Death Valley; Part II

In the morning, I wake as I always do, with a hungry heeler alternately licking and pawing my face. I look around, 'Boy this cabin is rustic. Just what I wanted. Its like stepping back in time, living simply, without modern conveniences like televisions, microwaves and air conditioners to bung up the energy.'

I get out of bed and rifle through my suitcase for the pack of pup chow I've brought with me, finangle two ghetto fabulous dog bowls out of the ice bucket and its cover (a little weirded out that Death Valley has ice buckets, but where else does one need ice so badly?), and sleep a few minutes more to the sounds of crunching chow, and the Murph choking from eating too quickly. I think I'm hearing somebody talking. Yes, indeed I am. Its an old man, and he's saying "Flo, lift it up. UP, Flo, UP! Oh, for chrissakes, I'll do it."

How can this be? Weak armed Flo and her mean companion have encroached upon my perfect natural solitude?

I consider that I'm being too spoiled. Of course there will be other people here to rest and clean their own slates, maybe take some neato pictures and stuff. I can't assume I'll be the only seeker here. Assuming makes an ass out of you and me. Or at least it makes an ass out of me since I'm in Death Valley, nature's "fuck off," and all alone. Allllone.

I put my shoes on, leash up Max and Murph and open the door to my rustic, desolate cabin. What do I see in the harsh light of day, that I did not see under the cloak of last night's darkness?

I see Palm trees, power lines, two cafés, a Laundromat, a steakhouse, over a hundred cars, two F14 fighter jets running maneuvers, green grass, signs saying "Enjoy our free Wifi," ATV's, a liquor store and a tour bus, out of which pours sixty senior citizens with sun visors and disposable cameras.

Motherfuck.

Max and Murph crap on pristine grass, which is tinged blue, and looks to be flown in from Kentucky. I toss the poop bags into a bin outside one of the cafes, the one which doesn't boast having Starbucks brand coffee. Inside the café, people type on their laptops. Apparently, Death Valley has free wireless internet.

We walk past the liquor store on the way back to our rustic cabin. Inside are six extra large coolers with delicious beers inside. I glance at the labels--and by experience--can tell almost instantly what brands they are. My eye spots a familiar label. It is pastel colored on a brown bottle, and no...it can't be. Well, fuck me, Death Valley has Fat Tire.

Old people are bustling about. I'm not paying attention to this, and I pay for it. Murph spazzes and knocks a septuagenarian on her ass, and the woman is not pleased about it. While I apologize profusely, Maxie begins to bark at her eczema, because Maxie is a appearance Nazi, and if you aren't attractive, she barks at you. The woman calls Maxie a "Wolf." There's not enough space for me to handle two overexcited wolves, this fallen woman, and the swarm of people now milling in the thoroughfare, not without laying a hand on the eczema, and I'm not doing that.

I have to ditch this crowd. And I'm in Death fucking Valley.

Murph likes to terrorize the lizards that live on the mountain above our house. She chases after them and gets them in her paws, pads at them a bit till they're good and scared and then feigns eating them. They tend to drop their tails at this point. She once ate a tail, but it didn't stay down for long. Of course, I don't let her torture lizards--that's mean--so I seldomly take her up there.

We are four miles north of Furnace creek in the salt flats, beyond the sand dunes, smack in the center of Death Valley. Mountains rise on either side of us. Aside from the occasional purr of a fighter jet, there is no sign of man. To Murph's chagrin, there's no sign of lizards either. She keeps a look out for them.

The man at the ranger station, Ranger Tom, had told me to be careful. "There's rattlers out there, you know," he'd said.

"Isn't it winter?"

"Yeah, but it's a hot one today, and they'll be out for sure."

So I keep the girls leashed, because Murph will find a rattler. If there is a rattlesnake within one hundred feet of an able-bodied Murph pup, she will find it and get bitten. In our house, "Murphy's Law" has a special meaning. There don't seem to be any creatures out here. No snakes, no pupfish, no water for possible pupfish to live in, and no Kangaroo rats, not that I cared to see them. I didn't much mind, because it was so thrilling to be alone in the wild. I hadn't been in so dangerous a sitch since my friend Gary and I decided to "fuck the map" and got lost on the Yellowstone plateau for five very thirsty, elk shitty hours.

There is a big rock in the middle of the field. I climb onto it, and it rolls over a little. I jump down, and the impact my feet make with the earth sends a seismic wave of lizards out in all directions. They pop out from what seems like every rock, and lo and behold, ten to fifteen feet to our left is a baby sidewinder, no more than a foot in length. It slinks in the opposite direction, slowly, for it's much too cold for snakes to be motoring along.

"ARRRAAAGGGGHHHHH!!!"

What was that? What human just screamed? I thought it was just me out here, and suddenly there is the screaming of a human who is not me.

Murph is pissing between my legs with a back Mohawk. The piss lands on her tail, and her tail thumps wildly into the salt and rock below it. Apparently, Murph screams like a human. Apparently, Sidewinders are the black plastic trash bags of Murph's worst nightmares.

"Its karma, Murph pup. You can't go around terrorizing reptilians like that without expecting retaliation."

I take the girls back to Furnace Creek, and go for a run across the rocks. Later we split the most expensive, mid-quality steak I've ever had and roast marshmallows with Eunice, Gemma and Fred from Flagstaff. They are pretty nice for desolation encroachers.

Gemma says, "What's a young girl like you doin' out here all by your lonesome?"

"Oh, just playin'."

"You know, Fred's single. I bet he'd marry you in a heartbeat."

And Fred said, "You couldn't keep up with me."

I toss a bit of marshmallow to a giant crow. Three have gathered around our fire pit to listen to us chat, and maybe get some scraps. Maybe say "nevermore" or something. My slate is already clean. Spic and span. I like Death Valley.

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