It’s the strangest thing about writing. There are certain basic, timeless words that apply. Like practice. Regularity. And a few phrases like write every day. And they are all true. And recently, I really haven’t been putting pen to paper. Or voice to microphone in my case. Because. Well because what? The fear of the blank page. Which is loosely connected to the fear of failure. Which is very close to the fear of death.

And speaking of which, I confess to a fear of Death Valley. Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow…. That one. Because for some reason I cannot recall, my late wife Marlou and I found ourselves driving down Highway 101 to the San Jose airport one day more than 15 years ago en route, you guessed it, to the Valley of the Shadow. Did I fear no evil? No. I certainly feared Marlou’s fairly imminent death from cancer. She was only 59 when it happened. Yet I hadn’t thought at all about the name of California’s famed national park in conjunction with our trip. But in retrospect, whatever my level of fear, it was a splendid destination. A timeless one. Because time was not on our side. But it never is.

So unconscious, cosmic forces were pulling us to eastern California via the airport at Las Vegas. Where we rented a van and made our way to the park. I do recall that we stopped in Pahrump, Nevada. Marlou was driving. And surely it was March or thereabouts. Pahrump disoriented me. I remember that as well. Never mind the ugliness. The town isn’t nestled in the desert so much as abandoned there. And we must have found ourselves driving through in the middle of the day, doubtless a weekday, and in need of lunch. And this was the first disorienting reality.

There was no place that a dedicated member of the Bay Area haute bourgeoisie could identify as a suitable lunch place. I do recall driving around. And then driving around some more. And growing unstable in the face of billboards proclaiming that God was in charge when it came to abortion and he was absolutely against it. And, make no mistake, God was a “he.”  

And then there was Ricky Hernandez, plastered on alternate billboards inquiring if anyone had been in an auto wreck, because he understood, really understood, and here was his 800 number and an invitation to get in touch just in case big bucks could be collected in a court room somewhere. Noting Ricky’s offer, I really didn’t feel much like driving around Pahrump, because in addition to the aridity and prevalence of some very unique cacti, I was getting now very overt messages about death by accident, death by pregnancy and death by Valley. And we were lunchless until we did find a casino. In Nevada it’s hard not to find a casino. And yes, there was lunch. 

It is a miracle that Death Valley has several oases. And they are not like the movie versions, water bubbling out of the ground. No, but they are places where water appears from the surrounding hills, which feels much more authentic and satisfying. And not even seasonal. At least not very. Furnace Creek shares a canyon with state highway something or other and several garden hoses, the latter visible on one side of the road as we neared the hotel.

Death Valley Inn is something of a treasure. It is on Department of the Interior, National Park, land. And it is in the tradition of national Park lodges.  It’s been there since about 1930. And there are pictures in the tunnel – yes there’s a real one – of the hotel under construction. Paiute Indians built the place, and there’s a photo circa 1929 of the workers hauling rocks. One can imagine what they were paid. And everything else. But don’t imagine too long, because you’ll never make it into the next part of the experience. And that’s the oasis feel of the place. There are actual lawns. Small ones, fortunately. And there is a swimming pool. I can vouch for the latter, having been in it.

I remember opening the window at night. Of course, it’s warm enough to do that in March. And once the windows are open, the silence of the place is overwhelming. The stars are overwhelming too. I recall rolling my wheelchair outside one evening in search of a view of the starry, starry night. The hotel had enough light, spilling from rooms and the pool area and lighted walkways and everywhere else…to make me want to get away and become one with the planetarium show overhead. So, I bounced across a dirt parking lot, lights receding, view improving. Until I stopped. The only place to really keep going was on the road, the only paved road, the state highway. Which would have been quite doable, for there was no traffic at night. But there was something about the experience, more than a little spooky, the man in the wheelchair gradually being swallowed by the darkness. The narrative almost writing itself, the freak traffic accident, the space and the night and the silence pulling him toward a cold obliteration.

And now I am proposing to do it again. This time with a wife who does not have terminal cancer. Though I am of an almost terminal age, one could say. The hotel has changed its name since I was last there. The new owners have spent millions and millions of dollars restoring it. The stone walls around the swimming pool, for example, probably needed a bit of work. Handwork. Artisan stuff. National Park lodge, historic building requirements, etc.

And Jane really does not want to go. It takes a western American childhood to appreciate the beauties of this particular moonscape. And coming from Devon in Southwest England…well, it just doesn’t prepare anyone for the desert. Still, there’s been a lot of life since the Marlou era. And we are bracing for a rainy winter. I’ve made a tentative reservation. Stay tuned.