the invitation of that trail, opting instead to stand and stare and then trek back down to our vehicle. The wind roared so loudly that we couldn't hear each other unless we shouted.

I hung back to photograph the remarkable views: winding trails through black cinders and wildflowers, vivid striations in the crater walls, green shoots hanging onto the soil with tenacity, and white plant skeletons blasted clean by the wind. I thought about the tremendous variety of landscapes I'd seen in Death Valley, knowing I had encountered only a small fraction of what the park actually contains. Death Valley's diversity is broad. Not all of it is so dry and sparsely covered with vegetation. Elsewhere in the park are streams, a spring-fed waterfall, and woodland-topped mountains, where snow falls until June and ice axes are required for winter hiking. The highest point in the park is Telescope Peak, at 11,049 feet, towering high above the salt flats at Badwater. I hadn't even gone near any of the peaks. What curiosities might wait for me there?

Death Valley's remaining wonders would have to be discovered on a future visit. We drove out of its boundaries and into the wilderness of Nevada. Changes in scenery were gradual, even if the change in road condition was not. The surface beneath our tires became rougher. Soon both sides of the highway were signed as BLM land, scattered with the usual desert sagebrush and creosote. We were all exhausted, overwhelmed by the scale of the geology we'd witnessed and the long miles of desolate roadway. We selected a flat spot and parked the RV not long before the sun went below the horizon. Our unmarked, unbordered campsite lay in the middle of miles of empty land. After dinner we sat outside and watched the glow of sunset fade into blue above distant mountains, then watched the first few stars emerge, one by one.

With the advent of darkness, the wind grew more fierce and relentless. The walls of my Tent Cot rattled all night long, but the frame held steady. I congratulated myself on bringing such a heavy enclosure. Sundari slept on the ground in her sleeping bag with no tent at all, happy to have the view of the stars to herself. Sundari loves the stars, and they love her.

Going home meant a long, long ride through arid wasteland as we drove south around the edge of Death Valley and then west through the Mojave Desert. I don't remember much about the ride because my memory cards were almost full and I was trying to ration my shots. Instead of shooting, I lapsed into contemplation of nothing in particular. I do remember stopping at Tecopa Hot Springs to soak in huge clear mineral-smelling tubs with friendly Japanese women, an experience that felt appropriately surreal after our voyage into Death Valley's strangeness. And I recall feeling a faint awe of the loneliness that enveloped us in the more solitary sweeps of the desert.

An eternity of reverie later, we reached familiar ground. We'd decided to camp at Red Rock Canyon State Park again on the return voyage. Death Valley had so altered my perspective on rocks, cliffs, and the whole concept of space that this area looked entirely different to me now. As when visiting a place not seen since childhood, I had the sense that it had grown smaller, less majestic. A miraculous transformation accomplished in just a few days.

Feeling sated for the moment with outdoor sleeping, I offered Sundari the use of my Tent Cot for the night. I'd be content to bunk in the RV. Would she like to give this marvel of camping equipment a try? She said an enthusiastic yes, and I found a beautiful, cosy place to set it up: nestled inside a slot canyon behind our campsite, sheltered from the wind. I crawled into my sleeping bag that night very pleased with my plan to increase the comfort and happiness of someone I love.

Threatening clouds had loomed as we drove on State Route 14 to the park's entrance. We'd admired them, but never seriously considered that these clouds might dispense rain. Precipitation was impossible to imagine after our time in Death Valley. The first drops began falling as we turned off the lights inside the RV. Half-asleep, I wondered if I'd given Sundari the rainfly for the Tent Cot. It's no big deal, I said to myself drowsily. Just a bit of a drizzle, it'll stop in a minute. She's elevated off of the ground, no water will flow into her tent.

I awoke hours later when I heard a very drenched Sundari climbing into the RV. Bev made a bed for her as she changed into dry clothes and told us what had happened. The slot canyon's ceiling, it turned out, had been a perfect funnel for the heavy rain that fell on the cliffs. Water had gushed onto her as if flowing from a faucet. "I was okay with just the rain falling on the Tent Cot," she told us. "But when a river started pouring off of the rocks and came into the windows, that was just too much!" She was a good sport about getting soaked, laughing as she dried off her wet hair.

I felt terrible about having set up Sundari for such an unpleasant nighttime surprise, especially after touting the virtues of the Tent Cot in inclement weather. I also felt foolish for not having grasped the basic geological facts of the slot canyon. Hadn't it acquired its unique shape under these very conditions?  

The next morning Sundari was pale and tired from her nighttime travails and lack of sleep. Yet she managed to be gorgeous as she posed in cliffs and canyons now freshly washed by the storm. I used up the last bit of space on my memory card getting pictures of her looking like part of that unforgettable landscape. Then the three of us in turn drove the final miles of the longest, most interesting trip we'd ever taken together.