LIFE IN DEATH VALLEY

When I told my grandson, on the phone, that his Grandpa Ed and I would be leaving for the Southwest and Death Valley, he said, “I wouldn’t want to go to a place that had ‘Death’ in the name.”

“Oh, it’ll be fine,” I told him, with more assurance than I felt. I had waffled for weeks about taking this road trip. Though the Grand Canyon sounded appealing, Death Valley did not, and I imagined unbearable heat surging through car doors and a barrenness that would be exotic at first, then boring at best, and, at worst, demoralizing. And, much as I knew how irrational it was, the “Death” word scared me a little. “It’ll be fine,” I said again. “Really.”

The first part of the trip was truly fine. We visited old friends in Tempe, marveled at the botanical gardens there. We found the Grand Canyon gorgeous and grand indeed, prayed our beautifully operated national parks will stay public. We braved thin air and a daunting number of steps and walked down to ancient cliff dwellings in Walnut Creek Canyon National Monument. We were dazzled by Red Rock Canyon. Neither Ed nor I had been to Vegas, so we drove the strip at night and found the glitter and glitz as soulless as the surrounding mountains were soulful, and knew we’d never go there to play.

The next day, we headed for Death Valley. Prepared for a vast wasteland, I was blown away by our first stop–the ghost town of Rhyolite and an enormous plaster sculpture of white robed spirits by Belgian artist Albert Szukalski titled “The Last Supper”. And then we drove. And drove. And—Oh. My. God.

Stretches of glittering sand against glowing rock pushed and folded like origami. Every shade of red and gold and brown. Every configuration of sharp and blunt, of rock and rolling hills. Spiky, bristly foliage I might find dull elsewhere, but found fascinating when it dressed up a bare stretch of land and a steel blue sky. Our visit to the Botanical Gardens in Tempe had familiarized me with all manner of cacti, and I loved what looked like forests of cacti, groves of cacti, sometimes with a bloom or two, so hopeful, giving new meaning to the term “desert rose”. We changed altitude over and over, and, after leaving a particularly stunning view, I’d say to myself, “Okay. That’s all. It’ll be boring now.” And then, we’d round a corner and I’d say “Oh My God!” because this new vista and its life, its glorious life, dropped my jaw.

Somewhere in Nevada, dozing off from sensory overload, I thought about how often I dread things, anxious I won’t be up for the task, only to find it’s alright, really, it’s fine. Or the times I’ve figured, okay, this is it, I’m past middle aged, settled, and staid, and then I take a turn and something completely unexpected happens, and life is rather amazing yet again.

And I thought of writer Frederick Buechner, and the drawing of him in our home office, the one I got at the Festival of Faith and Writing over ten years ago. His wise old head, tilted and propped on his hand. His gravelly voice, saying words written under the drawing:

“What’s lost is nothing to what’s found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, could scarcely fill a cup.”

Death Valley is so alive.

#