A British Man Vomits, I Stand the Lowest Point in North America, and a Bustling Ghost Town: Part 2

(A Trip to Death Valley National Park, continued)

Note: sorry for the extended suspense, applying for jobs takes priority right now....

Anyways, where were we? So, after a lousy, noisy night's sleep, Hiking Buddy and I mark our new campsite and head off to Badwater, the lowest point in North America.  And also a pretty popular spot!

Look how much snow there is! 

Just kidding, that's salt. The ground at Badwater is covered in salts that have leached up from the ground.  There's a small pool of water there, undoubtedly very salty and not good to drink...hence the name.  After walking around a bit, standing around to experience being 282 feet below sea level, taking our picture with the sign to prove we've been here, and dodging other visitors left and right, we get back in the car and head over to the Devil's Golf Course. Despite being just off the main road, there are far fewer people here. They were missing out on this:

Again, like at Badwater, that's salty dirt! When it rains (which is rare here), the salts leach out of the ground and crystallize into strange formations.

Things were feeling pretty surreal between the lack of sleep, the glaring sun, and the crazy alien-like geology we were encountering. So back to the campsite it was, for a gourmet campfire cooked lunch of portobello mushroom sandwiches!!! (Who says camping has to be "primitive" or "roughing it"?) Quite an exquisite camping meal, and really easy to make!  After lunch, we hang out a bit and then go for a short hike in yet more crazy mixed-up geologic fantasies (or nightmares, depending on your experience in Geology 101).

Our second evening in the RV/tent parking lot was much less eventful. Once the sun had set, we went huntin'. Scorpion huntin'! Scorpions glow neon green under UV light, so Hiking Buddy had acquired a UV flashlight for the purpose of tracking some down. We searched the desert pavement for quite some time, but no luck.  I've yet to see a scorpion out here in the desert, neon green or not... maybe that's a good thing! 

The next day we packed up camp again and hit the road to Vegas.  On the way back we stopped at Rhyolite, a pretty well-known ghost town.  Rhyolite was born when gold mines were established nearby. At one point in history it boasted a population of over 10,000; electric lighting, a school, and a three-story bank, among other things. Now it is mostly in varying degrees of ruin. One really fascinating spot is the Bottle House, built in 1906 using 50,000 bottles.

The desert sure is full of surprises! Rhyolite was quite busy with groups of motorcycle riders and families in transit.  We wandered around for a bit (there's not much to stop you from walking all over the place, short of going inside buildings) then stopped at a picnic table for lunch before the long drive back home.

What an adventure!

A British Man Vomits, I Stand at the Lowest Point in North America, and a Bustling Ghost Town: Part 1

(A Trip to Death Valley National Park)

Death Valley National Park is located mostly in California (a bit in Nevada), and is the largest National Park outside of Alaska. That means it's BIG. It's also the location of some of the hottest temperatures anywhere and the lowest point in North America.  I thought that this seemed like the ideal place for a spring camping trip!

Surprisingly, quite a few others had the same idea.  My hiking buddy and I packed up all our camping gear and drove the 3 hours through the desert to, well, more desert. Traffic picks up as we near the first campground. The sign says "1 1/4 Full." Sure enough, it's overflowing with RV's and tents.  We have no better luck at the next campground. At this point, it's getting close to dusk. We're tired from the long car ride, it's starting to get dark, and we're getting worried about where we'll be sleeping.  At last, we arrive at Stovepipe Wells. We're told that all the other campgrounds are full, so this is our last hope.
This campground is crawling with RV's! We make our way by the tent sites along the edge of the giant rectangular dust and dirt parking lot, but alas, they're all overflowing! So, like a handful of other tent campers, we grab an RV spot and plop our tent down.  We choose a spot we think will be quiet---near some other tent campers in RV spots.  We couldn't have been more wrong!!!!

We get our tent up and supplies settled in. Our dinner plans--- grilled portobello mushroom sandwiches--- relied upon having a campfire, so we are stuck with dismal PB&J in a dismal, dusty parking lot.  We make up for our less than gourmet dinner by drinking our weekend's supply of beer as we sit in our camping chairs in front of an imaginary campfire, watching the night sky descend around us. Then it's off to bed, as grand adventures await us tomorrow.

Or so we think. Not long after we settle in for the night, our next door neighbors in this refugee-like tent village return.  Three men on motorcycles, two with thick British accents, begin (or continue) a night of drinking, guffawing, and overall being obnoxious.  One gentleman has obviously had his fill of drink and then some, and perhaps a lot of baked beans as well. The first time he lets an incredibly loud fart rip, we both have to stifle a laugh while at the same time in disbelief that such a sound could come from anyone's rear end. Impossible! Did we really hear that?! Why yes, there it goes again! And again! His companions must have held this fellow in high respect (or fear?), as no one said a word or laughed at all. The whole time, my hiking buddy and I are rolling in (almost) silent laughter in our tent.

Ah, peace at last. The motorcycling men fall into a drunken stupor into their tents, and all is quiet.

Except, wait. What's that noise?! Oooops. The other tents nearby us, until now vacant and lonely shells, are being swarmed by a hoard of excited Boy Scouts and their exhausted troop leaders, as they arrive from somewhere far away in California. Trailer doors are thrown open, boxes of gear dragged out, and tent stakes are pounded in with enthusiasm--- and much shouting over who's turn it is to do this, that, and the other. At one point, a "chaperon" yells to all those fine, young, polite boys that, being after 12:30 AM, they should be quiet. The commotion dies to a dull roar, and after about another hour, ceases.

Ah, peace at last?  We manage to drift off in slumber, dreaming of quiet campgrounds with stone-ringed fire pits and shady trees.

~ 4:00 AM: What is that??? Ohhhhhh NO! It's the flatulent British biker, rolling out of his tent to vomit and fart at the same time. At this point we are so tired of this ridiculous situation, we can't help but laugh out loud.

We awake early in the morning, not to sounds of birds chirping, or even lousy RV generators revving up. Forty eager Boy Scouts are dragging their gear boxes out of the trailers and trying their hardest to burn some scrambled eggs. My hiking buddy and I get up and pack up---there's no way we're staying here another night!  We cruise through the campground and find a real tent site on being vacated, and snatch it up. We set up things real quick to mark our territory, and head off to see some sights.

 More to come in Part Two of the story!