Getting to Hell was a lot easier than leaving. Death Valley National Park, located in the lowest, driest, and hottest area in the western hemisphere, has earned its description as visiting Hell "without the inconveniences." However, after driving through the Mojave Desert, otherwise known as the Painted Desert, I was beginning to wonder why we are so keen to avoid Dante's infamous inferno. Between the turquois, yellow, and red mountains that surrounded my campsite, the warm breeze lapping my ghostly ankles, and feeling as if I were walking on the moon as I stepped across the clay carpet beneath my feet, I began thinking Hell needs some rebranding!
But alas, where there is fire, there is often limited water. After a walk into Badwater Basin at 282 ft below sea level - the closest I'll get to breathing under water - the dry heat had me aching for a shower that was not readily available at my campsite; if there is one thing I refuse to pay for on this trip, it is my natural born right to bathe! Thus, it was time to test out my two-gallon water jug. Though not flawless, the jug held nicely on Honey's attached ladder and I was able to get in some bar soap and shampoo before the water ran out or I attracted too many sideways glances.
After three days in Hell, I decided it was time to head to higher ground, but the devil had a different plan. As I climbed the 5,000 feet out of the park, Honey was barley holding on to 25 mph. I could only hope for level ground around the next bend. But as the old saying goes, "Careful what you wish for." Instead of levelling off, I was met with over 11 miles of a 9% grade with zero guardrails and dozens of hairpin turns. Maybe we're just pampered on the east coast, but I swear it is every man for themselves in the wild wild west! As my brakes laughed bitterly and my arms turned numb due to pure panic, I could only scream to avoid being blinded by my own tears. After the most frightening drive of my life, I didn't experience that post-near-death-experience feeling where you're just happy to be alive. I just wanted a milkshake followed promptly by a long nap.
Nonetheless, there is always something working beyond our control. It was due to this exhaustion that I decided to rest for the night before heading to Sequoia National Park. With this delay, followed by my inability to camp in the park the following day, I ended up in Lemoncove, CA just below the Sequoia mountain. It was here, nestled among rolling hills and the outskirts of a dam, that I met a group of men and women whose vibes immediately jelled with those of my own trio. Homer the Bus, Large Marge, and Camp David welcomed Honey and Eyore with open arms. In less than 24 hours we were piled into Marge, a converted utility van, on our way to hug Earth's greatest creations - my beloved Sequoias.
For the next three days we danced, laughed, conversed, and shared the beauties of the van life huddled around the warm glow of a campfire. Such pure ecstasy was only possible due to Hell's tight grip, and for that, I am grateful.
