“Okay, I’ll try it. I’ll call you on Saturday and let you know what happened.”
“And if I don’t hear from you, am I to assume you got thrown in jail for aiding a minor?”
“Either that, or Diana and I have connected in a very meaningful way, if you get my drift.”
“Connor, if you find her, don’t you dare rush her! No matter how she reacts to you, you be the adult. Her father can still come gunning for you, you know. Remember your vows, yours and hers—vows of celibacy until marriage.”
“Yes, mother. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’ll be exactly what I have to be to get her to fall in love with me again. If I need to be slow and easy, then that’s what I’ll be. But I am on leave you know, I don’t have a lot of time here.”
“Well, that’s a good plan. Take your cues from her and let things happen naturally. Who knows, you two may not have that ‘chemical thing’ going on and this’ll all be for naught.”
“Trust me, it won’t be.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Some things you doubt, some things you don’t. I can’t explain it; I just know that she’s the one for me. Call it kismet, fate, destiny, serendipity, karma, whatever. Diana was made with me in mind. I’ll prove it to you with a wedding invitation.”
I laughed at his boisterous blustering. “You do that! And I’ll drive from wherever I am to dance at your wedding.”
“Well, keep your dancing shoes handy, I’m going to hold you to that. I’ll get back to you . . . real soon.”
“Good luck! I’ll be waiting to hear how things go,” I said as I disconnected. I had to smile at his brash confidence. For his sake, I hoped Diana had been honest with him. If she’d been stringing him along, he was going to take this rather badly.
I put the phone down and washed the thermos before taking it back to the state troopers who had been thoughtful enough to provide it.
I was greeted with genuine friendliness by a handful of smartly dressed and keenly interested troopers. I didn’t know what Brick had told them so I didn’t explain my stay; I merely thanked them for being so hospitable and asked for directions back to the interstate.
It was mid-morning now, so I wasn’t able to leave without an armful of subs and potato chips, along with well wishes and an invitation to come back anytime. Twenty minutes later, I was pointed toward Tucson and a white Bichon puppy.
Mentally, I challenged myself to come up with the name Angelina would pick for her new little pouch. Her doll, Lula Belle, was her sidekick now but I had no doubt that Snowbell, Bluebell, Tinkerbelle, or Annabelle would be her number one priority for some time to come.
Chapter Twenty-eight
My general impression of California, as I wended my way southeast, was of sand dunes—huge hills of sand with little growth on the higher peaks and sparse scrub brush on the low lying rises. It was pretty desolate between cities but I didn’t really mind; the route I’d mapped out was specifically chosen so I could avoid the Los Angeles area and its world-class traffic jams. Brick detouring me to Tehachapi had served to dump me in the middle of nowhere but I had lucked onto a multilane highway that skirted Edwards Air Force Base and led to the ever-popular town of Barstow where I had the choice of heading south to San Bernardino, or east into the Mojave Desert. My general game plan was Yuma, Tucson, Las Cruces and Austin. Beyond that, I didn’t have a clue how the heck I was going to get there.
I was deciding between Route 40, and aiming for Needles, where I could pick up 95 leading south into Yuma, a mere two hundred miles later; or to brave 15 South, and barrel into San Bernardino and San Diego, before running parallel to the Mexican border on East 8, when my cell phone rang.
It was Carol, the owner of the kennel where I was to secure Angelina’s puppy in a week’s time. Carol’s husband was a vet and he had determined that, although it was not unusual to separate puppies from their mother at eight weeks, he wanted this particular litter to have the full ten weeks of mother’s milk. They were an exceptionally small brood, and had reacted with extreme lethargy after their last series of shots. I thought it comforting that they put their concern for the welfare of the pups before monetary issues but was chagrined at the delay. What was I going to do for two whole weeks? I pulled over at the first rest area and pulled out my trusty NASCAR atlas. It was no longer crucial I head for Needles or Yuma.
I flipped through the points of interest pages and caught a blurb on the editor’s best picks section. In a state the size of California, I was surprised there were only four honorable mentions: Blue Canyon, the snowiest place in the U.S. with over twenty inches of snow annually; the safari tent cabins at Safari West in Santa Rosa, where you can wake up to see a giraffe at your window; Los Angeles County as the most populous U.S. county with over ten million people; and the valley below the sea—Death Valley. It was purported to be 282 feet below sea level at Badwater Basin, the lowest elevation in the Western Hemisphere—yet only fifteen miles away was the highest point, Telescope Peak in the Panamint Mountains. I read that the record high temperature was 134 degrees, but for some reason I didn’t take that in at the time. At Baker, I swung onto 127 heading north toward Death Valley National Park.
When I stopped at Tecopa Hot Springs for gas and walked out the door and down the steps, I felt as if I had entered a sauna. Again, the thought didn’t register: Death Valley—record heat—people died here . . . Instead, I marveled at how efficient my air conditioner was working. What a remarkable time we live in, I thought, as I opened the little door that housed the gas cap. Even when I jerked my hand back from the heat that seared my fingertips, I marveled at how far we’d come. The pioneers of 1849 never entered my mind, or the fact that it was summer.
Following 127, I came upon Ash Meadows, a national wildlife refuge managed by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, about nine miles southeast of the entrance to the park. A sign mentioned the Pupfish of Devil’s Hole, saying it was the only place in the world where they existed, along with lizards of all types and sizes. I was ready for a break and curious as to what a “Pupfish” was. I also thought I could learn something about the creature I had reluctantly adopted.
Turning onto the gravel road, I thought about Stumpy in his terrarium in the middle of the hallway. I had a moment of remorse. This was his kind of country, yet I dare not let him loose here. Without a tail, he just wasn’t ready. I felt like the mother of a teenager, denying her daughter the joys of attending a dance. Until youngsters had the skills to survive on their own, they just had to stay at home.
I stopped at Kings Pool and Point of Rocks Spring Pool. Not knowing what to expect, I tentatively got out of the RV and stretched while I looked around. There were large rocky hills, barren except for some scrubby brush. I could see a scattering of trees off in the flat lands. As I mopped my brow with a bandana I’d threaded through a loop on my shorts, I walked up a path where I could hear a babbling sound. Where was everyone?
I found a creek flowing over rocks. It was a cute little creek with crystal clear water and it meandered lazily along the pathway. How was this in the middle of the desert? There were a few picnic tables strategically placed so people could enjoy the shade of the trees and the babbling brook. Where were the people, I thought again, as perspiration ran in rivulets down my back and between my breasts. My shorts felt tight and I could feel the waistband cinching and sticking to my skin. Everything was getting clammy. I wished I’d remembered to bring my water bottle but I sure was happy I’d left the air conditioning running for Stumpy—gosh it was hot!
A short ways up the path I came to a pool, which appeared to be the origin of the creek. Obviously spring-fed, it continued to bubble from the bottom with an endless supply of water. I saw tiny iridescent fish swimming in the water and when I tried to touch one, I found the water to be very warm, similar to the hot tub I’d had in my old life on my triple-tiered deck high on a hill in Virginia. Wow! What a long way I was
from “home,” I thought as I tried to catch a fish in my hand. This water had to be close to a hundred degrees. How were these little creatures enduring this heat? How could they survive the water temperature, which I guessed was just shy of boiling? Had the water been cooler, I might have been tempted to wade in—God I was hot. I could feel the heat coming off of me in waves.
Following the path, I ended up at a self-serve visitor’s center where I learned that the Pupfish, that only existed here, were an endangered species. Yeah, since nature was damned near nigh onto boiling them to death. I wondered how much longer it would be before they were finally extinct. I took my bandana off the loop in my belt and ran it under the stream of water from the vintage water cooler I found over in a corner. I read on the wall that the Pupfish were being closely monitored and that great care was taken not to disturb the algae growing in the streams, as that was their only source of food and where they lay their eggs, hence the lovely iridescent, sapphire blue water.
There was a boardwalk next to the center that offered a lot of information about the habitat of the area. The water from Crystal Spring, the spring-fed pool at the origin of the creek, was over 1,000 years old! I read how it began as water from rains and snow in the northern Nevada Mountains that had seeped underground through sand and rock toward the earth’s warm center. The heated water then bubbled up through fissures in the earth’s crust and formed the natural spring. This particular one pushed out 2,600 galloons of 87-degree water a minute!
I marveled at the beauty here, the Caribbean-blue rock basin and the brilliant green algae that created a pond that looked like it belonged in another world. That, along with the tiny blue Pupfish, made me feel as if I’d been transported to the tropics. And damn, it was as hot as a summer day on a Nassau beach! I backtracked my way to the RV, stumbling and staggering as if sleepwalking. It was odd that I hadn’t encountered anyone in this mini-paradise, I thought, as I saw my Dolphin looming in a haze ahead of me. The heat was distorting the shape of it, either that or I needed glasses.
Inside it was nice and cool but I had the odd feeling that the generator was straining more than it should have been. There were still no other vehicles in the parking lot. I decided to take a quick, cold shower to revive myself a little before I headed into the park. I tossed a handful of brochures I’d grabbed when leaving the center onto the counter, made sure Stumpy had water and food, and stripped off my clothes. They stuck like paste and I had to peel them off slowly to keep from pulling at my skin, which seemed puffy somehow.
I felt a lot better after my shower, but I was a bit miffed that I couldn’t get the water cool enough. It was as if an outside source was heating it, despite the fact that I was directing it to be cold by repeatedly pulling the lever to the right.
I put on my most abbreviated shorts and a silky halter-top that felt cool against my heated skin, and after shutting down the generator, I slid behind the wheel. I noticed the engine didn’t turn over right away but chalked that off to the fact that I’d had the generator running a long time.
At Death Valley Junction, I entered the park on Route 190 from the east. It had taken me all morning and part of the afternoon just to get here but I wasn’t tired, so I plodded on. I was eager to see all the amazing sights I’d read about and to ooh and aah over God’s unique sand and stone creations.
Driving further west into Death Valley, I came across Longstreet’s Casino located right in the middle of nowhere. It was a rather big place, with a hotel, amusements and restaurants. Finally, cars and people! I no longer felt like an alien on the planet. I found a parking space by some buses and shut everything down. I could see some RVs in the distance in an area that was landscaped with ponds. It didn’t feel as hot as it had, so I didn’t bother with the generator this time. Hell, Stumpy was a lizard, wasn’t he? Hot and dry was how they were supposed to like it.
I had lunch at the casino looking out at the Funeral Mountains while I watched the people walking by, wondering where they had all come from and where they would all go when the casino closed. After chitchatting with the waitress, I found out that the casino never closed and that they had a 50-lot RV campground. Hmmm . . . maybe a place to park the beast tonight, I thought. But after further investigating, I discovered that they were full up. Not surprising, I thought, this was the only place I’d seen that had shown any signs of life for miles.
Knowing I had to continue on, at least until I could find a place to pull in for the night, I left money on the table and walked out the front door of the casino. It was like a blast furnace and I smiled, must be why the area was called Furnace Creek. I got back in the RV and gave a cursory look over at Stumpy. He wasn’t moving, so I tapped the glass and one eye winked open. Okay, still with me. I slid into the driver’s seat and motored up.
I drove by areas where the mountains were blue, green, purple and tan. Following signs, I turned the corner and pulled onto Artist’s Drive and admired the splashes of color that reminded me of an artist’s palette. The roads were becoming narrower and I worried what was up ahead, so on a scenic overlook I placed a towel over a series of rocks—those things can get hot baking in the sun—and fanned out the brochures I’d collected to see about finding a campground for the night.
I didn’t dare turn the RV off this time, as I’d discovered it took way too long to cool it down again, and although I was worried about the gas I was wasting, I was running out of clothing—practically everything I had in summer clothing was in a pile in my bedroom, damp from me being hot and sweaty.
The little booklet on top drew my attention, as it seemed like a general flier on Death Valley itself. According to the words printed there, Death Valley was named by some lucky or unlucky pioneers in 1849. The story is that a hundred covered wagons left the Midwest in the fall of 1849 led by a Mormon battalion captain named Jefferson Hunt. Supposedly, he was familiar with the Old Spanish Trail across the desert. In Utah they headed south to avoid the fate of the infamous Donner party two years earlier.
They met up with a party heading the other way and took their advice on a short cut that would bring them out in the Tulare Valley, near the California gold fields. Some decided to “Go for the gold,” while the others decided to continue on the proven route with their knowledgeable wagon master. The group that diverted ran into the mountains three days later and half of them turned around to go the long way. Twenty-seven wagons began the journey into the “Jaws of Hell itself.” Shortly after, the group split again, and this time thirty-four men joined Reverend John Wells Brier and his wife, Juliette, in their struggle to continue on this chosen, yet treacherous route.
Eventually, they were reduced to walking, burning their wagons, and roasting their oxen to survive. By Christmas they had reached Furnace Creek in the heat of the valley. Ohmygod, that’s where I was right now! Many members of their party perished but the rest had no choice but to continue the struggle and keep going. Legend has it, that as they finally found their way out of the desert, they looked back and said, “Goodbye Death Valley,” attaching the morbid, but legendary name. After their 134-day journey, the meager walking skeletons were welcomed by amazed vaqueros of the Del Valle’s San Francisco Ranch. The original party reached Los Angeles seven weeks after the others took the “short cut,” recounting the beauty of the landscape, rhapsodizing over the yellow, pink, and blue wild flowers tucked into mountains with fascinating shapes and colors.
Oh Lord, I now knew that I should have stopped to analyze the niggling twinges I’d had earlier in the day. What the hell had I been thinking? I flipped through the rest of the brochures and found three RV parks in the area. I stood and picked up my towels and just as I took my first step toward the RV, I heard the engine sputter and die out.
I couldn’t have run out of gas, could I? I’d just filled up this morning. Oh, this couldn’t be good. I ran up the steps, and once inside, I was assailed by a hot, molten, metallic smell. What the heck was that? I went over to the cockpit, slid into my seat and lo
oked at the dashboard that was lit up with red warning lights. It took me a moment to read them all and to realize what was happening. The intense heat wafting from the firewall made me very nervous. Apparently I’d overheated something but I still couldn’t believe it. I reached for the ignition and tried to restart the engine. Nothing doing. I turned the key all the way back and all the lights went out. I sat there in the silence that up until then had not seemed quite so profound. And let me tell you, realizing that you’re all alone in a desert named Death Valley, in a dinosaur of a vehicle that requires engine or generator power to function and having neither, is a daunting and scary thing. I now knew where all the people were, and just why they weren’t here where I was . . . all alone . . . in the middle of nowhere . . . without a way out.
I ran for my cell phone and punched the call button when Brick’s name came up on the directory listing. Nothing. No tone, no beeps, no sound. I had no service, no little black boxes lined up on the side. The mountains were blocking the signal. Holy Moly! What was I going to do?
I told myself not to panic, not to let my mind wander and run through bad scenarios. Stay lucid, think positive, make a plan . . .
If I could get the generator to work, I could live in the RV, dry dock so to speak, and wait until someone started looking for me. Yeah, but just when would that be? I wasn’t accountable to a single soul. No one in the whole universe knew I was coming here—to the home of the twenty-mule team trains and borax mining towns, that were no longer in existence. I looked out the front window to the mountains beyond. All I saw was rocks and more rocks, and precious few other things in between. If it wasn’t for the asphalt road I was parked on, I could have believed I was back in 1849, looking at the same barren landscape that rag-tag band of travelers had come upon.
Stop! Stop thinking such desolate, depressing thoughts, I told myself. Get a grip! I had plenty of water, didn’t I? Yes, I was sure I did. I ran to the refrigerator and opened it. It was delightfully cool. I stood there and counted the water bottles on the bottom shelf, deliberately taking longer than I needed. Twenty 12-ounce bottles. Well, that would be okay for a few days, I reasoned. I grabbed one and closed the door to protect the food for as long as possible. I held it to my forehead, then between my breasts to enjoy the coolness on my overheated skin before chugging down a few mouthfuls. While leaning on the door and looking out, I slowly allowed my mind to scatter. I had no idea what to do next.
Running Up the Score Page 13