Cruising in the jeep, in the middle of nowhere, sprawled on my seat, feet on the dashboard, I am basking in the pleasure of intense heat. My husband at the wheel, I am left with nothing to do but let the landscape unroll before my eyes and succumb to desert torpor. This is life as I like it best. I am home, back again in Death Valley. Death Valley - a barren land, dusty, open, waterless, infinite; a place where one can feel his or her true place in the universe, insignificant yet vital, like a drop of water in the desert. It is a place where the petty little things - traffic, deadlines, stress -fade in the light of more important matters - self-preservation and intense relaxation. Every year around spring, I feel the call of the desert and heed to it. Death valley is only a six hour drive from Los Angeles and two from Las Vegas, an easy weekend escape yet a world apart. Sometimes we fly into Las Vegas and rent a vehicle, but our jeep wanted to go this time so we drove instead, an overnight death drive to pull in by the dunes at dawn.

Sunrise in the dunes
With 3.3 million acres to roam in, there is plenty of opportunities for solitude and exploration in Death Valley, but as a ritual I always pay homage to the Mesquite flat sand dunes when I arrive. I have a personal attachment to one particular dune to the North, on which my husband and I were married a few years ago. These dunes are said to be the most photographed dunes in the world, and for reasons more than personal attachment or accessibility. They spread as a warm sea of yellow and dark brown sand, piled high in parallel and sensuous forms. In the early morning, the dunes are free of human steps, frozen waves only disturbed by the geometric trail of a lizard's steps and tail weave. The air is cooler and all is quiet. Then it appears - the great shinning orb - splashing light onto the Grapevine mountains in an infinity of pinks and oranges rendered pastel by the floating haze. Long shadows flow from each dune and onto the next. Slowly, they retract, a concentration of darkness, remnant of the night. And suddenly, heat and light is everywhere. Let the day begin!

Two main roads, one journey
Little black dots sprinkled along the two main roads on the official National Park map indicate what are considered to be the main attractions in the valley. Even in the punishing heat of summer, a few visitors, mostly from abroad, can always be found armed with cameras at the major viewpoints. But the valley is more than the sum of its main attractions. The journey between widely scattered points of interest is as much part of the experience - a continuum of beauty and solitude, which unrolls itself outside my window. It is now almost noon and the jeep happily bounces along on the long road to Scotty’s castle. The road is a tapering snake of asphalt. It disappears over the next hill, then reappears in a similar landscape; dry rock plains, bushes of grass bleached by the sun, dry lake beds, dry mud lakes, dry rock beds. To the left, the dunes now look very small down in the valley. To their left, in the distance, heat shimmers across the plain separate the valley floor from the majestic Panamint range. The mountain seems to be floating above the valley floor, a hazy mirage of a peak with snow at the summit. Snow. Frozen water. It seems a non sequitur from down here. To the right, erosion has carved the foot of the Grapevine mountains into giant lions’ paws. Brown and golden lions of dirt. "Do you think the lion is asleep?" I ask my husband. "Undoubtedly, my love" he answers. No further questions asked. Random mind wandering is a privilege of desert explorers.

A dirt path to the past
Bringing the jeep was a good idea. Not only does it shake off some the moss that has been collecting on it from too many years in the Northwest, but also it allows us a peak into life in the Valley before the convenience of asphalt and hotels. From its fields of cacti and Joshua trees to its steep canyons, this is how the valley must have looked to the first pioneers who went through. It was Christmas 1849. A small group of settlers from Salt Lake city were looking for a shortcut to the California goldfields. Unprepared for the heat and dryness, they had to abandon wagon after wagon and slaughter their own oxen to survive. There were only three deaths, but all had come very close. As they walked out, a woman turned around and said, "Goodbye, Death Valley". The name endured. Later on, the valley became a center for borax mining and a few settlers chose to live in the Valley. Abandoned mines and tiny ghost towns are still scattered along roads which give the term "4-wheel drive only" its true meaning. I once found a small house on the road past the Racetrack. Its walls were slanted, a balancing act of old tired wood. There was only one small room, a table, no chair, one cracked window and one intact window protected by a large piece of flat wood nailed to the outside by four rusted nails. On the walls were sheets of old newspapers, which I imagine were used for insulation. Winter nights in Death Valley can be as cold as summer days are hot. The print on the newspapers was faded but on one the date could clearly be seen - 1908! Faded newspapers, old wagon wheels, slanted little houses, even petroglyphs carved in rocks by early inhabitants - the valley is full of small treasures for whom knows how to look with an inquisitive mind.

The racetrack
One of my favorite destinations off the asphalted path is the Racetrack - the mysterious Racetrack. It is hidden away in a valley accessible by a 20-mile long dirt road surrounded by fields of Joshua trees, cacti and tiny desert flowers. At first glance, the racetrack appears to be miles and miles of empty dried, cracked mud. One can even run with his or her eyes closed for as long as one wishes without ever tripping on any discontinuity in the flatness of the dry mud. That is quite an experience. But empty it is not; twigs get blown on it, little lizards live on it, hidden in the shade of mud cracks or under visitors’ feet, and most importantly, rocks race on it. "One morning, I’ve clocked one going 50 mph" an old ranger once told me. Although I still have my doubts about the claimed speed, it is undeniable that these rocks move. Their tracks can be followed as they race in straight lines, turn, accelerate and then stop. The sedentary rocks sit in depressions in the mud. Those are good rocks to sit on in the scorching afternoon heat, breath pure warm dusty air, listen to nothing, watch the tremors of heat waves in the horizon and ponder about strange rock movements.

Unbearable heat
The hottest part of the day in Death Valley is in the late afternoon, around 4 or 5 pm. The visitor center warns against unbearable temperatures, but one cannot fully grasp what "unbearable temperatures" really feel like, even with a vivid imagination. When the rocks and land start giving back some of their stored heat, the valley act as a giant rotating oven and creatures on the valley floor are the main course. I am the main course. I take a drink of water, now desert tea, and rest the dusty gallon jug in the shade under the dashboard. Unseen beads of sweat evaporate from my skin even before they form, scavenged by the surrounding air, completely devoid of moisture of its own. The forceful caress of the noon warmth on my fingers has now turned into a blasting heat. The pain from scolded flesh makes us zip up our windows and accelerate towards the campsite in search of shade and a little breeze. Death Valley boasts the highest recorded temperature in the world - a sizzling 134 degrees recorded in July 1913 at Furnace creek. Over the years, I have determined that 120 degree is about my upper limit. Anything beyond that is pure masochism, dry heat or not. Fortunately, access to the wonderfully refreshing pool at the Furnace Creek Ranch only costs a few dollars and can turn torture into delight.

The sunset
The days always go by quickly in Death Valley. We watch the sunrise paint one side of the desert, cruise our days away on long roads of asphalt and dirt and watch the sunset paint the other side of the desert. The day is almost over. Refreshed after a few hours in the pool, we enjoy the peace of the campsite and watch the sky catch on fire. We sit on a metal table, mesmerized by the colorful clouds torn into long veils across the sky. The temperature is still quite high and any movement is effort. But when very still, the heat envelops us, caresses us, and settles us. Everything here is familiar, humbling, comforting and warm. All things take their place and the world makes sense again. A few crows flutter by in the shade, onto the garbage can and back in the shade. Crows and desert wanderers are the creatures of the day but at night the coyotes take over. Their plaintive lullaby rises from the valley floor, climbs majestic mountains and disperses among an infinity of stars. I fall asleep with a smile on my face.