Death Valley

2026: Driving Through Emptiness

I heard that Death Valley was experiencing a rare super bloom.

A brief moment when the desert floor is covered with yellow, purple, and pink flowers, as if a carpet had been laid over ground that is usually dry, bare, and unforgiving. It happens only when the rain comes at the right time, leaving just enough moisture before the heat returns and takes it all back.

For a couple of days, I had been moving along the edge of the Sierra on U.S. Highway 395, scanning for patches of color breaking through the dust.
I did not find the sweeping bloom I had imagined.
But something else was there.

The ground was covered with green. Low bushes, fresh, almost tender.
Different from what I remembered.

This road is usually painted in beige, brown, yellow, sometimes pink.
Now it held a quiet green.

👉 More on that part of the drive in this page: Eastern Sierra Nevada

I kept asking myself, am I already too late?

I left Bishop with that question still in me and drove south to Big Pine. The mountains stood steady on my right, the valley stretched open on the left. There was still a sense of direction, of being held by something known.

Then I turned east.

Onto California State Route 168, toward the northern edge of Death Valley National Park.

Edward Abbey writes, “The desert is the clearest way into the universe.”

I was still looking for bloom when I read that line in my mind. But the desert was already answering in a different way. Not by giving me what I was searching for, but by softening the need to search at all.

The Long Empty Road

On California State Route 168, the land begins to let go of you.

The road climbs steadily out of the Owens Valley, rising along the western edge of the White Mountains. It is not a dramatic alpine pass, but a quiet ascent, winding, gaining elevation until it reaches roughly 5,000 to 6,000 feet.

Up there, the air feels a little thinner, the views open wider, and the Sierra begins to fall behind you.

Then, almost without notice, the road releases you.

It drops back down into a broad, flat basin as you cross into Nevada, becoming Nevada State Route 266.

And from there, everything stretches.

Fewer signs. Fewer interruptions.
The road runs forward without suggestion.

Out there, distance is not measured in miles but in attention.
You either stay with it, or you drift.

👉 Somewhere along that stretch I put on a podcast about Fela Kuti.

His life unfolded in pieces. A musician who refused to separate art from truth. He created a sound that carried resistance. Afrobeat, they called it, but it was more than music. It was a stance. He challenged power directly, lived outside its permission, and paid for it again and again.

Listening to him on that empty road, I felt a kind of alignment.

Nothing softened. Nothing arranged for comfort.
Just a life lived without turning away.

To Hell and Back

Somewhere along that same stretch, the podcast turned to a story.

The narrator spoke with one of Fela Kuti’s musicians, a keyboard player.

As a boy, he had witnessed the brutal murder of his father.
Not something he heard about. Something he saw.

The kind of moment that does not leave you.

Years later, he was playing night after night with Fela.

Fela’s music was built on repetition. Long, continuous grooves that do not rush to arrive anywhere.

Studio recordings would run 12, sometimes 20 minutes.
Live performances could stretch to 30 or 40 minutes, holding the same rhythmic pattern, the same musical phrase, returning again and again.

Layer upon layer. Percussion settling into a steady pulse.
Basslines alive, almost speaking.
Horns entering and leaving in short phrases, never overwhelming, just adding color.

Nothing abrupt. Everything evolving slowly.

Repetition was not a limitation.
It was the point.

It created a kind of trance.

👉 If you want to feel it, here is a link to one of my favorites Fela’s tunes: Coffin for Head of State

The narrator asked him,
what does it feel like to play the same thing over and over?

The musician paused, then answered simply.

When he plays, repeating the same note again and again, he finds himself saying, quietly, inside,
it’s okay… it’s okay.

Not as a thought.
Something that settles with the rhythm.

A way to stay.
A way to endure.
Maybe even a way to heal.

I kept thinking about that as I drove.

The road repeating itself.
The same line stretching forward.
My mind returning to the same question, then slowly letting it go.

Out there, nothing was really changing.

And yet something was.

Passing Through

U.S. Route 95 brings you, briefly, back into contact.

A wider road. A few cars.
Beatty appears without ceremony, a small gathering of structures holding their place against the desert.

I stopped at a gas station and enjoyed a hot dog.

It felt like touching the edge of something human, then continuing on.

Entering the Valley

Crossing into Death Valley National Park from the Nevada side, there is no clear threshold, no entry station, no marker of arrival.

Just a widening.

The land opens and does not close again.

Driving toward Furnace Creek, something in me quieted. Not silence as absence, but silence as presence. The kind that does not ask anything from you.

Out there, it was not something to understand.
It was something to be in.

At the visitor center, I asked a park ranger about the bloom.

He stood there, tall, thin, black-rimmed glasses, and answered without hesitation.

“It already burned off. The heat took it.”

That was it.
No explanation. No attempt to soften it.

I stood there for a moment, then walked back out to my truck.

Back on the road, it no longer felt like something to understand.
Just something to accept.

Color Without Bloom

At Artist’s Palette, the hills hold their colors the way stone holds memory.
Revealed over time, quietly, without asking to be seen.

Long before anything living could take root here, this land went through fire. Volcanic ash, heat, pressure. Over time, minerals rose to the surface and met air and water. Iron turned into reds and ochres. Manganese carried the purples. Copper and other minerals brought out soft greens.

What looks like paint is time.

And yet, standing there, it did not feel like geology.
It felt closer to an abstract painting.

The palette is familiar.

That quiet conversation between green and rust.
Between pale mint and dusty rose.
A trace of lavender moving through it.

Not clean color, but weathered color.

👉 The same palette that keeps returning in my Strip Paintings.

On the Cold Press Paper, I lay these colors in bands, one next to the other, letting them speak without forcing meaning. A soft green leaning into a muted red. A faded pink holding space against a darker earth tone. Sometimes a thin line of violet passes through, almost unnoticed, yet holding everything together.

Standing at Artist’s Palette, I could see where it comes from.

I realized then that I had stopped looking for flowers.

The search had fallen away somewhere behind me, on those long empty roads.

What remained was something else.

Color without bloom.

The Lowest Place

At Badwater Basin, there is almost nothing.

White ground stretching in all directions, as if you are walking on the moon.
Salt crystals forming quiet geometric patterns under your feet.
The lowest point in North America, 282 feet below sea level.

What was once a lake is now on most days just a memory of water. Rain left the salty ground mooshy and wet.

The surface looks still, but it is always changing. Evaporation, heat, minerals rising and settling again. A slow, continuous process that leaves behind this white expanse.

It is a strange kind of presence.
Empty, and yet not empty.

Edward Abbey writes in Desert Solitaire,
“There is no lack of water here, unless you try to drink it.”

Standing there, I felt something similar.

There was nothing to interpret, nothing to improve.
No place to direct your attention.

And because of that, the mind let go.

Not by effort.
By absence.

Somewhere in that quiet, I heard it again, almost without words.

It’s okay… it’s okay.

Toward Water

Driving south toward Tecopa Hot Springs, the light softened.

I have come here a few times before.
Something in this place keeps calling me back. Not for anything specific. Just to arrive, sit in the water, and let things settle.

I thought of the flowers I had been chasing.

I had seen some. Small, close to the ground, easy to miss.
But somewhere along the drive, the need to find them had changed.

What Remains

Out there, listening to Fela’s story, watching the land stretch without end, something shifted.

The desert does not give you anything you can take.

It takes things away.

Noise. Direction. The need to arrive.

And in that space, something else appears.

Not an answer.
Not even a realization.

Just a quieter way of moving through the world.

For a while, that was enough.

March, 2026

2024: Saline Valley Hot Springs: Lessons from the Road Less Traveled in Death Valley

It was a winter day, just a few days before Thanksgiving, and the kind where nature seemed unsure of its mood. The sky hung heavy with gray clouds; it was a windy and cold morning. It wasn’t the kind of weather that inspires confidence when setting out on an off-road adventure, yet something about the untamed beauty of the surroundings pulled me forward. 

I had spent the night in Lone Pine, a small town at the base of the Sierra Nevada. As I finished my coffee and watched the storm clouds roll over Mount Whitney, I debated whether the trip to Saline Valley Hot Springs would be worth the risk. The springs, a hidden desert oasis, promise warmth and tranquility in the vast embrace of Death Valley. But the weather was unpredictable, and I wasn’t sure if the road would cooperate. 

I called the Inyo County Tourist Center. A pleasant but brisk voice answered at the other end. “Yes, the north road to Saline Valley is open,” the man said. “But I should warn you, the weather might be challenging.” 

I paused for a moment, letting his words settle. “Challenging” is a subjective term. Snow? Rain? Mudslides? I imagined all the possibilities but brushed them aside. The road was open, and that was all I needed to hear.

I followed a paved road heading east into Death Valley. The desert, often painted in harsh tones of brown and gold, now shimmered with an otherworldly beauty. The dampness from the rain brought out deep reds and ochres in the rocks, and the scattered patches of snow lent a surreal contrast to the usually arid landscape. It was mesmerizing, and for a moment, I forgot my unease. I started filming the journey.

I reached a fork in the road. A sign pointed to a handful of destinations, one of which was Saline Valley. I slowed the car, studying the sign and comparing it to the GPS directions on my phone. The two didn’t match. I hesitated, torn between trusting the technology and the old wooden sign standing resolutely before me.

Then, I made the turn, deciding to follow the sign. From that point on, the GPS was out of commission—its map blank, its guidance silent. I cursed myself for not downloading the offline maps beforehand. Now, I realized I’d have to rely on the road signs, if there were going to be any, my intuition, and, hopefully, the kindness of any fellow travelers I might encounter.

The road climbed steadily into higher elevations, and snowflakes began to fall faster and thicker, tapping against the windshield. The hills around me, stark and rugged just an hour earlier, were now covered with white spots. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but the growing intensity of the storm weighed on me.

About thirty minutes later, I reached another fork. A weathered sign pointed to the right, marking the way to Saline Valley. At the intersection, two trucks were parked. Nearby, two men stood talking. Grateful for a chance to stop and regroup, I pulled over and got out of the car.

We exchanged greetings, and within moments, I realized they were Israelis. Switching to Hebrew, our conversation took on the warmth of familiarity, an unexpected camaraderie in this remote and wild place. Their questions came fast, each one layered with both concern and curiosity:

“What, were you in the commando?” one asked with a grin.
“You’re driving alone? This is not an easy road! I slid twice on the way here.”
“Do you need help deflating your tires? It’ll give you better traction.”

“Yes,” I replied, appreciating their offer.

“Do you have a spare tire and tools?” one of them pressed further.

“Yes, I have a spare tire,” I said, but in my mind, I added, No, I don’t have all the tools, and I never changed the truck’s tire myself, always AAA road service. I stayed quiet, nodding, smiling, asking questions, and saying little. Worry and doubt began to creep in. Is this too dangerous? Am I really prepared to face this weather and road alone? Maybe I should continue on the main road.

Fear was stirring within me. Their stories of sliding on the icy road and their well-intentioned advice planted seeds of uncertainty. I felt a shadow of hesitation—a reminder of the risks I was taking, isolated in this wild and unpredictable winter landscape.

We ended the conversation with handshakes and warm smiles, their final words of encouragement echoing as I climbed back into my car. I watched them for a moment as they moved back to their trucks, feeling both reassured by their kindness and weighed down by my growing doubts.

As I turned onto the gravel road to Saline Valley, the snow fell in a hypnotic blur. The vastness of the desert, beautiful yet unforgiving, stretched out endlessly before me. Gripping the wheel tightly, I drove slowly and with great focus, each turn demanding my full attention. I could hear the faint scratching sound of the brakes, a reminder of the car’s limits on the slippery terrain.

I listened intently to an audiobook, its narration helping to keep me calm and focused. The road was not as ragged as I expected, and I marveled at the sheer expanse of the desert around me. The stark, snow-covered landscape felt alive, as though it were both challenging and inviting me to move forward. I pressed on into the unknown.

After two to three hours of driving on the rugged road, I began to feel a growing sense of anticipation—I was sure I was getting closer to the Saline Valley Hot Springs. The terrain had started to shift, and the stark desert landscape gradually gave way to dense greenery, an unusual sight in this arid expanse. It was clear that water was nearby. Patches of vibrant vegetation dotted the area, a sign of life thriving against all odds. Yet, something felt off.

I pressed forward, scanning for any indication of my destination—parked cars, a trail marker, anything that would reassure me I was on the right path. But there was nothing. No other vehicles, no signs of human activity. I veered onto a side road that led into the dense green area, hoping it might be the right way. The road soon dissolved into a bushy, overgrown path, and before long, I found myself at the edge of a salty lake.

The air carried a faint trace of minerals, and the ground was littered with unmistakable signs of a cattle herd: piles of dung scattered in every direction. The lake’s surface shimmered under the fading sunlight. Yet, still no sign or clue as to the whereabouts of the hot springs.

Realizing my mistake, I retraced my steps back to the main road. Once there, I stepped out of the car and took a moment to survey the surreal beauty of my surroundings. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, painting the lake and its surrounding hills in hues of silver and gold. Shadows stretched long and dark across the landscape, and the air grew colder with each passing minute. It was then that the full weight of my situation hit me—I was running out of daylight, and I was lost.

Leaning against the car, I allowed myself a moment to collect my thoughts. Oddly enough, I felt a sense of acceptance. If I had to spend the night here, so be it. It wasn’t ideal, but it would be safe enough. The salty lake, though eerie, seemed tranquil, and the surrounding bushes would provide some shelter from the biting wind. I began to make peace with the idea of setting up my tent and spending a solitary night under the stars.

Then, as if by divine intervention, I noticed a faint plume of dust rising in the distance. My heart leaped—it was unmistakable: a vehicle was approaching from the south, opposite where I had come. The dust trail grew closer, and soon, a car emerged from the haze.

The vehicle slowed, and the driver rolled down his window. A kind-looking couple looked at me. The man leaned slightly out of the driver’s seat, his expression calm and friendly.

“Hi,” I said. “I am lost. Do you know where Saline Valley Hot Springs is?” I asked.

“It’s a couple of miles back,” the man replied with a knowing smile. “There’s a turn to the right—you must have missed it.”

“No sign,” he added, shaking his head in sympathy.

I nodded, feeling both embarrassed and overwhelmingly grateful.

The woman, her eyes soft and understanding, chimed in, “We’re heading there now. You can follow us!”

It felt as though the universe had heard my silent plea. I climbed back into my car, adrenaline, and relief coursing through me. As their vehicle began to move ahead, I followed closely. About five to ten minutes later, we made a turn I hadn’t noticed before. Apparently, I had driven right past the intersection earlier. There were no markers or signs to guide the way—it was the kind of place where you either knew the route or you didn’t.

As I followed the couple, an overwhelming sense of gratitude washed over me. I felt like I had been saved, watched over, and guided at the exact moment I needed it most. It was as though God had sent this couple out of nowhere to lead me to safety. The feeling was humbling and profound.

The road wound ahead, and soon, the oasis came into view—a cluster of palm trees standing resolutely in the vast expanse. Though still a bit of a drive away, it was now within reach.

Lost in my thoughts and the sheer wonder of the moment, my focus on the road faltered for just a second. I remember it so clearly: at that precise moment, I heard a sharp, distinct puff sound. A sinking feeling settled in my chest as I thought, Please, let it not be a flat tire. But sure enough, it became undeniable—a flat tire.

The couple ahead noticed and stopped. They reversed toward me, and the man stepped out with a smile and confident stride.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

I nodded, more grateful than I could ever express.

Jordan—my young savior—grabbed a jack from his truck and set to work, his movements efficient and assured. The woman, whose name I learned was Ema, stood by, chatting softly and keeping an eye on their dogs as they wandered curiously around.

Jordan wasted no time. Every movement was deliberate, every tool precisely where it needed to be. He handled the spare tire like he had done it a hundred times before. Despite his focus, he took the time to explain each step, walking me through the process so I could handle a flat tire myself in the future.

I watched in awe, silently amusing myself with the thought, I want to be like him when I grow up.

When he was done, Jordan stepped back, wiped his hands with a sense of accomplishment, and turned to Ema. “I timed myself,” he announced, grinning. “Twenty minutes! That’s a new record!”

We laughed, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the serendipity of the moment. Not only had this couple appeared out of nowhere to guide me when I was lost, but they had come to my rescue once again.

The experience left me deeply inspired—not just by their generosity, but by the calm confidence and grace with which Jordan approached the situation. He made something daunting look easy, turning what could have been a stressful moment into an opportunity for learning and connection.

As I climbed back into my car, a profound sense of gratitude settled over me. Sometimes, the journey isn’t just about reaching the destination; it’s about the people who show up when you need them most, lighting the way forward.

It was already dark when we finally arrived at the hot springs. Ema and Jordan parked at one of their usual spots, their familiarity with the area evident in the ease with which they navigated. Meanwhile, I drove aimlessly around, unsure of where to go or park.

Eventually, I stopped, switched off the engine, and put on my headlamp. Its narrow beam cut through the darkness as I scanned the ground, trying to figure out where I could set up my tent. The light must have made it look like I had lost something because, out of the darkness, I heard a friendly voice call out:

“Are you looking for something?”

I turned toward the sound and replied, “Yes, I’m trying to find a good spot to set up my tent.”

The voice responded warmly, “Oh, come—I’ll show you a great spot.”

And just like that, I was helped once more.

The stranger guided me to a perfect little sheltered and flat clearing with enough space to pitch my tent comfortably. As I set to work, I couldn’t help but marvel at the kindness of people I’d met on this journey.

Later that evening, I spent couple of hours soaking in one of the hot spring tubs, sharing the warm water, and conversing with six other strangers. The natural heat of the spring worked its magic, easing the tension in my muscles and allowing the events of the day to settle.

The conversation drifted to the story of my unexpected adventures. I recounted the mishaps—the missed turn, the flat tire, and the kindness of Ema and Jordan. The group listened intently. When I finished, a woman across from me said, “People are good.”

I replied, “Yes, we just need to tap into it.”

2017: “Goodbye, Death Valley”: The Story of the Lost 49ers

The 49ers were a group of American pioneers who journeyed westward during the California Gold Rush in 1849. The name has since become synonymous with those who braved immense challenges in search of fortune and a new life.

Among these pioneers were groups that ventured through Death Valley, an unforgiving desert landscape notorious for its extreme climate, scarcity of water, and other essential resources. The journey through this arid expanse proved death-defying, with many 49ers suffering from heatstroke, dehydration, and exhaustion. Tragically, some lost their lives during the arduous trek.

One group of pioneers, famously referred to as the “Lost 49ers,” faced even greater challenges. Straying from their intended route, they became disoriented and were attacked by Paiute Indians. Despite the adversity, the group demonstrated remarkable resilience. They slaughtered their oxen, burned their wagons to preserve the meat, and continued their journey westward on foot. Although thirteen members perished, the remaining pioneers ultimately survived and reached California.

A video link: The Naming of Death Valley

As they climbed over the Panamint Mountains, one member of the group paused, turned back, and uttered the now-famous words: “Goodbye, Death Valley.” The phrase endured, becoming the Valley’s permanent name and a testament to the trials faced by those who crossed it.

The story of the Lost 49ers has since become a defining chapter of American Western folklore, symbolizing the determination and perseverance of pioneers who faced insurmountable odds. Their journey serves as a reminder of the resilience of the human spirit and the lengths to which people will go in pursuit of their dreams.

Reflections on the Desert

“The desert is a place of revelation, a place where the essential elements of life are stripped away, and the human soul stands naked and unencumbered.” – Paulo Coelho

The desert is a place of vast openness and beauty, but it’s more than just a physical destination. It is a journey into the depths of the self that awakens and rejuvenates the divine within me. In the desert, I am able to tap into something beyond consciousness, something that lies at the core of my being. It is a place that calls me, inviting me to delve deeper and discover who I am at my very essence.

A link to my essay: Journeys in the Desert

2016: Exploring the Hottest and Lowest Place in North America

Death Valley, located in Eastern California, is the lowest, driest, and hottest place in North America. Renowned for its extreme conditions, temperatures here can soar to an astounding 134 degrees Fahrenheit (56.7 degrees Celsius), the highest temperature ever recorded on Earth, and plunge below freezing at night. During our visit, the Valley had recently experienced a few days of rare rain, adding a unique and captivating charm to its typically stark landscape.

Nestled within the Mojave Desert, Death Valley is flanked by the Sierra Nevada to the west and the Panamint Range to the east. It is part of

Death Valley National Park, established in 1994, protects the area’s unique ecosystems and geological wonders. The park is home to a surprising array of wildlife, including bighorn sheep, coyotes, rattlesnakes, and diverse plant species that have adapted to the harsh desert environment.

One of the most iconic sites in Death Valley is Badwater Basin, which lies 282 feet (86 meters) below sea level, making it the lowest point in the park and all of North America. Located just 18 miles south of the Furnace Creek Visitor Center along Badwater Road (CA 178), the basin offers a surreal landscape of salt flats stretching as far as the eye can see, surrounded by towering mountains.

Beyond its striking geology and climate, Death Valley has a rich history of human habitation. Evidence of Native American presence in the region dates back thousands of years, with artifacts and cultural traces that speak to the resilience and ingenuity of early inhabitants who thrived in this unforgiving environment.