Broke Down in Death Valley
By James Donahue
My daughter Jennifer and I were having a good time. We spent a pleasant evening viewing the glittering lights of the Las Vegas gambling strip, played some of the slot machines, and shared a nice meal. Now we were driving my 1988 Celebrity across the barren wastelands of central eastern Nevada, on our way to visit our son Aaron in El Cereto, California. The exciting prospects of a scenic drive through California's Death Valley west to the great Sierra mountain range, then north into Yosemite National Park and then westward to San Francisco Bay lay ahead of us. Final exams were over and Jennifer was enjoying a week off between semesters. We were taking a hastily planned trip over the mountains to visit our son and possibly bring him back for a visit.
It all began a few days after we settled into our new apartment in Mesa, Arizona. Doris, a psychic with amazing powers, received an alarming message on her board that Aaron was in trouble. We were told there was going to be a major event in the San Francisco area and that Aaron needed to leave the area immediately. Since we had nothing better to do with ourselves that week this was all it took for us to head west to "rescue" Aaron. Doris decided to stay behind and get settled in the apartment, and spend her time calling around town for possible job opportunities. It was supposed to be a grueling drive; two or three days on the road and a short stop-over in-between.
We entered the desert as soon as we left Las Vegas on Highway 95. I drove northwest until reaching the little desert town of Beatty, then turned west on Highway 190 which led us directly into one of the most dangerous places in the world. The drop into Death Valley was steep. The signs along the road warned us to gear down and not use our brakes during the dissent. I knew from earlier experience with mountain driving that too much braking on a steep decline can burn out a set of brakes, especially in a hot place like Death Valley. So I geared down, even though the car had an automatic transmission. It was a long drop into the most desolate area we have ever seen. Before us was a vast and ultra-hot terrain of sand and rock. The only link to civilization was the long flat pavement on which we traveled.
Once the highway leveled off near the bottom of the valley I shifted to drive but nothing happened. The motor roared and the car just coasted. "Something is wrong," I told Jennifer. "We have no high gear." I shifted back to low and felt the transmission take hold. I made another try to shift into drive and it was back to coasting. "It's the transmission," I said. "We have no high gear!”
This was a terrifying moment. It was early summer, but already the temperature in that place was hitting something over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. And there we were, in an old car with a failing transmission. I still had low gear and we continued on, knowing that behind us, there was only a steep mountain to climb and no sign of civilization for many miles beyond that. What were we to do? We also noticed that we were quite alone on this road. Other drivers were not so foolish as to try to cross Death Valley in the heat of day.
As we slowly crawled along that road Jennifer said she thought she could see some kind of building ahead. I peered through the heat mirage and agreed that it looked as if there was a roof or something reflecting sunlight. But it could be only a mirage, I told myself. I thought of stories of people lost in the desert, stumbling onward toward what appeared to be large lakes of water, only to have the image disappear like a puff of smoke. We kept moving toward it. Slowly but surely the shape of several buildings formed. There WAS something there. But would it be an old ghost town? How could we expect to find anybody living in such a place as this?
When we reached it, we could not believe our eyes. There, before us, was a restaurant and motel complex, standing alongside the open highway, in the heart of Death Valley! The buildings were rustic and obviously showing their years. But there were cars parked near them and definite signs of life. We coasted to a stop in the dirt parking lot next to the main building and my car would go no more. The transmission would not allow the car to move another inch, either forward or back. Miraculously, we had reached a place of safety.
The business was operated by a crusty old biker who I suspected might have once been acquainted with the Charles Manson family. He told us he loved the desert, liked the privacy it offered, and decided years ago this was where he wanted to live. Since there was no electric power leading to his property, the little business operated on a private generator. His contact with the outside world was by radio. He called for a wrecker and informed us that we had about a two-hour wait until it arrived. We were not the first motorist to have sought mechanical help from that place.
Death Valley is the lowest point in North America. It is a depression about one hundred thirty miles long and twelve miles wide that dips at its lowest point to 282 feet below sea level. It is a national park, which means that the government has taken steps to help insure the safety of motorists who dare to enter. The heat is so intense signs are posted along the highway warning motorists to turn off their air conditioners to prevent overheating during the climb up either side of the valley. There also are emergency stop areas, equipped with barrels of water for motorists with boiling radiators, located at various points.
Jennifer and I decided to make the best of our time at the strange "resort." We dined in the restaurant. A middle aged woman took our order. I had to wonder who she was and why she was working in such a desolate place. We enjoyed a meal, lots of iced tea, and spent much of our time sipping bottled water and soft drinks in the shade of a porch, which offered a variety of wooden and metal chairs. Late that afternoon a large flatbed truck pulled into the yard. It was the wrecker.
The wrecker driver, who operated a repair shop in Lone Pine, California, about a hundred miles to our west, loaded our car on his flat bed, anchored it down with a large chain, told us to get in the car, and he then gave us the ride of our lives. We couldn't have done better at any amusement park in the country. It was a two-hour, white-knuckle ride perched high in the air and looking down over a maniac driver at the wheel of the truck we were chained to. After leaving the valley the highway twisted through miles of desolate and foreboding rocks. The truck negotiated those turns at such speed we thought our car might break loose from the chains that held it. He passed slow moving vehicles, sometimes on curves. We held on, giddy from the view. After a while we began getting used to the excitement of our ride and actually enjoyed our situation. We did not expect to be killed. All of the miraculous escapes from potential disaster leading up to this point made us realize that some force had to have been watching over us.
At last we pulled into the repair shop on the edge of Lone Pine. The trucker unloaded our vehicle and announced that since it was late on a Friday he was closed for the weekend, and could do nothing about repairing the car until the following Monday morning. Jennifer and I stood in shock at the prospect of "camping out" for two days and nights in such a small town, with nothing to do. But there was no choice. We grabbed all of the personal gear we could carry before the car was locked behind a gate for the weekend, and then hiked on into the town, which was about a mile away.
We had a choice between a compact room in a dusty old hotel and a more spacious room with a kitchenette, full television service and modern shower, located right across the street. The rooms were about the same price. Naturally we chose the motel. We had a meal in a local restaurant, a warm shower, and then we settled in for a weekend of making the best of our time.
Part two of this story "Trapped in Lone Pine," will appear next week.
By James Donahue
My daughter Jennifer and I were having a good time. We spent a pleasant evening viewing the glittering lights of the Las Vegas gambling strip, played some of the slot machines, and shared a nice meal. Now we were driving my 1988 Celebrity across the barren wastelands of central eastern Nevada, on our way to visit our son Aaron in El Cereto, California. The exciting prospects of a scenic drive through California's Death Valley west to the great Sierra mountain range, then north into Yosemite National Park and then westward to San Francisco Bay lay ahead of us. Final exams were over and Jennifer was enjoying a week off between semesters. We were taking a hastily planned trip over the mountains to visit our son and possibly bring him back for a visit.
It all began a few days after we settled into our new apartment in Mesa, Arizona. Doris, a psychic with amazing powers, received an alarming message on her board that Aaron was in trouble. We were told there was going to be a major event in the San Francisco area and that Aaron needed to leave the area immediately. Since we had nothing better to do with ourselves that week this was all it took for us to head west to "rescue" Aaron. Doris decided to stay behind and get settled in the apartment, and spend her time calling around town for possible job opportunities. It was supposed to be a grueling drive; two or three days on the road and a short stop-over in-between.
We entered the desert as soon as we left Las Vegas on Highway 95. I drove northwest until reaching the little desert town of Beatty, then turned west on Highway 190 which led us directly into one of the most dangerous places in the world. The drop into Death Valley was steep. The signs along the road warned us to gear down and not use our brakes during the dissent. I knew from earlier experience with mountain driving that too much braking on a steep decline can burn out a set of brakes, especially in a hot place like Death Valley. So I geared down, even though the car had an automatic transmission. It was a long drop into the most desolate area we have ever seen. Before us was a vast and ultra-hot terrain of sand and rock. The only link to civilization was the long flat pavement on which we traveled.
Once the highway leveled off near the bottom of the valley I shifted to drive but nothing happened. The motor roared and the car just coasted. "Something is wrong," I told Jennifer. "We have no high gear." I shifted back to low and felt the transmission take hold. I made another try to shift into drive and it was back to coasting. "It's the transmission," I said. "We have no high gear!”
This was a terrifying moment. It was early summer, but already the temperature in that place was hitting something over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. And there we were, in an old car with a failing transmission. I still had low gear and we continued on, knowing that behind us, there was only a steep mountain to climb and no sign of civilization for many miles beyond that. What were we to do? We also noticed that we were quite alone on this road. Other drivers were not so foolish as to try to cross Death Valley in the heat of day.
As we slowly crawled along that road Jennifer said she thought she could see some kind of building ahead. I peered through the heat mirage and agreed that it looked as if there was a roof or something reflecting sunlight. But it could be only a mirage, I told myself. I thought of stories of people lost in the desert, stumbling onward toward what appeared to be large lakes of water, only to have the image disappear like a puff of smoke. We kept moving toward it. Slowly but surely the shape of several buildings formed. There WAS something there. But would it be an old ghost town? How could we expect to find anybody living in such a place as this?
When we reached it, we could not believe our eyes. There, before us, was a restaurant and motel complex, standing alongside the open highway, in the heart of Death Valley! The buildings were rustic and obviously showing their years. But there were cars parked near them and definite signs of life. We coasted to a stop in the dirt parking lot next to the main building and my car would go no more. The transmission would not allow the car to move another inch, either forward or back. Miraculously, we had reached a place of safety.
The business was operated by a crusty old biker who I suspected might have once been acquainted with the Charles Manson family. He told us he loved the desert, liked the privacy it offered, and decided years ago this was where he wanted to live. Since there was no electric power leading to his property, the little business operated on a private generator. His contact with the outside world was by radio. He called for a wrecker and informed us that we had about a two-hour wait until it arrived. We were not the first motorist to have sought mechanical help from that place.
Death Valley is the lowest point in North America. It is a depression about one hundred thirty miles long and twelve miles wide that dips at its lowest point to 282 feet below sea level. It is a national park, which means that the government has taken steps to help insure the safety of motorists who dare to enter. The heat is so intense signs are posted along the highway warning motorists to turn off their air conditioners to prevent overheating during the climb up either side of the valley. There also are emergency stop areas, equipped with barrels of water for motorists with boiling radiators, located at various points.
Jennifer and I decided to make the best of our time at the strange "resort." We dined in the restaurant. A middle aged woman took our order. I had to wonder who she was and why she was working in such a desolate place. We enjoyed a meal, lots of iced tea, and spent much of our time sipping bottled water and soft drinks in the shade of a porch, which offered a variety of wooden and metal chairs. Late that afternoon a large flatbed truck pulled into the yard. It was the wrecker.
The wrecker driver, who operated a repair shop in Lone Pine, California, about a hundred miles to our west, loaded our car on his flat bed, anchored it down with a large chain, told us to get in the car, and he then gave us the ride of our lives. We couldn't have done better at any amusement park in the country. It was a two-hour, white-knuckle ride perched high in the air and looking down over a maniac driver at the wheel of the truck we were chained to. After leaving the valley the highway twisted through miles of desolate and foreboding rocks. The truck negotiated those turns at such speed we thought our car might break loose from the chains that held it. He passed slow moving vehicles, sometimes on curves. We held on, giddy from the view. After a while we began getting used to the excitement of our ride and actually enjoyed our situation. We did not expect to be killed. All of the miraculous escapes from potential disaster leading up to this point made us realize that some force had to have been watching over us.
At last we pulled into the repair shop on the edge of Lone Pine. The trucker unloaded our vehicle and announced that since it was late on a Friday he was closed for the weekend, and could do nothing about repairing the car until the following Monday morning. Jennifer and I stood in shock at the prospect of "camping out" for two days and nights in such a small town, with nothing to do. But there was no choice. We grabbed all of the personal gear we could carry before the car was locked behind a gate for the weekend, and then hiked on into the town, which was about a mile away.
We had a choice between a compact room in a dusty old hotel and a more spacious room with a kitchenette, full television service and modern shower, located right across the street. The rooms were about the same price. Naturally we chose the motel. We had a meal in a local restaurant, a warm shower, and then we settled in for a weekend of making the best of our time.
Part two of this story "Trapped in Lone Pine," will appear next week.