Late in afternoon,
the Raider broached Towne Pass into a panorama of Death Valley. If the Mojave
had been hot, then Death Valley was searing. The Sand Dunes, however, were
somewhat obscured. There, before Jerry and Irene, was a towering swirling cone
of sand and dust, like a tornado, pirouetting off the highway towards the Sand
Dunes.
Jerry pulled over to
watch.
He whipped out his
trusty Olympus 35 mm and took several pictures as the sand cone rose higher and
drifted to the east-northeast. Eventually the cone of swirling dust began to
lose its conical shape. It dissipated into a more conventional wall of sand, as
it drifted eastward and slightly north into the Grapevine Mountains.
When they first saw
the storm, it was just across the highway from the resort, but traveled away
from the oasis and right over the stovepipes. Out by the Dunes were ancient
stovepipes sunken into the sand to reach water.
☼
Jerry’s mind
wandered to the time when he had spent the night sleeping out there. He had
made reservations at Stovepipe, but his car had overheated late at night. He
had slept on the other side of Towne Pass until 3:00 am. He had poured some
water in the radiator and had come down to the resort, but he had been
embarrassed to show up so late. He had gone out near the edge of the Devil’s
Cornfield. There he had set up his Celestron telescope and tried to find the
comet (which had been the purpose of the trip). Instead, he had found a raven.
The raven had launched off Tucki Mountain and levitated as if it were a
butterfly in a Carlos Castaneda vision. It had not moved its wings, but had
just floated like a spirit. That’s when he had adopted the raven as his totem.
☼
The sheet of dry
rain now blew across the north-south highway and through the passes of the
Grapevine Mountains on the east side of Death Valley.
Irene, “I’m hungry!
We gonna get some comida or watch sand blow?”
Jerry, “Sorry! It’s
cooling down now, only about 90 degrees, so I guess that’s the last sandstorm
of the day. Let’s go eat!”
Jerry drove on down
to Stovepipe Wells Resort, well above the floor of Death Valley on the west
side. He parked under the shade of a large spreading tree. There was a
cacophony of jungle birdcalls emanating from that tree.
Stovepipe Wells was
easily the most romantic resort in the valley because it had limited
accommodations, and so fewer tourists. Its prices were low to attract travelers
from places like Germany, France, Russia, and England. They spoke with exotic
dialects! The motel sat higher up and further north of the competition, giving
it cooler temperatures. Jerry had always hoped to come for the saloon with live
entertainment.
Occupying the office
was a husky woman with a nametag that read ‘Svetlana.’
“Da! May I help
you?”
“Is your name really
Svetlana?” Jerry asked.
“Da!”
“How come a Russian
woman is running a resort in Death Valley? I mean; we would have expected to
find a Death Valley Dorothy, or a Stove Pipe Wells Shortie!”
“I am eemmigrant!
Your ancestors, eemmigrants! I same as your family! Can I help you?”
“Well, first all,
what kinds of tropical birds are out in that tree? It sounds like the Amazon
Jungle! How do you keep tropical birds in the desert?”
“Niet! Is not tropic
birds! Is one raven, who very happy! Perhaps he happy see you! Perhaps he happy
‘cause he find a sucker.”
“I don’t believe it!”
Irene was in no mood
to cook dinner. “How about food? Is there someplace we can eat?”
“Da! Over there ees
restaurant, which serve food in half hour. When you finish, saloon ees good.
Got Country-Western, you like!”
“Thank you!”
Jerry and Irene sat
in the shade of the large spreading tree waiting for the restaurant to open. Sure
enough, looking up into the tree revealed that all of that noise indeed
emanated from one very happy raven, a single raven who was not just going caw,
cu, or cree.
Irene contemplating
Svetlana, “When you visit Mexico don’t you expect Mexicans?” Irene grumbled.
“When you visit Death Valley, don’t you expect to see the borax miner’s
daughter?”
“Remember when we
went to Las Vegas?” Jerry reflected. “We went to the Venetian and expected to
see some Italians. Remember how most of the people in the Venetian were
Filipinos?” he paused. “Hey, don’t knock it. I heard on 60 Minutes that the
Russians are going crazy over American Country Western music. They have their
own C and W groups. And the Japanese are going crazy over traditional American
Jazz.”
Irene shook her
head. “Kind of ruins the ambiance. I wonder if Russians like Mariachi.”
Jerry threw his
hands in the air. “Maybe the Japanese do.”
☼
The restaurant
finally opened. Jerry had a tri-tip steak and Irene had ‘Death Valley Trout,’
which must have been imported like Svetlana. They shared a carafe of Mirassou
Cabernet Sauvignon.
After their meal,
they walked over to the saloon. They spent several hours drinking and listening
to the music. A Marty Robbins look-alike sang songs like ‘Cool Clear Water’ and
‘Streets of Laramie.’ The songs carried them away in visions of the pioneers
who had lost their lives to this parched wasteland. Just as they were about to
leave, ‘Marty’ did a rendition of ‘El Paso,’ so they had to have one more
drink. Irene smiled, grabbed the swizzle sticks and out they went.
Jerry, “What do you
want those swizzle sticks for?”
Irene, “I think they’re
cute. Look, one ees a miner’s pick and the other ees shaped like barbed-wire.”
“Since when did
miners use barbed-wire?”
“Since those people
came through in the covered wagons.”
☼
They groggily
followed the dark highway down past Devil’s Cornfield to the Junction where
Highway 190 turns south. A blinded bobcat stared into the headlights and then
ran off. They saw a coyote jogging along the side of the road. Finally, lights
appeared far to the south and eventually became larger.
What Furnace Creek
Ranched lacked in atmosphere, compared to Stovepipe Wells, it made up for with
its accommodations--for a higher price. It had golf, a large swimming pool, a
choice of restaurant or coffee shop, tennis, and even stores for shopping. For
some unexplainable reason, it had no live entertainment at the bar, just
drinks! Jerry and Irene went to their room, across from the pool, and got ready
for bed.
Jerry was ready to
shake off the excitement of the day. “Sure glad we lost that Frank guy or
whoever he was.”
Irene brought the
newspaper in from the Raider and closed the door for privacy. “Why don’t you
look in the newspaper and see if there’s a story.”
Jerry thumbed through
the Los Angeles Times. It was huge, compared to the bay area papers. He turned
to the California and Local news. “Hey, sweetheart, that was Frank that we saw!
They’ve got a picture of him.”
“Does it say
anything new?”
“They say he might
have been responsible for a shotgun reported stolen last night from a Mojave
police car. They say that he they believe he is headed for his stash of
diamonds, somewhere in the desert between Pahrump and Panamint Springs, and
that California and Nevada Law Enforcement have extended their shifts and increased
their vigilance. They are hoping to apprehend him within the week. Hey, the
diamond market has gone up since he stole them. His diamonds are supposed to be
worth forty-four million on today’s market.”
“Are there any
peectures of his friends?”
“No! They don’t even
mention them.” Jerry walked to the bathroom to brush his teeth. “I suppose sex
is out for tonight?”
“Posiblemente, I may
have no sex again, Jerry!” she said earnestly.
At least they had a
comfortable room with no scorpions. The only bugs were those that buzzed around
the yellow light outside.
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