dy said, are stunningly beautiful. Tahoe City, on the California north end of the lake, is a wealthy tourist town filled with ratty skateboarding kids, healthy and attractive hikers and bicyclists, and preppy families. There are several real estate businesses in town (one advertised place was going for $35 million) alongside bike rental shops, upscale markets, and cafes like the one where Marshall and I met Ramona and her clan. I guess I like Tahoe City well enough, but I didn't feel like I was in the appropriate tax bracket to be allowed in. It was a little like visiting Carmel.
A Monday brunch hosted by Aunt Carol gave Marshall and me the chance to get in a few more laughs and hugs with family. We had considered leaving earlier in the morning to get a jump on the day's travels, but I'm glad we didn't; I really like my extended family, and I wish I got together with them more often.
Sometime arou
nd 11:00 a.m., I hit the road with Sancho Panza, heading south along the California side of the lake and int
o the dense traffic of South Tahoe. After a left, a right, and a couple of state line crossings, we were at the foot of the monumental Sierra Nevadas. The scenery reminded me of Innsbruck or Bariloche; the air was clear and cool, and the mountains were rugged and snow-capped. As we crested the 8143 foot Conway Summit pass, Mono Lake opened up before us.Mono Lake takes in water from the streams coming down the Sierra Nevadas to the west and the Excelsiors to the east, and she never lets it go. The snow melt and sparse rains between central California and eastern Nevada don't even make it to the ocean; the water collec
ts in lakes like Mono, where it just sits and evaporates—that is unless water-starved areas siphon it off for the expanding population. Mono Lake was tapped for Los Angeles in 1941 and by 1982 its surface had dropped forty-five feet, exposing its distinctive calcium tufa spires. Today its shore offers a spooky and smelly stroll.I had driven US-395
south of Mono Lake almost exactly twelve years ago with my brand new bride on our honeymoon. I warned Marshall that the road was not deserving of its "scenic drive" status, but I hadn't remembered that Nanda and I had driven it after dark. The reality is that the Sierra Nevadas grew higher and more majestic with every mile post passed, and more than once I had to quickly swerve to get back in my lane after staring out of the starboard window too long. Soon Mt. Whitney, the highest peak (14,505 feet) in the Lower 48, loomed far above. A mere seventy-six miles away, the lowest point in North America was calling to us.
Sancho Panza and I hit the western edge of Death Valley at about 6:30 in the eve
ning. We were driving with our windows down, and we could tell the temperature had risen considerably, but we figured that going through America's most ominously na
med park at this time of the day was probably safe. Still, we were amazed at how hot it got; checking the reports later that night indicated that we were dealing with temps between 110 and 115. We pulled over to roast and gawk at a dried lake, climbed the mountains that bisect the valley, then dropped into Furnace Creek where we grabbed some rocks for souvenirs. (A little-known side note: Telescope Peak, the highest point in Death Valley N
ational Park, rises to 11,049 feet and Badwater Basin is 282 feet below sea level; this is a vertical drop twice the depth of Grand Canyon.)
Your intrepid travelers made it out of the park without incident, but we were both left tired and weak by the drive. Although we were constantly drinking water, we figure that dehydration had taken its toll. After getting cold water and snacks at a convenience store outside of Pahrump, Nevada, the two of us began to feel better.
We pulled into Las Vegas well after dark, got our room at the Tropicana, and took a walk up and down the Strip, but I'll hold my thoughts on the City of Sin until my next entry.
TOTAL MILES DRIVEN SO FAR: 4434
Truly incredible photos.
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