It's Wednesday morning. We're sailing south on 395. We stop in Bishop - the last town of some consequence (and cheaper gas prices) on our trip into the desert - to fill our gas and drinking water tanks. We're on the last stretch of pavement before the real driving begins. We find the faded wooden sign for Death Valley Road. Our excitement grows as we wend our way through wildflowers and small brown hills. We see the sign for Saline Valley road. It warns us there are no services for 100 miles. We continue on. This isn't so bad. We heard the road was good this year, but this is nothing compared to the road to the Racetrack in Death Valley - 30 miles of teeth-chattering washboard. This can't even be called washboard. That must be Cowhorn Valley, I say, as we round a high corner and head down a steep hill, just 4 miles down the road. The hidden, oval valley looks quite beautiful and peaceful in the sunlight. Isn't this lovely.
What's that sound? What's that smoke? Uh-oh.... Spewing from the rear driver's side tire is a LOT of air. At first we thought it was worse: a leak in the propane tank. Phew, it's just the tire. We roll to a thumpy halt at the bottom of the hill overlooking Cowhorn Valley. Thankfully, we bought a tire repair kit before heading in. We are suddenly very glad that we brought the humongous car jack with us. The three of us are standing around the tire. The hole bubbles through the spit we used in lieu of a huge tire bath. I read the repair kit directions aloud. Emily opens the box of brown goo (aka gummy bears). Adam threads the goo through the skewer and pokes it in the hole. One quarter turn, then down goes the goo and out comes the skewer. We saw off the tips with a razor blade. The hole sputters. Another goo goes down - way down - it disappeared. Oops. Another goo - if it doesn't work with this one, then it's not gonna. We hold our breaths and saw off the next set of tips. The dreaded whistling returns. Much growling ensues.
On to plan B: Adam dives under the front of the van to get the spare detached from its secure ride post. It's a very secure ride post. On with the spare, off with jack. Emily and I take a turn at the foot pump to get the spare tire to the correct pressure. The guage on the pump is not accurate, so I keep checking it and then madly pump away. It would have made entertaining video footage. (We're getting better at grabbing the camera at such times). We decided not to risk further venturing into the desert with no spare, and reluctantly turned back for Big Pine (the last town of hardly any consequence before the road into the valley). It suddenly seems a more daunting adventure than we had thought.
After much discussion, we decide not to camp on the gravel road. Instead we drive all the way out to 395, hoping we'll find a decent campground in Big Pine, and we can also find a tire repair shop there. If not, then we'll have to go to Bishop, 15 miles further North. We're in luck: a fairly empty campground, only $10/night, next to a creek, with some trees to shade us. The Sierras are there to remind us how small and fortunate we are. We BBQ some chicken. We saute some vegetables. We eat. We find out the 76 station has a mechanic who repairs tires. We need more ice. Emily and Adam head off down the road on foot, in darkness (we had misplaced our headlamps) to get some ice. They come back as I'm drying the dinner dishes, saying it was a lot further than they thought, but that the horses along the way were quite pettable. They head off in the van. We have some vanilla cognac on ice. Emily slept under the stars, very happy that the weather is warm enough for that. We're beginning to get a sense for how warm it will be in the valley.
Morning comes and we get to the tire shop just after they open. In not time, the hole is revealed to be about 1 1/4 inches long! Unfixable. Dude. Here's the thing: with a syncro (what they call a 4-wheel drive vanagon), you must have 4 matching tires, or the 4-wheel drive mechanism gets screwed up. The tires on our van are discontinued. This means 5 new tires (a bunch of moola) or 1 new one with the possibility of dropping the drive train on paved road if we get a flat. Emily and I are now reading about hot springs nearby that do not require a 50-mile drive on sketchy, unpaved road. Adam is not so easily dissuaded. Adam calls around to every tire shop in Bishop and also to the mechanic back in Santa Cruz at Volks Cafe. He finds the right size tire in Bishop, though not the same kind we have. We get back on the road.
As we arrive at the shop on the side of the highway, Em and I realize it would be far better to dispose of chicken bones here in town than to carry them around with us in the desert where no garbage trucks go. No time like the present - delaying any further is just silly. So we tote the cooler into the shade of the building, scrounge for sharp knives, chicken breasts, and our flexible cutting surface. Kneeling on either side of the cooler, we carve 2 pounds of meat from bone, wash the cutlery et al in the shop sink, plop the breasts into a Tupperware, and we're ready before the spare is installed. Adam shot some video for posterity.
Back on track, we take the dirt road to Saline with a bit of trepidation. We round the corner of our latest setback and hold our breaths. We passed without incident. We realized how odd it is that we got a flat - it's no more than a fire road. Hardly hair-raising considering the other Death Valley roads we've traversed.
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