Death Valley to Black Lake
Morning blasted through the open window, brighter and earlier than any civilized day ever should. At least, that was Danielle’s feeling on the matter.
Moments later she had figured out how to work the blinds and gone back to sleep. Meanwhile, I took a pre-breakfast hike to explore the abandoned RV park we pulled into not 5 hours earlier. I’m not sure what it is that makes me this way, but now I do know it isn’t the tent. Despite a very comfortable bed, we are “camping” so I am awake and ready to start the day before the sun.
After breakfast we got on the road and moved quickly through Death Valley. I know we’ll be back to cover that ground in detail on some future trip, so I didn’t want to burn the daylight there. We did make a stop in Panamint Springs to rest the truck after crossing Towne Pass, and pick up some much needed sarsaparilla.
We passed quickly through the blowing gray sands of Owens Lake, where I spotted a dirt road cut into the eastern slope of the Sierras that I simply must take some day. I have a hunch it leads to a certain pristine lake I’ve been wanting to visit. We rolled into Lone Pine on fumes where we finally began our exploration in earnest. For diesel fuel.
At first I was impressed – the GMC had hauled the Bigfoot over 460 miles on less than one tank of fuel. Then I realized this beast holds 40 gallons. Still, the Discovery couldn’t make that kind of range, and our faith was rewarded with prices a full two dollars per gallon lower. With a full tank and ahead of schedule it was time to wander.
Manzanar is a sad chapter in American history, which takes place in a breathtakingly beautiful valley bordered on either side by snow-capped mountains. This site was once an internment camp for Japanese-Americans during World War II, and much effort has been spent documenting, preserving, and in some cases, rebuilding the history. The compound is massive, and the self-tour is done by auto – a good thing given the freezing wind bearing down on us. Manzanar also has a big airport, which doesn’t seem to have been used in decades…
Arriving in the town of Bishop, we set about finding the world-famous Erick Schat’s Bakkerÿ. It didn’t take long: it’s the building in the center of town with cars everywhere and a line of people stretching out to the sidewalk. Next we began the search for parking. This took longer (tip: park in the park, across the street). Of course, by the time we parked and crossed the highway the crowd was gone and there was plenty of parking.
Beware the Bakkerÿ – the food is fantastic and the prices are surprisingly fair. If you’re not careful you’ll wind up leaving totally stuffed with a truck full of breads, cakes and pastries. For the rest of the drive the only food we would pick up was a bag of lunch meat and cheese to make sandwiches of our bread, and we still had left-overs when we reached San Francisco.
Several pounds heavier, we continued north only to be stopped at a roadblock on the edge of town. High winds had closed Highway 395 all the way to the Nevada border. The Cal-trans worker did not believe us when we told him the tons of bread on board were more than enough to anchor us against any wind the Sierras might throw at us. Our course decided for us, we took the low road north to Benton (US Highway 6).
Benton ain’t much: a few houses, an abandoned bar, and a tiny gas station / general store / café that was dwarfed by the ice cream truck parked outside. There’s even less in Benton Hot Springs, just over the hill: a bed & breakfast, several decaying ruins, a now-closed general store dated 1852, a collection of antique farming equipment, and of course - hot springs. Benton Hot Springs is clearly the “original” town, built long before the highways in the valleys below. It’s also far prettier. Trees, meadows, and farmland fill the valley, and boulder-strewn foothills lead up to snow-covered mountains. The road west climbs quickly into the mountains, and we soon found a secluded campsite for the night nestled in the pines and overlooking Black Lake.
Time for some of that famous pound cake while we watch the sun set.
