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Bloom or Bust

By David Feela

Every spring I look forward to one great depression. It works out to be my lowest point of the year, 282 feet below sea level to be exact, a geographic record for the western hemisphere. Contrary to what psychologists might think, I'm always elated.

Death Valley is definitely a hot spot, but not one that qualifies as a spring break vacation destination, which is why my wife and I have made an annual pilgrimage to Death Valley for the past decade. I suspect its very name dissuades most of the spring enthusiasts from coming, and that's OK with us. We covet the emptiness, the openness, that enormous dip in the road that has for over a hundred years embodied the idea of desolation.

This spring, however, we heard a news story that Death Valley would be different. Massive precipitation levels in Southern Nevada and Southern California prompted naturalists to predict a spectacular wildflower display, a profusion that predates weather service record keeping. By massive, of course, I still mean minimal, but when compared to Death Valley's usual two annual inches, six inches sounded excessive. I prefer to travel light, especially where temperatures can scorch the provisions off your back, so I was packed, ready, and waiting with heavenly patience while Pam hunted through the closet for her digital camera, just in case a few blossoms were left by the time we arrived.

Our preferred route to Death Valley is probably more picturesque than the one the pioneers got stuck with. We usually skip across the Checkerboard Reservation to Flagstaff where a spring snowstorm hits us with the very weather we're trying to avoid. Big, wet snowflakes plaster the windshield and I think fondly about the warm clothing I foolishly left at home. Often I'm wearing shorts at the time, but we crank up the heater and climb higher, toward the Arizona Divide, where our descent toward Kingman unravels, across the Hoover Dam, through Las Vegas, and out toward the rim of our Deathly destination.

I had better slow down a minute, because nobody really goes through Las Vegas without having something to say. I just wanted to mention how the water level has noticeably improved in the greater Las Vegas area, too. I'm referring, of course, to the human body mass, which is according to scientists over 90 percent water. Tourists make up a tide of human flesh, streaming along the sidewalks and spilling over into the streets. I am confident that when Las Vegas figures out how to extract the water weight from a population that won't stay away, the palm trees will sprout for generations to come.

But back on the road. We left the city behind us and headed north, Highway 95, planning to exit at Lathrop Wells for Death Valley Junction. Unfortunately, the road was closed. Flood damage? I thought the notice was a joke.

We continued to Beatty, took a hard left onto a rugged pavement, and crossed into California where the trademark Death Valley experience begins. At the top of a rise, like at the crown of a roller coaster's crescendo, we paused for a long moment to stare down into the valley of Death. The wind was chilly. The floor of the valley appeared white, as if it was covered with snow, but I knew it was alkali. We opened the windows, unzipped up our jackets, and let her roll.

I've never seen so many visitors at this national park, people scurrying across the road, every third vehicle pulled off to the shoulder, photographers pointing cameras, propping tripods, standing waist high in the wonder of a vast wasteland, trying for one perfect photographic image of hope. And Death Valley is not famous for hope. Locations like Furnace Creek, Badwater, Charcoal Kilns, Salt Creek, Devils Golf Course, and Dantes View all testify to a history of hardship and heat.

And I would be a lying sack of Borax if I told you I remembered any spring in the last ten years when the landscape unfolding before us held such an abundance of color. Desert gold, the tiny blossoms that resemble miniature sunflowers, spread itself like a layer of butter at the bottom of a brown pottery bowl, or like the world seen through beer-colored glasses. Purples and whites complemented the scene. It was magnificent.

I should have been disappointed to find so many people flitting like honey bees from blossom to blossom, but I marveled at the sight. I should have been miffed that my privacy had been spoiled by hundreds of wildflower enthusiasts, but I was renewed to see so many people finding pleasure in such a simple thing as spring. I would have been depressed without an image to remember this moment but I guess pixels are angels, the proof of which I found inside Pam's camera. It appears that people couldn't care less about how many pixels will fit on the head of a pin.