Midnight Lippincott Road
I stood next to the classic “you’re doomed, turn back now” sign and screamed with every tribal bit I had into the pitch black darkness of the valley that lay below. Gathering myself briefly, I almost jumped out of my shoes when a french voice said “excuse me do you need help?” He stood pant less right there, in Jenny’s headlights. My brain was exhausted, stressed and now confused as to why there was a pant less frenchman standing before me. Especially here, in the back country of Death Valley National Park. Our encounter ended as quickly as it started when I rather rudely said “no man, just go away.”
This day started at 2am when Alex and I set off to climb 14,000ft Mt. Whitney. Standing alone, Whitney is an adventure itself. But, Alex and I do not do average adventures together. After a frosty Modelo and a fat plate of Mexican food in town, we saddled up and wandered into the remote desert.
Peeling off the state highway that winds through rocky hills speckled with mystical Joshua Trees, pavement quickly turned to gravel. We blasted through the California high desert under waning summer light. Laughing as we watched jack rabbits bound over the dusty ground. Out here we consulted the trusty National Geographic map at each fork in the road. We saw all manner of odd desert things along Saline Valley Road; cow skulls, signs turned target, empty cisterns, stray cattle. The deeper we wound into the desert, the rougher the road became. In one of the farthest reaches of a tight canyon, I spent an hour with my foot pressed into break pedal because even idling ahead was too fast.
Eventually, the narrow canyon opened to reveal the expanse of Saline Valley. I shutoff Jenny and we stepped out to stretch our legs. It was silent; the kind of silence that your ears ring and your heartbeat echoes in the emptiness. Clouds boiled over the west ridge of the valley, scattering rays like a giant prism. We stayed a while, absorbing stillness and making pictures of moments.
After crossing a chunk of Saline Valley we arrived at the bottom of Lippincott Road which would take us over Lippincott pass to the famed “Race Track.” The Race Track is the place where rocks curiously leave trails as they slide across the playa. We passed big yellow “turn back now” signs just as night time took hold over the desert void. We knew from guidebooks Lippincott Road would be a solid test of Jenny and our ability to negotiate difficult terrain. And here we were starting it in the dark.
The entrance brought little concern until the road narrowed and pitched up to start it’s 3,000 foot climb over the pass. Shortly thereafter a wall higher than our lights would illuminate boxed in the drivers door and a cliff deeper than we could see joined the ride. At this point we were committed. There was no where to turnaround or even enough space for another vehicle to pass. The technical skill needed to drive this road was at the highest end of my comfort zone. About a third of the way up we came to a ledge three feet high and as wide as the road. With Alex as my spotter, I edged Jenny forward and got her front end atop before progress stopped. We were hard stuck. As I tried to rock us free, the transmission temperature light came across the dash. It felt like I just fell into the quicksand pit of Tarzan’s nightmares.
Alex and I perched on Jenny’s hood while she cooled and sat quietly for a moment before he asked “what would you do if a naked dude just appeared in the lights right here in front of us,” motioning to the hungry darkness. What a question! Jenny was stuck, all my possessions were in her trunk, and there would be only one way to run. We laughed that off as an impossibility. What naked man would show up late at night in the remote desert?
Jenny, in her usual fashion, did not let us down and pulled right over the ledge shortly thereafter. We were cooking now. After defeating that little challenge, we were on top of the world and feeling closer to invincible every time we skirted a washout along the edge of the cliff. Alex standing on the outside running board hooting and hollering, giving direction to my tense white knuckles. The road seemed to go on and on, but we were past the worst. We wound up the gravel path into the night, sights set on Milky Way pictures over the Race Track.
We slid to a stop in a large col de sac looking area. I kicked open my door and walked around back to start screaming. Next thing I knew, there was a half naked Frenchman standing before me. There, in the middle of the desert.
