Life in Death Valley

Of course, like any "barren" desert, Death Valley is positively teeming with life. Over 900 plant species and animals ranging from stink bugs to coyotes can survive in this challenging habitat.

We stopped at Salt Creek, where the promo material promised that along the "nature trail you'll see tiny desert pupfish whose ancestors swam in vanished Lake Manly."



Alas, by the time we arrived, the descendants had gone the way of their ancestors, and so had the creek. Wikipedia describes the habitat of the Death Valley pupfish as a "shallow, hot, salty water of a particular part of Salt Creek that flows above ground year-round." I guess that's a different part of Salt Creek. The sign in the photograph above says "Can you hear the water? Does it remind you of the ocean?" Um ... no, and no. I can hear myself sweating. Does that count?

Clearly there is some water under the ground somewhere, at least enough to support plant life on the "banks."

Okay, so it's not a pupfish, but it is life in Death Valley.

What extreme ecosystem would be complete without the mansion of a crazy American millionaire? Limited time prevented me from visiting this attraction, but Scotty's Castle is a great story nonetheless. It was built from 1922 by Chicago millionaire Albert Johnson who had been suckered into investing in a fraudulent gold mine in the Death Valley area by Walter Scott, also known as “Death Valley Scotty.” Albert noticed during visits to the region that Death Valley seemed to be good for his health. Scotty's Castle was duly constructed as a winter home near a natural spring which provided some hydroelectricity and plenty of water, although the swimming pool was never completed. The Castle features such eccentricities as a 1,121 pipe Welte theater organ.



Natural springs do pop up here and there from Lake Manly's legacy, a huge underground aquifer. Here in the vicinity of Furnace Creek, the springs sustain a stylish resort town, epitomised by the Furnace Creek Inn which was established in 1927. It features a swimming pool fed by the warm springs and sporting views of the valley. There is a golf course, comfortable visitor facilities and fully grown tamarisk trees and date palms in the area.



This is one of my all time favourite photographs.

Death Valley National Park

As you enter Death Valley National Park from the west, it's hard to reconcile the word "park" with the view. The word "death," however, seems singularly appropriate. It was perhaps unhappy symbolism for Death Valley to be the first scheduled stop of Road Trip 2, but there's no arguing with geography.



There's something quite Australian about Death Valley. With the three million year old, heavily eroded landscape, crushing heat, blinding sunlight, salinity, negative humidity and barren vistas, it almost seemed that if I just clicked my heels together three times I might be back in Australia. There's no place like home.



Like the brutal deserts of outback Australia, this landscape was shaped by long forgotten water and the indifferent, endless ages. Lake Manly was this valley's Lake Eyre, although it fills far less frequently. In 2005, a serious flood temporarily restored Lake Manly to over 259 sq km (100 sq mi). A few lucky tourists and park rangers became probably the only humans to ever canoe across the valley. Next time there's freakish rain in this part of the world I'm getting straight on a plane and coming back.

Death Valley has the world's highest reliably recorded temperatures with a record high of 53.9 °C (134 °F). Remember that's recorded at 1.2 m (4 ft) off the ground and under a shelter. In direct sunlight and with the reflected and radiant heat from the ground, temperatures can easily top 90 °C (194 °F). Death Valley also has the continent's lowest elevation at minus 86 m (282 ft). Weirdly, the continent's highest peak, Mount Whitney, is just 123 km (76 mi) to the west.

In case you're curious, as I was, the lowest dry land elevation in the world is on the shores of the Dead Sea, at 420 m (1,378 ft) below sea level. Salt, heat and death all seem to be closely associated with extremely low elevations.



Also like the scorched earth places in Australia, there is surreal beauty in the colours of the landscape.



The walls and mud canyons seem to glow like gold in the harsh sunlight. Imagine what it must have been like for the pioneers who crossed this valley in 1849 on their way to California. Travelling this 209 km (130 mi) valley in a high speed, air conditioned Cream Puff is one thing. I wore sunscreen, got out of the Puff at a few key spots, walked around for a while taking photographs, said "This sucks," jumped back into the aircon and was out of there in under four hours. Making this journey with horses and wagons and without proper roads is another proposition altogether. "[It was] always the same," one wrote. "Hunger and thirst and an awful silence."

The 1849 pioneers almost didn't make it. Two men, William L. Manly (for whom Lake Manly was named) and John H. Rogers made their way alone out of what was then known as Timbisha Valley into the vicinity of modern Los Angeles to bring back help for the rest of the party. Later in life Manly wrote an autobiography titled "Death Valley in '49." The evocative name stuck, and Death Valley it remains to this day.

Road Trip 2 - Blast Off

Road Trip 2 will be the last of my grand adventures in the USA. It is the southern leg of my journey of discovery. The Cream Puff and I will cross the continent from west to east, via Las Vegas and Nashville, among other interesting destinations.

We'll go as far north as Washington DC to explore the nation's capital. Then we'll head south down the east coast, through the "south" that I have always dreamed of visiting, like Savannah and Charleston. We'll make our way right to the bottom, to Florida. Then I'll briefly abandon the Cream Puff to cruise the Bahamas, and hop a flight to Panama.

Finally I'll rejoin the Cream Puff and meander back towards California across the south. I should be back in time for my first Thanksgiving. If I survive all that it will be reason enough to give thanks.

To keep me company along the way I will have my Road Trip Mascot. Meet Roadkill. I initially considered disfiguring him and mounting him as a hood ornament on the Cream Puff as a warning to others. On reflection I decided that it would be better to invoke the gentle deer spirits by carrying him tenderly with me as an honoured guest.

Dirty Olive Party

On the eve of my departure for massive road trip number two we had a party at the Dirty Olive. I choose to believe that people celebrate when I'm leaving because they like me and not because they're glad to see me go.

As ever, the highlight of the Dirty Olive was the entertainment.

AC Myles and his band were in fine form.

He did all the usual tricks.

Plus this one, which I hadn't seen before.

Here are two of my favourite people: Gary and Marsha Williams. Dad and Mom to Marcus. Actually, Dad is now known as the DFS, meaning Dad Full Stop. This is distinct from the DB, meaning the Daddy Boss, who is my Dad.

Three more of my favourite Fresnans: Gustavo, Manoella and Clara. You can't quite see Clara in this photo. She's still inside the baby bump just out of shot.

For some reason in this photo I look like a cardboard cutout of myself that Marcus is carrying across the room. I swear I was really there. I wouldn't have missed my own party.

Thank you everyone for coming. I just hope you'll be as eager to welcome me back as you were to see me off.

Sequoia National Park - Big Rocks

Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks have a lot of big wood, but there are also some pretty big rocks. There was Moro Rock, of course, with the fabulous views of the inside of clouds.

This is Hospital Rock. We only saw it from a distance, but most of the excitement is up close. Until the 1870s some of the Monache people still lived here. There are surviving pictographs as well as nearly 50 grinding spots used to grind acorns into flour.

Then there was this rock. It's not as big as the others, but it is certified conflict-free.

Sequoia National Park - Big wood and grand gestures

We took an alternate route back through the woods towards the car and paused to admire some giant sequoias along the way. I also paused occasionally to spit out mouthfuls of the strange acidic foam that my roiling stomach was ejecting. It was starting to look more like I might have rabies than a stomach bug. Perhaps I got too close to a squirrel.

Even the runty giant sequoias are still big wood.

Even the ones that have fallen down are still worth seeing. This one used to bridge a road that visitors could drive through, but that route is closed to vehicle traffic now.

Once we eventually found our way back to the car, stripped off our ponchos and cranked up the heater we decided that we were having approximately no fun at all and that we would only make one more sightseeing stop in the park, unless the weather improved dramatically. We both wanted to visit General Sherman, the largest tree in the world and often considered to be the largest organism. Surely we couldn't pass this close to such an enormous being without dropping in to say hello, even in the pouring rain.

This is General Sherman, which has stood here for an estimated 2200 years. It was here before Christianity, before the enlightenment, before the industrial revolution, before the nature of our modern lives could even have been imagined. This tree was standing when the Roman Empire was fighting the Gauls and discovering bacchanalia. This tree was standing when Eratosthenes made the first good measurement of the distance between Earth and the Sun by studying lunar eclipses. It has survived lightning, fire, climate change, human beings and many days colder and rainier than this one that was making us huddle and shiver miserably at its foot.

Through it all General Sherman has stood, silent and inscrutable. It is a living witness, testifying merely by existing, to the scale of millennia. It is also another one of those special places on the earth where human beings realise their smallness and are inspired to make great gestures. This time the magic worked.

Marcus knelt down in a puddle, held out a diamond ring and asked me to marry him. It was weirdly romantic, despite the cold and the rain and the nausea. I said "Yes" and we somehow managed to synchronise our shivering long enough to get the ring onto my blue finger. "Now let's get out of here."

Sequoia National Park - Moro Rock

Despite my visits to so many other National Parks, and despite having recently made my sixth visit into Yosemite National Park, I had so far failed to visit another one that was right in the neighbourhood. The combined Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks are within comfortable daytripping distance of Fresno, yet I had not been there and, in October, parts of the park were about to close for the winter. This could be my last opportunity to visit America's second oldest National Park. I would be a fool not to take it.

This left me in a bit of a bind because, under the circumstances, I would also be a fool to take it. It was raining and freezing cold, with snow already on the ground in several tourist destinations within the park. I was also sick. I'd caught some kind of stomach bug and spent the past three days with my head down the toilet. Not ideal sightseeing circumstances. Nevertheless, I am nothing if not intrepid and so I not only resolved to visit the park, but persuaded Marcus to come along with me.

As we drove through the rain we tried to think positive. Perhaps the sky would clear later in the day. Perhaps this mist we were driving through would dissipate and we would get to see some of the amazing vistas that the park's promo materials promised.

One of the most splendid views in the park is alleged to be from Moro Rock, a granite dome with a stairway leading all the way to the top and an amazing lookout. Let me quote you directly from the park information:

"From atop Moro Rock you can grasp the multiple superlatives that brought Sequoia - and eventually Kings Canyon - into the National Park System so early that Sequoia is now our second oldest national park. To the north lies the Giant Forest plateau where sequoias rise above their forest neighbours. To the west, in contrast to these gargantuan conifers, are the dry foothills with their oak trees and chaparral vegetation descending toward the San Joaquin Valley. To the south, and down, more than 5,000 vertical feet, the Middle Fork of the Kaweah River threads its rugged canyon. To the east, snowcapped peaks of the Great Western Divide and the Kaweah Peaks top out on Mount Kaweah at 13,802 feet."

Sounds awesome, doesn't it? We simply had to try for that. We arrived to discover that the road leading to the base of the Moro Rock lookout was closed. If we wanted to see it, we would have to hike a few extra miles each way to get to the start of the trail. Although cold, it wasn't actually raining at the time and although I was weak from sickness, dehydration and involuntary fasting, I figured I still had several miles of walking left in me. For the chance of those views, it would surely be worth it. So we picked up our ponchos and set out for the rock.

The hike to the base of the trail turned out to be the highlight of the day. The trees gave some protection from the chill and blocked out the icy wind altogether. The forest seemed hushed as we walked quietly over the soft, wet, fallen foliage. Our breath misted in still air so cool and clear that it burned our nostrils. As the trail climbed we passed into a wonderland, where mist glowed through tall trees and a family of deer moved silently through the shadows. Transfixed, I didn't even reach for my camera until the deer had passed. I hope this is indicative of a growing trend to "miss" any more deer that cross my path.

It was the kind of moment that moves human beings to strange ecstasies. In such places people may find God, or lose Him, they may have epiphanies that change the course of their lives forever, they may forgive the hurts they have harboured, make solemn vows or propose marriage to a loved one. We paused, entranced, expectant, breathing sacred air, while none of those things happened to us. Then we moved on.

The view from the bottom of the Moro Rock trail was not encouraging and by this stage the magically reviving effects of the misty forest had passed and I was feeling pretty bad. However, we had met another hiker coming down from the trail who assured us that there were partial views from the top. This was my last chance, after all, and I'd already come this far. So up we went.

And up.

I paused for a moment to will the meagre contents of my stomach to remain there.

And up.

We stopped to awkwardly put on our ponchos with frozen fingers because we were now hiking in a steady, gentle sleet and whipping wind.

And up.

I paused again and fought back the urge to vomit over the railing, partly because I really needed to absorb the water I'd been sipping, but mainly because I was afraid it might hit another hiker. I tried to distract myself by shaking the ice off my poncho and succeeded only in letting more cold air under the PVC.

And up.

And then ...

This is what we saw. The National Park had helpfully installed interpretive signs so that we would know exactly what we weren't seeing.

Visibility was so low that we could hardly make out the path behind us, let along the panorama laid out before us.

Disappointed, and with me now feeling utterly ghastly, we started the long trudge back down to the car.

Whitewater - Day 2

I generally assume that any day that begins with getting up before dawn is going to be a bad day. Day 2 of our whitewater adventure was the exception to that otherwise dependable rule. We broke camp in the dark, in freezing cold air, while Darren made breakfast for us. Even in the predawn chill he took pride in his presentation. The fresh fruit platter was the best Darren!

We ate breakfast, said our teary farewells to Darren and drove to the Middle Fork of the American River. Armed with Darren's directions and my paranoia we didn't get lost and we didn't hit any deer.

Day 2 was a much bigger operation. Yesterday was just one raft, just one guide. Today there were four rafts and a small crowd of people being fitted out with personal floatation devices and even, gulp, helmets.

There were also four colourful new guides to observe. We started making snap judgements about the guides as the bus rattled towards the launch point. There was Dave, who seemed to be in charge. He's strong, confident, decisive, and altogether the guide of choice for the discerning amateur whitewater rafter. Then there was the guy that Marcus and I referred to as "Jesus." I can't remember his real name but he did bear a striking resemblance to the standard depiction of Jesus and, to our great delight, was sitting in the bus on a seat branded "Carpenter." I didn't have an opportunity to observe him walking on water at any point, but I'm still prepared to believe it was possible. Then there was Lindsay, the girl guide. She was giggly and friendly, but didn't have the big shoulders and powerful arms that all the boy guides were sporting. Not my first choice. Finally, there was Kyle, the epitome of stoner style, who farted as soon as he stepped onto the bus and was then teased by Lindsay for the remainder of the bus ride about his habit of regularly discharging noxious gas. He went straight to the bottom of my preferred guide list.

The guests milled around in nervous excitement while the guides unloaded the rafts and other equipment. In addition to me and Marcus there were ten members of a Bachelor's Party, a shy looking Indian couple, a group of four older people including two members who were plainly terrified, two drinking buddies, and four relatively normal looking people of about our age. The members of that group were also scoping out the possible combinations of raft mates. We simultaneously came to the conclusion that we six clearly belonged together and everyone else belonged in different boats, preferably in a different river. We introduced ourselves and huddled together in an effort to send teamwork vibes towards Dave who was assigning people to rafts and guides. Dave helpfully succumbed to the influence of our frantic mindwaves. He looked at our aggressively unified body language. "Do you know each other?" He asked. "No," I said. "But we're bonding quickly."

Unfortunately, Dave, being the strong, silent, hero type, took upon himself the boatload of Bachelor's Party boys. Damn! Surely Jesus would have been better suited to that kind of noble self sacrifice? Then the rest of the Bachelor's Party and the drinking buddies went in Lindsay's raft. Only Jesus and Kyle the noxious gas man left and we got ... Kyle. Our little group of six deflated visibly, and not just because we wanted to make room for one last breath of fresh air before being stuck in the raft with our guide. Kyle walked around the team crashing knuckles with each of us and talking like a stoned, sleepy Owen Wilson.

Kyle did not make a good first impression on any one of us, which just goes to show how wrong first impressions can be because Kyle is the dude. Here he is above, competently steering us out of one of the rapids. We're all looking behind us because the people in the following raft had a lot of trouble staying in it and regularly had to be dragged back out of the icy water. The people in our raft, by contrast, stayed firmly in their positions, an achievement I attribute almost entirely to Kyle's tremendous skill as a guide.

Learning to love our guide was a gradual thing for our crew. He seemed quite strange to us at first. For example, he suggested that we choose a team chant and, when none of us came up with anything, decided that it would be "Baby 'cos I'm a THUG!" We would all bellow along on the "THUG!" Still, Kyle's distinctive personal wit and charm grew on us over the course of the day. He put on funny accents for particular paddle commands to make us laugh and always gave us the choice to do things the "fun" way instead of the "normal" way. We had a willing crew and whatever he proposed, we were game to try it. Paddle upstream into a "hole"? Hell, yes. Let's do it twice. FYI, a hole is place where water flows over a submerged rock, with the turbulence causing some water to flow back upstream towards the rock. This creates a seam in the water where the up and downstream flows meet and in which it is possible to "surf," balancing the raft in the seam. We also ambushed two of the other rafts in a water war, took our own private route through part of the river and experimented with using the flow of the water through pillows and eddies to steer the raft.

We tried all sorts of cool tricks under Kyle's lively, but vigilant and protective command. Ours was definitely the best boat that day, with the most fun people and the coolest guide. Despite being the only ones who tried every stunt, we were one of only two rafts in our company that made it through all the rapids without any swimmers (people falling out). Every raft we saw from other companies had swimmers all over the place. Even the other non-swimming crew from our own company was the sedate "Jesus" raft and they didn't try any of the cool stuff. For example, none of them jumped off the big rock, but we did. It was much more cold than it was scary, and it was pretty scary.

The Middle Fork is more challenging than the South Fork. It has many Class III and Class IV rapids, some of which are very technical. In those conditions, a great guide makes for a great day on the river, and we were blessed with both. Again from Wikipedia:

"Class 3: Whitewater, medium waves, maybe a 3-5 ft drop, but not much considerable danger. May require significant maneuvering. (Skill Level: Experienced paddling skills)
Class 4: Whitewater, large waves, rocks, maybe a considerable drop, sharp maneuvers may be needed. (Skill Level: Whitewater Experience)"

Whitewater experience. That's us right? We did this yesterday. Actually, we knew quite a bit more about what to expect today. Darren had told us last night about the highlights of the run, including the first rapid. Known as the Cold Cup of Coffee it comes up almost immediately and is in the shade of several large trees. It's well named, particularly if you stupidly volunteered to paddle from the front again and cop the big waves. Brr ... okay, okay ... I'm awake!

All the names of the rapids are pretty cool. The Middle Fork has Last Chance, Tunnel Chute, Lettuce Hole, Kanaka, Cleavage, Parallel Parking, Catapult, Drivers' Ed and Chunder. As a service to the rafting community I explained to our American guides what the word "chunder" actually means. For non-Australian readers, it means "vomit." Our guides were surprised and quite pleased by this piece of information. "Oh," said Kyle. "That makes sense."

Of course, it wasn't all drama and pounding foam. There were plenty of smooth ponds where golden dragonflies swirled all around us and birds loitered in the grass. We paddled through the peace of an uninhabited canyon, savouring the simple physical joy of working in harmony. The synchronised rhythm of our bodies, the rich yellow light and the constant presence of the river in all its moods were hypnotic and euphoric.

A great highlight was a pause that came after several hours of paddling, when the guides took over paddling the rafts while we had a little break. By that stage we were all craving lunch in the way that only energetic people who are unused to serious physical labour ever can. When Kyle announced that lunch was still over an hour away and handed out chocolate bars, I know we were all devastated. Then the most amazing thing happened: I bit into my Snickers bar. It was so good I don't even know how to describe it. It was like a Snickers from heaven, sent as a blessing to reignite the divine spark of the human spirit. It was so good that when I dropped a speck of chocolate onto the raft, I discretely picked it up again and ate it. Trust me when I tell you that Snickers really, really satisfies.

We did eventually stop for lunch, giving me and Marcus a chance to demonstrate the wonder of the everything sandwich to a new audience. There were a few glitches. For one, there was quite a bit of poison oak in the vicinity, although I didn't encounter any personally. Dave also discovered that whoever packed our lunch had neglected to include cups. Here is K, a member of our team, demonstrating the "drink like a gerbil" workaround.

One opportunity for excitement that Darren mentioned over dinner last night was the so-called "leap of faith." There is one waterfall on the Middle Fork that is too scary and dangerous for commercial rafting trips or people who have brains. Ruck-a-Chucky Falls is a Class VI rapid and compulsory portage. While we traipsed around the falls on foot, the guides pushed the rafts over the waterfall and retrieved them again at the bottom. As Darren explained it to us, sometimes the rafts get stuck and one of the guides has to jump into the bottom of the waterfall to retrieve them. This was our lucky day, and our lucky guide.

If you look closely you will see our, now beloved, Kyle standing on the big rock to the right of the image. You will also see the boat stuck up against a rock towards the centre of the shot. Our crew watched with a certain amount of mingled fear and pride as Kyle clambered up onto that rock. For moral support we gave him a rousing "Baby 'cos I'm a THUG!" chant. He launched into a dramatic swan dive across the vicious water in that little channel and hauled himself up on to the rock next to the raft. What he did next is typical Kyle. He took out his waterproof digital camera and photographed himself with the falls behind him. What a character!

After several more rapids, and another game of dink, we made it to the end of our second day on the whitewater. Tired and bruised, but giddily elated, Marcus and I vowed to repeat the experience as soon as possible ... perhaps next weekend? We spend an inordinate amount of time congratulating ourselves for having not fallen out of the raft and generally bragging about how great our team was. Kyle, who had struck me as a bit of a nob at the outset, was now positively exalted in my regard. When we parted, I hugged him with huge and genuine affection and absolutely no fear of farts.

Whitewater - Day 1

Most readers of this blog know me, at least to some extent. You know that I like to try new things, go new places, meet new people and have exciting new adventures. You also know that I've been doing all those things lately and so am probably not easily impressed. Having said that, let me tell you that whitewater rafting is cool. It's really, really cool. I am so hooked that I'm already planning how I will make space in my busy life to get back out there on some chilly, fast moving water.

Marcus and I were both Whitewater virgins and nervous as well as excited. The key to a good first rafting experience is having a good guide. We rafted with a company called All Outdoors and were lucky enough to have a very skilled and charming guide for our first paddle.

This is Darren, our guide. He is a lovely fellow for whom whitewater rafting is a way to see the world before he settles down and gets a proper job with his formal qualifications in Economics and Spanish language. He's obviously a clever guy, but it's hard to imagine him in a suit and tie. He'll always be all outdoors to me.

Whitewater rafting on the South Fork of the American River is mostly peaceful paddling on quiet water, interspersed with dramatic bursts of vigorous activity and rushing water. The leg of the river that we travelled was a combination of Class II and III rapids, an appropriate starting point for active beginners. From the Wikipedia entry:

"Class 2: Some rough water, maybe some rocks, small drops, might require maneuvering. (Skill Level: Basic Paddling Skill)
Class 3: Whitewater, medium waves, maybe a 3-5 ft drop, but not much considerable danger. May require significant maneuvering. (Skill Level: Experienced paddling skills)."

We were inexperienced, but game, so when Darren asked for volunteers to sit up front and take the big waves we were quick to raise our hands. That's us at the pointy end of the raft. Obviously, we're getting quite wet. Not so obviously, we were also getting extremely cold. It was a long time before I could feel all my toes again. It was, however, totally worth it. I have more toes than I really need anyway.

Does it look like we're having fun? We were both doing the traditional smiley pose for this shot on the raft when one of our crew members suggested that we make scared faces, as if a giant wave was coming towards us. Apparently Marcus was a little slower to express fake terror. I guess he didn't have a chance to workshop his motivation. I love this picture.

Darren took extremely good care of us both on the raft and off. He even taught us how to make an "everything sandwich," including salad, vegetables, condiments, spreads and even cookies as filling on one fat and impractical sandwich. I watched in amazement as he constructed this lunch monster and he generously offered me a bite. I accepted, despite the obvious logistical difficulties. I somehow managed to mash part of it into my mouth, and a lot more of it onto my face. That taste was sufficiently delicious that I immediately started constructing an "everything sandwich" of my own. Marcus had one too.

At lunch we said goodbye to one of our crew who had taken a little tumble overboard about an hour before we stopped for lunch. He thought perhaps he'd bruised a couple of ribs and didn't want to paddle for the rest of the afternoon. His wife decided to paddle on and come back to pick him up later.

The afternoon stretch was more peaceful. We even swam a little in the icy water. We also played "dink," a game in which we all had a chance to guide the raft, with varying degrees of success. The snoozing birds in the photo above were just too tempting. Darren, with my encouragement, slapped his paddle flat on the water to startle them with a resounding smack. The result was profoundly disappointing. They all opened their eyes, looked around for about a second, then went straight back to sleep.

We hauled the raft out of the water at our campsite about six hours after we put in several miles up the river. I was tired, shivering, bruised and totally addicted. The other young couple jumped in their car and disappeared while Darren and the other woman went off to pick up the casualty of water whom we had abandoned at lunchtime. None of us were too worried about the guy. After all, he'd fallen out in a quiet stretch of water and he'd paddled for another hour after we hauled him back in. We figured he was just being a wimp. Darren would return to cook us dinner later in an hour or so. This trip is a full service experience and our guide was a combination of teacher, bodyguard, slave and best friend for almost 24 hours.

When Darren returned he really was our private slave, because Marcus and I were the only two survivors of our six person crew. Turns out the guy who had fallen out of the raft wasn't a wimp, he was a superhero. He had cracked four ribs and had fluid starting to build up in his lungs. He was definitely out of action and his wife was driving him home. Ooops.

They missed out on a great dinner. Darren is a master of outdoor cooking and he takes pride in both the product and the presentation. I was particularly impressed by his dutch oven brownies, cooked perfectly by the careful placement of hot coals in a precise star formation below and above the oven. I wish I'd taken notes. That brownie and glass of milk was one of the highlights of an already brilliant day.

While we ate our brownies and drank our milk, Darren set up a slide show of the professional photos taken from an outpost near one of the rapids. It was a lovely way to end the day. It was also a valuable lesson in the importance of taking the laptop everywhere. When we briefly ducked over to the photograph company down the road to order a couple of prints Darren asked us to drop back the camera memory chips from which he had put on the slide show. If I'd had my laptop we could have copied all the pics and not just the ones we decided to buy. Oh well, I'll always have the memories, and the lingering taste of Darren's outdoor brownie magic.

Wherever you are Darren, I hope you're getting some great rapids. You're the best. Look me up when you make it to Sydney, when it will be my turn to slice up fruit for your breakfast.

Don't hit the deer

Having sworn to rest for a while before heading out on my next adventure, I immediately left for a two day whitewater rafting trip with Marcus. We headed up on Friday night to camp at the launch point on the South Fork of the American River, east of Sacramento. We had our new tent and some other camping goodies that we were eager to try out but had never assembled. Marcus had printed out a Google map to direct us to the location. We were all set.

Alas the Google maps turned out to be confusingly unrelated to the actual roads and we were forced to ask for directions. The woman at the inn where we sought guidance immediately recognised our difficulty. "Oh yeah, Google maps are useless out here." Who knew that could happen? By the time we finally found the campsite and managed to erect our unfamiliar tent by torchlight (flashlight) it was very late and quite cold and we still hadn't eaten anything. Still, that wasn't the worst of it.

Marcus was driving because I flatly refused to get behind the wheel of a car again until I had recovered from having just driven half way around the continent. It was dark, the roads were narrow and this is Bambi country. I felt marginally better as a passenger than I did as the driver in such conditions, but not by much. It turned out to be just as well because at one point, when Marcus was fiddling with the radio, a deer trotted out into his path.

I snapped my arm up to point at the deer. Then something strange happened. Usually time seems to slow down when a crisis strikes. On this occasion time sped up so that my voice sounded like it had been recorded at 78 and replayed at 45. For anyone too young to understand this LP reference, it means my voice slowed down and dropped in pitch, now isn't it past your bedtime? My nervous system had apparently exhausted its rapid response capacity with the prompt pointing and it took at least four hours to get out the words "Doooon't hiiit the deeeeeeeer."

Marcus swerved around the deer. Then he started laughing at me. I imagine he will stop laughing in about 50 years, or when it all gets too much and I kill him by not pointing out any more deer on the road. Several more deer jumped out at us later and I gradually managed to upgrade my verbal warning response time from days to milliseconds, from "Doooon't hiiit the deeeeeeeer" to "BAMBI!" See, I told you I'd been scarred by hitting that deer in Montana.

The Mark Twain Trail to Journey's End

I resumed my Mark Twain spotting activities on Highway 49 as I travelled through Angel's Camp and Calaveras County, of Jumping Frog Fame.

Calaveras County loves Mark Twain. Every year they hold a jumping frog race and there are a number of local landmarks that pay homage to one of America's favourite sons. Frogtown road is one of my favourites, but there are plenty more. There are many statues, paintings, murals and souvenirs of frogs, plus the Jumping Frog Motel, Frogtown USA RV Camp, and Froggy's Auto Wash. There is also replica of Mark Twain's cabin, where he lived with friends for three months between 1864 and 1865 after having unsuccessfully trying his hand at gold mining.

The original cabin burned down (fire was something of a recurring theme of his time here) but was rebuilt using the original chimney and fireplace. It is of particular interest to the serious Twainophile because, as they say, "This is where it really started." Twain had been a lousy newspaper editor and an even worse newspaper reporter. He had even been a seriously underemployed magazine freelancer. He had written stuff before. It was Jim Smiley and his Jumping Frog, written with pencils in this cabin that launched the career of an American literary giant.

The cabin is on Jackass Hill, which was not named by a young Mark Twain, but certainly could have been. There is a Jackass there to this day. It was in this part of the world that Mr Twain had many of the experiences which later fed into not only The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, which first brought him fame, but also for Roughing It, which I have always loved.

Heading further south into Yosemite National Park, the Cream Puff and I traversed the highly elevated and highly memorable Ebbett's Pass on Scenic Highway 4. It is a high, narrow, winding and thrilling ride with fabulous views from a number of points along the way. If you ever attempt this journey for yourself please remember to set out with a full fuel tank so you don't have to worry like I did about how far you are from the next gas station. Just so you know, it is a long way. It is a great road and one of the first things I said to my speed happy Daddy upon my return was that he really ought to go and drive Ebbett's Pass as soon as possible.

As I approached the North Entrance to Yosemite National Park I paused to take these photographs. I was still feeling hurt by missing out on Lake Tahoe, obviously. Note the yellow grassy hills and the scrubby foliage. This is California. The Beach Boys only reported on a narrow strip of coastline. The rest is dust and dry grass.

Oh yes, and big roads.

Getting back to Fresno was both a relief (I made it!) and a sadness (it's over). It had been an extraordinary adventure, filled with extraordinary people and experiences, but it required an extraordinary effort as well. How nice to rest for a while, sleep in the same bed every night and hang out with family and friends until the next journey begins.

Invisible Lake Tahoe

I decided to return to Fresno by skirting the western shore of the famous Lake Tahoe. The lake is famous for the unusual clarity of its water and the impressive panorama of surrounding mountains. It was the long way back to Fresno, but I anticipated a beautiful drive. I was wrong.

When Mark Twain was in this area he accidentally started a forest fire. It would appear that someone else recently did the same, possibly in tribute, so that when I drove around Lake Tahoe the entire basin was filled with thick smoke. I couldn't even see the water. I could, however, see the cars of the zillion other people who were also trying to see Lake Tahoe. They were hard to miss, particularly since they were all driving incredibly slowly and badly in the hope of catching a glimpse of something scenic. They were disappointed, and so was I.

Driving in a convoy of Americans is frustrating at the best of times and, at the worst of times, can drive you completely insane. They seem to have some kind of national phobia about corners so that they will drive quickly on the straights and then drop to a crawl even for gentle, sweeping bends. It drives me nuts because I end up stuck behind people who are willing to bend the law further than I am to speed away on the straights, but for whom I am forever braking again when we get to a corner. I can never get around them because they burn away from the corners in reckless disregard for the law, but they're actually slowing me down quite a bit over all. You people love your cars more than any other nation in the world, would you please learn how to drive them? Or, just a suggestion, import cars that handle well and stop driving great big trucks and clumsy oversized sedans.

For me the words "Lake Tahoe" will no longer be associated with pleasant thoughts of boating and ski resorts, but with smoke inhalation and the vivid reminder that the people of California are, on average, terrible drivers.

The Biggest Little City in the World

Reno is a fun town, by which I mean that I had fun there. I had a lot more fun than I had expected. Since I don't drink, smoke or gamble, I had foolishly assumed that I wouldn't find much to interest me in Reno. After all, the words "Reno" and "casino" have much closer links than the fact that they rhyme. Regardless of my unfounded preconceptions, my one night in Reno turned out to be a highlight of the whole journey.

Reno is actually quite a cute little casino town. It has bright lights and shows and excitement, but on a comfortably human scale. The biggest little city in the world is a good description.

Based on my net surfing in a Nevada Internet Cafe I had decided to go to the Catch a Rising Star Comedy Club at the Silver Legacy Casino. When I called the casino to book a ticket, the woman on the phone asked me if I wanted to do the show and dinner combo. "Quite possibly. Tell me more," I said.

The nice woman explained that I could purchase one of three packages that included dinner in the basic restaurant, at the buffet, or in the premium restaurant. The premium dinner option was $35 and included a $20 credit on my meal and my $19 ticket to the show. Sounds like a deal to me!

The check-in process at my accommodation turned out to be rather complicated by a receptionist with a head cold and an escapee cat. By the time I made it to the casino there wasn't a lot of time left for the leisurely dinner I'd decided to shout myself. I told the Matire d' that I was in a bit of a rush and the crew devoted themselves to the task of feeding me in record time. Every staff member who touched my experience was a credit to his profession. The meal was not only quick, but delicious and well presented too.

"It almost seems a shame to eat something so beautiful." I said to Robert, my waiter.

"Oh no," he said. "Oh no it isn't."

After my high speed dinner I sprinted back downstairs to the comedy club and took my seat. The warm up act was already on stage. He's an affable white guy of indeterminate middle age who did a light-hearted, funny musical set. When I walked in he was playing the piano and singing. By the time I sat down he was playing the saxophone. Then he picked up a trumpet and transformed himself in Louis Armstrong, complete with gravelly vocals and big white hanky. Then he did a trombone number. Then the guitar. Finally the fiddle. Once he had exhausted his supply of instruments he introduced the first comic.

I had never heard of Jorjeana Marie, but she did a competent set of semi-autobiographical humour: "The thing with older men is that I might not always get the wedding ring, but I get an allowance." There was one very strange moment when a guy sitting near me told her that he was in the military and got a round of applause. It seems very odd to me that a particular occupation, especially that one, should be singled out for special praise during a comedy show.

The headliner is somewhat famous here from his roles in sitcoms that I have never watched. Tim O'Rourke was a lot of fun, although typical of a distinctively harsh style of comedy. You can see a brief teaser his act here. My favourite line was one of the most innocuous. He did a nice little riff about airline security taking your toothpaste: "Doesn't it scare you that this shit blows up?"

It was a fun night, with lots of good laughs. Steve the warm up act was the highlight for me and I went up to the stage to shake his hand on my way out. We chatted for a minute or two before I left him to his other admirers. During that brief exchange he said something startling:

"You look like you must be somebody. Who are you?"

It looks like a "line" in black and white, but it didn't feel like one. It felt like a genuine question and I found myself without a satisfactory answer. Ever since that moment I've been trying to figure out who I am so that I can go back and tell Steve.

Unscenic Drive

The trip from Salt Lake City, Utah to Reno, Nevada is among the least scenic stretches of road I encountered on this journey. Having just spent a few weeks surrounded by the relentless splendour of Colorado and Southern Utah, this outbreak of ugliness and tedium was all the more difficult to endure.

The road skirts around the white, crusty edges of the Great Salt Lake, which was interesting for about 30 seconds. Then the endless expanse of salt residue started to get a little tedious. I amused myself by fantasising about giving the Cream Puff a workout on the flat salt plain, but fear of runaway corrosion took all the fun out of the daydream. I have never seen as many cars made entirely out of rust as in the states where frozen roads are salted in winter. I couldn't knowingly inflict such a fate on the Cream Puff.

For several hundred miles I travelled along a highway called "Dust Hazard," or at least that's what the signs said. At some point I entered Nevada. Either nobody bothered to erect a sign at the border or my brain was too numb to notice.

The one pleasant break in an otherwise thoroughly unpleasant afternoon was my stop at a perfectly charming Internet cafe for a snack and a smoothie. It was a family owned type of establishment and I was the only customer for the entire forty minutes or so that I was there. Nevertheless the atmosphere was good. The owners are obviously obsessed with Italian motorcycles because there are Ducati and Moto Guzzi posters all over the walls. I sat on a comfortable lounge chair, nibbling on a giant cookie, drinking my smoothie and desperately searching the Internet for a place to stay and something interesting to do when I reached the end of this drive. I share credit for all the fun I had in Reno with that little Internet cafe somewhere in Nevada.

Temple Town

Salt Lake City is truly a temple town. It was, after all, founded by Mormon pioneers in 1847 under the leadership of their prophet, Brigham Young. The headquarters of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is still located in Salt Lake City.

In Salt Lake City, even the roads are named in relationship to the temple. In the centre of town is the walled, ten acre Temple Square complex that contains Salt Lake Temple, Salt Lake Tabernacle, Salt Lake Assembly Hall, the Seagull Monument and two visitors' centers. In either of the two visitors' centres you can see displays of religious art and "historical" displays, as well as information about the modern day good works of the church. You can also climb aboard a guided tour led by two missionaries who have been posted here from somewhere in the world. The tour is approximately equal parts history and propaganda, but is well worth doing just for the experience.



The Salt Lake Temple was begun in 1853, that's just six years after they arrived and before all the pioneers had proper housing. The temple was dedicated in 1893. This is the great Mormon landmark that is instantly recognisable to church members all over the world. Elder Weinberger once told me that to enter this temple brings great blessings, eagerly sought by the faithful.

The Tabernacle is the home of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and the Orchestra at Temple Square. Normally visitors are allowed inside to look around and listen to the choir rehearse, but on the day I visited it was closed for recording. My missionary guides informed me that the building's distinctive, acoustically beneficial, oval shape was given in a vision from God to the prophet Brigham Young. I consider it possible that an educated man like Brigham Young may have had a brush with the ancient science of acoustic architecture, but this didn't seem like the right moment to debate the idea.



The Salt Lake Assembly Hall looks from the outside like a Victorian Gothic cathedral. On the inside it is much more plain, without vaulted ceilings or Gothic style ornamentation. What little bling there is in the hall is fake. The "marble" and furnishings are actually plain local timber, painstakingly hand-painted to resemble more valuable and desirable materials.



The so-called Beehive House was the residence of Brigham Young. The beehive concept represents industry, a strong theme in the Mormon Church and in Young's personal philosophy. There is even a Beehive sculpture on the roof of the house. It was constructed of adobe and sandstone in 1854 and is now a restored house-museum filled with Brigham Young artifacts. Two years later the adjacent Lion House was constructed to house Young's enormous family. A man with 51 wives is going to need a lot of space. The Lion House was constructed to house just 12 of these wives and their children and became Young's primary residence. It is now a tea room.

The only mention of Brigham Young's extraordinary polygamy was made in the negative, when the missionary guide explained as we climbed the stairs that polygamy is no longer sanctioned by the Mormon Church. Only one wife was mentioned on the tour and she was presented as the mistress of the Beehive House. No mention was made of the purpose of the Lion House, except that it was to provide more accommodation for the large family (12 more wives and their children).

I also met an Aussie at the Beehive House. She is a missionary posted to Salt Lake City. This was notable only for the thrill I felt at having someone ask me how I was "going" instead of how I was "doing."



Despite the burdens of his church and public offices, and his enormous family, Brigham Young still found time to exercise his many talents. Industry really was important to him. He was, among other things, a skilled carpenter who built the clock-barometer still displayed in the Beehive House.



The modern needs of the church are also visible in this area, including the giant Conference Centre now used for its massive events.

Everyone I met in Temple Square was working for the church. They were perfectly friendly and pleasant at all times. They were welcoming, warm and tremendously helpful. I was terrified of every single one of them. It was an interesting sensation. It seems that all my rationality is not enough to protect me from the superstitious dread of contamination by proximity to irrationality. The proposition is an illogical and unshakable manifestation of exactly the kind of magical thinking that makes me so nervous in devoutly religious people. Perhaps I had good reason to fear after all.

My Salt Lake City past and present

My generosity of spirit towards Utah's Capital was restored by the warmth and charm of the crowd at the Salt Lake City hostel and Jeffrey, the Papuan cancer researcher. I woke feeling quite chipper, despite the short night's sleep and my surreal encounter with "The Voice." I bounced out of the hostel, filled with enthusiasm for the joys of Salt Lake City.

I piloted the Cream Puff past the State Capitol building, which was under heavy construction and looked terrible. I was unfazed. Sunlight bathed the city like the glow from God's cozy fireplace. Trees rustled in the gentle breeze. Birds sang. A warning light fired up the dashboard: "Check brake light." Why does this city hate me so?

I pulled over and asked a very nice young couple who were loading their baby into a stroller if they would mind peering at the back of the Cream Puff while I pressed on various light-triggering pedals and buttons. They cheerfully agreed and the nice young man helpfully reported that my drivers' side brake light was indeed out of action. I thanked them with a peculiar combination of genuine gratitude, abject misery and paranoid fear that the city might have it in for me. They were such model citizens, he in a suit and tie, she in sensible skirt and shoes, and their baby smiling perfectly out of the stroller like a tiny future spelling bee champion. They were just so neat and wholesome and shiny. Clearly Salt Lake City is much better to its own than it is to its guests.

I couldn't stay bitter for too long. The shiny couple reminded me of a Salt Lake City connection from my past. I met Elder Weinberger when he, and a fellow Mormon missionary, knocked on my front door. For reasons that were not clear to me then and are even less clear now, I decided to talk to these nice, shiny young men. Elder Weinberger returned to my home several times, with a variety of other missionaries, in an effort to educate me about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Ultimately, of course, he was trying to persuade me to join the church. I was curious about the famous "Mormon" faith, about which I knew almost nothing and, I confess, I was curious about Elder Weinberger. Here was a perfectly delightful young man: a bright, intelligent, funny, charming ... Mormon missionary. I wanted to understand him. He wanted to save me. Somehow we became friends, and somehow that brief friendship atoned for the wounds that this city inflicted upon me.

It's very difficult to maintain a friendship with a Mormon missionary, especially after they go home. They're not allowed to share personal information like contact details. If anyone out there knows a Steven Weinberger, originally from Salt Lake City but later in California, who was on a mission in south western Sydney several years ago, I would love to hear from him.

In the name of Weinberger, I turned the other cheek and set out with my asymmetrical brake lights to greet the city, and Temple Square, as an old friend.

Salt Lake Shitty

So far my journey has been filled with warm, friendly people, behaving in generous and welcoming ways. Even when things have gone wrong along the way, road trip angels have helped me. The first serious wound to my positive experience came in Salt Lake City.

I arrived at about 9:45 pm after a spookily fast drive in 6 lanes of bumper to bumper traffic, through extensive roadworks. In the road work zone the posted speed limit was 55 miles per hour. The traffic speed was over 80 miles per hour. It was a nervous drive. It occurred to me as I was negotiating such heavy traffic at such I speed that I have been in the USA for a long time. This would have seemed very strange to me just a few months ago.

Thelma and I had some trouble finding the guest house where I had booked a room, so I called the reservation number. The young man I spoke with explained that he doesn't drive and couldn't give me directions. I struggled on until I finally found the location, then went inside to complete the online late registration process on the computer in the lounge. I typed in my confirmation number and it was rejected. I opened the original confirmation email, then copied and pasted it into the window. It was rejected again.

I called the reservation number again. The young man asked a series of obvious questions like "Do you have a reservation?" and "Is it for tonight?" I offered to forward him my confirmation email. He eventually told me that he could send a text message to the owner of the property and wait for a response and that I should call back in ten minutes. He also told me that if he hadn't heard back from the owner by then that I would have to leave the property because I was trespassing.

I said that being thrown out of accommodations where I have a reservation late at night in a strange city was really not an option and that I would call back in ten minutes. Ten minutes later the young man had not heard from the owner. He offered me five more minutes before I had to vacate the property where I had already booked a room with my credit card. I explained that was really not good enough and while I understood that it wasn't his fault, he was the only person to whom I could complain. I told him that I had already paid for a bed. He said the fee would be refunded. I told him that the room I had booked was going to cost me $23 and that anything else I could find on such short notice and this late was likely to be closer to $100. How was I going to be compensated for that loss suffered because of their error? He suggested that I could try asking the owner and maybe he would refund it. I said "Yeah, maybe if I sue him for it. I'll call back in five minutes."

I used that five minutes to find and call another nearby hostel on the Internet. They were still open, and had a dorm bed available. Excellent! It wasn't quite as nice as a private room in a guest house, but much better than my other options.

Five minutes later I called the reservations number again and the phone was answered by someone else. I introduced myself and the voice said "Are you the Australian?"

"Well, I'm an Australian."
"The Australian that threatened my concierge?"
"I didn't threaten anyone."
"You threatened to sue us."
"That wasn't a threat."

The voice then launched into a tirade about what he will do to anyone who threatens his staff, including having the police come and cart me away in handcuffs or coming down to take care of me personally. Before I managed to get another word in the voice said "You wait right there. I'll be down there to sort this out."

Hmm. My choices were getting limited at this point. I could wait for psycho voice to come down, see that I have a reservation and am really a nice girl and let me into my room. Or I could cut my losses and take the dorm room across town. I decided to wait. I was tired and still believed that the forces of sanity would prevail.

I had also made a friend. A long term resident of the guest house was wandering around the kitchen and stopped to chat with me while I waited for "The Voice."He is a graduate student at the university who is originally from Papua New Guinea. We talked about the time I spent there in my teens, and he told me that I wouldn't be the first person with a reservation who was summarily dumped out on the street from this guest house. We had plenty of time to talk because over half an hour went by before my phone rang again. It was The Voice.

"Where are you right now?"
"I'm waiting for you."
"I've decided I don't want you on the property. You're trespassing and I don't want you there."
"I wish you'd told me that before you told me to wait and I sat here for half an hour."
"Are you still in the property?"
"Yes, I'm waiting in the lounge with another guest."
"Is it the African man?"
"He's from Papua New Guinea. His name is Jeffrey."
"Put him on the phone."
I did. Jeffrey said "Yes" twice and then gave the phone back.
"Okay. You wait right there and I'm coming over."
"Well, I'm not going to wait all night. How long are you going to be?"
"Five minutes."
"Okay."

I chilled with Jeffrey until The Voice arrived. He spoke with Jeffrey for a moment in the kitchen, then asked me to speak with him outside. He demanded to know if any of my belongings were in the building. I said they were not. He wanted to see my car. I pointed it out to him, parked in spot number 12 exactly according to the instructions. He said that there was a problem with my reservation and he was going to fix it, but now he wouldn't because I threatened his concierge. I tried to explain. He drowned me out.

"You don't have my permission to be here. You're trespassing. You're banned from all my properties. If you ever try to stay in any of them again I'll call the police."

I was now banned from staying in any building owned by "The Voice." I couldn't help it. I laughed. His expression as I drove away made me laugh even harder. Poor little guy. It can't be easy being him every day.

As I was driving away to the hostel across town my phone rang again. It was Jeffrey, wanting to know if I had a place to stay. I explained that it was all okay and thanked him for his concern.

Actually, it all turned out for the best. The hostel was packed to the rafters with interesting characters, with whom I sat up talking for much of the night. Plus, I ended up with this fabulous story to tell about being banned for life by "The Voice."

Utah - the rest of Hwy 12

The rest of the drive north on Highway 12 was similarly spectacular.

Perhaps I'd been in these fabulous landscapes for too long and begun to take them for granted, because I barely braved the steady rain to take photographs. I just admired the views from the Cream Puff as we meandered along the weaving road, over narrow bluffs and up and down across the treeline.

The smooth, rounded surfaces of the rock formations are alien and somehow hypnotic. The road skirts over and around these huge stone mountains.

Every side road leads to more amazing views. Every section of the road has its own charm. I watched it go by through the car windows, like watching it on television. A return trip to Utah and Colorado is definitely required.