Four-Wheeling Thompson Canyon and Stony Canyon in Death Valley National Park

On December 8, 2023 at 10 AM, Don and Natala Goodman were at my door, ready for a four-wheeling adventure. We headed out on the Panamint Valley Road to Minietta Road. There, we took a left turn on an unsigned portion of the road that leads to the very heart of the Panamint Valley. Less than a mile from the highway, we paused and exited my vehicle. When there are no military planes flying over, the loudest sounds in Panamint Valley are the braying of a lonesome burro or the rustling of the breeze. Today, it was the silence and desolation that impressed the three of us.

Returning to the Panamint Valley Road, we crossed the highway and took Minietta Road west, up and over some hills. The road is rough and rocky, so the going was slow. Once we crested the hills, we could see Thompson Canyon ahead of us. The portion we could see featured a wide and deep alluvial fan. On a previous visit, I had traveled up Thompson Canyon Road towards Minnietta Mine, which is an abandoned miner’s cabin on a nearby hill. The mine’s name has two N’s, but the road name has only one N.

At the bottom of the first hill, we transitioned on to Nadeau Road, which was as rough as Minietta Road. The name Nadeau is rich within the history of Death Valley and the entire Mojave Desert. It was French-Canadian pioneer Remi Nadeau who first used mule teams to haul supplies, ore, and bullion to and from the Cerro Gordo silver mine and other mines nearby. Nadeau Road, or Nadeau Trail as it is also known, still exists as a 28-mile-long part of America’s national system of trails. Nadeau’s concept was to use twenty or more mules to haul heavily laden wooden wagons over inhospitable trails throughout the desert and adjacent mountain passes. His pioneering work continues its lineage in the laundry product known as Twenty Mule Team Borax and the historic radio and television show Death Valley Days.

As we entered Nadeau Road, Don Goodman, the airplane pilot pointed out a faded orange windsock by the side of the road. He had identified a wide spot in that road that served as a remote landing strip. With no airplanes in sight, we rocked on down the road. I had hoped to find a wreck of a car that I had found on a previous trip, but navigating in the desert can be tricky. One trail can look just like another. The wreck, which we did not find on this trip consisted of a sports car that had blown a tire in extravagant fashion, flipped over many times and came to rest as a flattened heap of rusty metal and rubber. Could it possibly been going so fast as to wreck right on that spot? With its total devastation, I assumed that it had crashed on Panamint Valley Road and been hauled here, to its final resting place.

Traveling on at a very slow pace, the trail consisted of stones, varying in size form pebbles to boulders. To the north, we observed rock abutments that once held a mining road leading out of our lost valley. With their size and fitment, they looked a bit like the stone abutments of Machu Pichu in Peru. The scene appeared long abandoned and the road which they once supported had washed away in several places. The fitment of the shaped boulders still intrigues me.

With the Nadeau Trail being so much easier to traverse, why would anyone take the time and effort to support a dirt road up a steep incline out of Stony Canyon, which was the place where we now found ourselves? After reviewing the area on Google Maps, the rock revetments are even more mysterious. The road that they once supported paralleled the track we were on, but reconnected to Minietta Road closer to our point of entry. Someone had spent a huge amount of time and effort to create a road that was much more difficult to drive and maintain.

On we traveled into what one might call the valley of the shadow of death. The going was so rough that Don had to exit the cab of my truck and move sharp rocks from our path. Often leaning out the passenger side window, he would call out “Left” or “right” to miss the most severe obstacles. As we progressed, the rocky terrain became almost devoid of any soil. Boulders and rocks rounded by their journey from the upper canyons to the lower valley were everywhere. After traversing two small washouts, we came across a washout that was too deep to transit.

Stopping for a picnic lunch, we marveled at the mountain and desert scenery. Don walked up the road beyond the washout and discovered an earthwork with wooden cribbing. Apparently, it was designed to load ore into wagons for the transit away from the local mines. Looking back on the scene now, I wonder if it was one of Remi Nadeau’s original wagon-loading points. Later, after consulting a map, we discovered that we had stopped only five hard miles in from where we had departed the pavement of Panamint Valley Road.

A few people with shovels and the desire to move some rocks and sand could reopen that stretch of Nadeau Road, but we were not prepared to take on that task. Looking at maps from the comfort of my home office, I now realize that Nadeau Road connects back to Panamint Valley Road a few miles beyond the washout. It also connects further on to Highway 190 Near Panamint Springs. In fact, the portion of Highway 190 between Panamint Springs and Panamint Valley Road is also identified as Nadeau Trail. My hope is that some volunteers from local off-road clubs will caravan to that washout and reopen one of the truly historic roads within Death Valley National Park.

After returning to our base camp at Panamint Springs Resort, we rested and met again early in the evening. Don and Natala had offered to take me to dinner at the Panamint Springs Restaurant & Bar. In all my recent visits to Panamint Springs, either the pandemic or lack of someone to share a meal with had kept me away from the restaurant. How good could a roadhouse originally built in the 1930’s be as a place to dine? I was soon to find out.

As we settled into our table by a roaring fire, I perused the menu. Natala ordered the Cardiac Arrest Burger and Don had another selection. I ordered the half-rack of spare ribs, fries, and coleslaw, for $31.50. While waiting for our dinner, I explored the bar area. There, I discovered a massive redwood bar designed by renowned American architect Hugh Newell Jacobsen (1929-2021).

It consisted of a single slab of California Coastal Redwood, which was over four inches thick and at least twenty feet long. The root structure from the same tree trunk became the support for the iconic bar. Jacobsen had owned property in the nearby mining town of Darwin, California. The bar arrived sometime in the early 1990’s, but the story became clouded by the passage of time and changes in the resort’s ownership. It is a work of art unlike anything else I have ever seen. If you pass through Panamint Springs, you must visit the restaurant and sit at that amazing bar.

Never judge a book by its cover and never misjudge a bar & grill in the middle of nowhere. The fries were sublime, and the ribs were a culinary perfection. According to the menu, the ribs pair well with a Pedroncelli Sonoma Petite Sarah. Next time I am at Panamint Springs, I will certainly order that pairing.

This is Part Five of a Seven Part article. To read Part Six, Click HERE. To return to Part One, click HERE.

Email James McGillis

Rendezvous With Friends in Panamint Springs - December 2023

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Dry Camping in Death Valley - December 2023

At 9 AM on December 6, 2023, I trundled down to the Furnace Creek Campground entrance kiosk and asked if anyone with a full hookup RV site had vacated their spot. As of that time, I had no luck there. After a cold night without heat in my coach, there was no way I was going to spend second night living like a cave dweller in a dry camping site. In December there are too few hours of sunlight to fully charge my house batteries. With laggardly solar battery power it seemed that my only option was to "pick up stakes" and head back one day early for Panamint Springs.

If given the option to have power or sewer, I will select electrical power every time. I can always cut back on sewer usage, but the lack of electrical power at the Furnace Creek dry campsites was for me is a bridge too far. Yes, there are RVs that have 1,000 watts or more of solar panels and 200+ amp-hours of lithium-ion batteries onboard, but mine is not yet one of them. As of that mid morning moment, my rig had about ten amp-hours of battery power remaining. That was not nearly enough to see me through another cold desert night.

Rather than booking out for Panamint Springs, I decided to take a drive and see the sights. Before leaving the campground, I swung my truck back around and asked the ranger at the kiosk if anyone had vacated a full hookup since 9 AM. Yes, indeed, someone had abandoned their prime RV site and left it vacant for me. After paying for my new site, I headed off to Zabriskie Point to climb the hill and see the sights in Death Valley. Best seen at sunset, Zabriskie Point is spectacular at any time of day. The slowly melting mud stone hills look like something out of a Salvador Dali painting. They are colorful and surrealistic to say the least.

While returning from Zabriskie Point to Furnace Creek, I hung a left on Badwater Road. It is seventeen miles to Badwater, itself. At 282 feet below mean sea level, that place is touted as the lowest elevation location in North America. Normally, it is a white salt flat that stretches across the breadth of lower Death Valley. Once in 2005 and now again since August 2023, it has returned to its ancient glory as Lake Manly. With no discernible wind, the shallow lake water reflects anything on its horizon. Having visited Badwater once before, I had no desire to cover my shoes and truck cab with untold amounts of sticky salt material. Instead, I drove another quarter mile along the highway, which stretches toward Shoshone and intersects with Interstate I-15 at Baker, California. When I stopped along the highway at the lower foot of shallow Lake Manly, the view north across the full length of the lake was sublime.

The return trip to Furnace Creek has an altitude gain of exactly 282 feet, meaning that at the junction with Highway 190, you are once again at mean sea level. On that return trip, one can make several side trips. The first opportunity is at Devil's Golf Course, which is not to be confused with the Devil's Cornfield, at the opposite end of Death Valley. Early travelers throughout the Western United States were obsessed with naming any large, solitary rock formation "Church Rock" and almost anything hot and dry "Devils Whatever."

Other than the Devil's Golf Course there are two notable side trips available on the Badwater Road. The first is a cutoff to the right called Natural Bridge Road, as the name implies, the road leads to a hiking trail that in turn leads to Natural Bridge. Some might call it a stone arch, but they would be wrong, Any stone arch that spans even a dry watercourse is called a natural bridge. Good luck climbing up and crossing Natural Bridge. It spans a canyon from wall to wall and is both thirty-five feet thick and thirty-five feet from the canyon floor to the underside of the arch. Although the round trip hike is only one mile, there is no water available and very little shade during the middle of the day. The National Park Service recommends not making the hike after 10 AM during the hot season.

The second side trip is Artist's Drive, which is a loop road through a series of hills and gullies that may spring to life with color, but only on the right day at the right time. Otherwise the hills have a dull green or dull red hue to them. Good luck to you if you arrive on a day when the Artist's Palette comes to life. The road itself is one way only, so once you start, you are committed to looping up, over, around, and through a sinuous ribbon of asphalt to the very end, which is once again at Badwater Road. If you have never taken Artist's Drive, I recommend taking it, just so you can check it off your bucket list. If you take the trip again on your next visit to Death Valley, count yourself as an optimist. I say that because the odds are about one thousand to one that you will see the same dull green and red hills you saw on your last visit.

After returning to my campsite, I closed the slide-outs on my RV, hooked it up to my truck and traveled two hundred yards to my “new” full hookup site. No longer feeling like a 49er lost in time, I prepared for one more night at Furnace Creek Campground in Death Valley. Only this time, I had electric lights and two space heaters to warm my bones. Unlike the lost emigrants of 1849 Death Valley, there was to be no brush lean-to or cave dwelling for me. It was almost 174 years to the day that the original lost families made their way out of Death Valley to civilization, better known as Los Angeles.

The following day, I would travel back over Towne Pass to Panamint Springs Resort, where I would spend two more nights. After that, I would take my own quick trip back to civilization, better known as Los Angeles.

This is Part Three of a Seven Part article. To read Part Four, Click HERE. To return to Part One, click HERE.

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From Panamint Springs To Furnace Creek - December 2023

Around noon on December 5, 2023, I departed Panamint Springs, heading again on Highway 190 toward Stovepipe Wells and Furnace Creek. Along that highway, Towne Pass is a test for any towing rig. Although the elevation change is only about 1,500 feet, it all happens in just a few short miles. For the unaware, ambient desert temperatures can make for engine overheating and breakdowns. Each time I try it, I wonder if the trip up the pass is more difficult and daunting than the trip down the other side and into Stovepipe Wells in Death Valley proper. 

Once down on the flats of Death Valley, the somewhat desolate settlement of Stovepipe Wells takes only about two minutes to travel through. With its dry alkali surroundings, I often wonder what the attraction is for so many campers, lodge dwellers and other visitors. Although there is a general store and a gas station, they do not provide diesel fuel at that location. Surprisingly, there is an air field at Stovepipe Wells, although there is no fuel or any other aviation services available there. Although the Stovepipe Wells and Furnace Creek air fields can be used by rescue and reconnaissance helicopters, there are limiting factors. In the extreme heat of summer, the "density altitude" may be too high for takeoff or landing. In essence, the warm air rising negates any lift induced by the helicopter blades to. From the air field, it is a half mile walk through Death Valley heat to reach the general store and the Lodge. For me that day, there was no reason to stop in Stovepipe Wells.

Farther along, the Mesquite Flats Sand Dunes appear to the left of the highway. Once again, during the hot weather months it is a formidable hike from the parking lot to the actual dunes. Next up is Devils Cornfield, visible briefly on each side of the highway. Although there are no cornstalks there, hardy evergreen Arrowweed plant gives the area its distinctive appearance. Passing through on the highway, frequent dust devils makes it a windy and somewhat treacherous place to stop.

Next on our rolling map is the junction of Highway 190 and North Highway, also known as Scotty's Castle Road. During my visit, Scotty’s Castle Road, Daylight Pass to Beatty and all points off Highway 190 remained closed to travel. Signage indicated that the ban applied all vehicles, including motorcycles, bicycles and unicycles. Even hiking was prohibited. If you ignored those rules and became stranded or broke down, there was no one out there in the vastness of Death Valley to find or save you.

In dozens of places between Panamint Springs and Furnace Creek, I spotted fresh road repairs. I rumbled over one or two washout repairs and many patches along the edge of the highway. The casual observer would think that these were normal repairs, but their simplicity denies the profound damage to every form of infrastructure within Death Valley National Park. The torrential remnants of Hurricane Hilary in the summer of 2023 came on the heals of huge thunder storms during the summer of 2022. Some remote desert tracks may take years to repair, if ever.

In the history of the area, many storms have permanently cut off mining and even camping opportunities in the far out-lands. It almost seemed as if the park wanted  to go back in time to the age before vehicular travel, internet connectivity and cell phones. Upon my arrival in Furnace Creek, there was no cellular signal at all. Only the Visitors Center had Wi-Fi, which took some practice to use effectively. Two evenings in a row I sat in a deserted courtyard behind the Visitors Center, hoping that Wi-Fi calling on my Samsung Galaxy phone would work. Luckily, the National Park Service had invested in satellite connectivity, and I was able to transport my voice to Simi Valley during my telephone calls home.

While I sat on the patio, I could see inside the Command Center that was set up to coordinate emergency response  and infrastructure repair throughout Death Valley National Park. The center was staffed twenty-four hours per day, coordinating everything from road repairs to fire, police and all other forms of recovery. Inside workers sat at computer monitors and used white boards to chart various activities. When some people complain that our federal government is incapable of doing anything positive for our country, they should come out to Death Valley. There they could peer through the windows into an emergency center recreating the infrastructure of a vast and unforgiving national park. They might just change their minds and appreciate what these people are doing for us all. After my initial wifi call home, I headed back to my dry campsite.

When camping off-grid, my fifth wheel has 200-watts of solar panels on the roof and two six-volt deep-cycle batteries to power its vital systems. As soon as I pulled into my dry campsite at Furnace Creek Campground, the sun dipped behind some cottonwood trees, thus cutting my access to free electrical energy. Even running the engine on my truck while setting up camp did little to decrease the electrical drain on my house batteries. By the time I was indoors and preparing for 50-degree outside temperatures overnight, my battery monitor indicated about 12.5 volts remaining. Anything less than 11.8 volts would send my hard-wired carbon monoxide alert monitor into an endless alarm mode. The only cure for that eventuality would be to hook up my truck, run its engine and use its alternator to recharge the batteries enough to shut off the alarm.

Anticipating such situations can produce anxiety. As a result, I disconnected, unplugged, or did not use anything that I perceived could further drain my limited electrical reserves. In other words, I sat in the dark with no heat. After an hour or two, I felt like one of the original 1849 emigrants, who were stranded for a year in Death Valley. My only salvation was battery operated lights, of which I had a few. The scene made me think about Abraham Lincoln ruining his eyes reading books by the fireplace. Until you experience the lack of adequate electrical power, you do not remember what it was like to live in a time before nightlights and Ring doorbells.

Before bedtime, I dressed up from head to toe. I wore socks, sweatpants, long-sleeved layers and piled on as many blankets as I had. All of that extra weight kept me cemented in place for most of the night. With only one cold bathroom break, I was mostly warm, even if weighed down by so many covers. At exactly 7:52 AM, I awoke to an incessant alarm noise. I sprang out of bed, believing that I knew exactly what it was. My house battery power had dipped too low, and the carbon monoxide alarm in my rig was displaying its power as the batteries faded below 11.8 volts. In my panic, exactly where the noise was coming from, I could not tell.

Slowly, I realized that the incessant sound emanated from outside my coach. In the 50-degree morning air, I thrust open the door and used the parallax sensors attached to either side of my head. My ears told me that the alarm sound was coming from some sort of vehicle parked across a dirt field, behind some scrubby trees. After realizing that the sounds were beyond my control, I went back to bed, shaken but not stirred. Later, I discovered that it was an unattended SUV that had spontaneously gone into panic mode to awaken me.

This is Part Two of a Seven Part article. To read Part Three, Click HERE. To return to Part One, click HERE.

Email James McGillis