It amazes me that seabirds can find comfort in daunting places. Below an overlook somewhere south of Cape Perpetua on the Oregon coast, I saw this gull resting on a rocky ledge high above crashing waves, not bothered by a stiff wind ruffling its feathers nor a loud colony of sea lions barking from the beach below.
I kept my eyes open throughout Death Valley for signs of wildflowers. It was one reason why we wanted to visit. Last year, the national park experienced a superbloom that happens once in a blue moon because of specific environmental conditions. It’s not enough that California got literally drenched this January and February, a record downpour that broke a years-long drought, certainly grounds for optimism. A park ranger told me that a good rain in October is a prerequisite for a great flower display. One that happened in October 2015 led to the superbloom of 2016, only rivaled before then in 2005. It didn’t happen this year. Flowers were barely to be seen anywhere. Big disappointment, to say the least, but of course Death Valley has much more to offer than flowers.
Meanwhile, the internet was abuzz with reports that Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, located northeast of San Diego near the Mexican border, was in fact experiencing a superbloom unrivalled in years. DesertUSA, which reports on Southwest wildflower displays, gave Anza-Borrego an almost perfect ’10’ rating, while Death Valley managed only a ‘4’ during the same time. That pretty much settled it. I saw this as an opportunity not to be passed up. My wife and I decided to make an unplanned visit, with an overnight stay in Borrego Springs (which I was very lucky to get as there were no other vacancies anywhere).
We weren’t let down this time. The timing couldn’t have been better; the flowers were barely beginning to fade.
We entered the park through Montezuma Valley Road (S22) on the west side. Intending to go to the visitor center, I made a wrong turn onto Hwy 78 toward Tamarisk Grove Campground when we came across hillsides covered in brilliant yellow brittlebush, hummingbird bush, ocotillo and a few less conspicuous. The moment was breathtaking, as it was for other passersby who likewise gawked.
A fellow visitor informed us that a herd of bighorn sheep was seen at the ranger station down the road. It was pointless to jump in the car; the animals would have long been gone by the time we got there.
We continued on Hwy 78. Across from the campground, we spotted some flowering cacti, parked the car and hiked the mile-long cactus loop trail. While the peak flowering month for the spiny plants is April, there was already plenty to see then (March 23).
A crowd was already overwhelming the visitor center, even on a weekday. I read that the past weekend was much worse with bumper-to-bumper traffic. Word got out that Anza-Borrego was exploding with flowers. A volunteer was handing out a map that identified the best spots for wildflower-viewing. At the rear of the building, a garden with walking paths had many specimens. I wish I’d spent more time there.
In the valley surrounding Borrego Springs, different flowers were popping up along the roadsides. In normal years, these would be easy to overlook but this year their abundance was hard to ignore: evening primroses, sand verbenas, lupines and desert sunflowers.
The field of desert sunflowers along Henderson Canyon Road, in particular, was unusual in another respect: they were crawling with sphinx moth caterpillars in such numbers that I had to be careful where I stepped. These weren’t little critters either, but big, fat ones, easily 3-4″ long.
Our final outing was a hike up into the hills of Palm Canyon where the concentration of brittlebush was as plentiful as the first encounter along Hwy 78. The hills were awash in yellow, with excellent specimens of ocotillo, agave and cacti for variety. The ocotillo here were more richly tipped with their red flowers than elsewhere in the park.
As harsh as the Mojave Desert can be, there is a rich life of plants and animals. It takes the right conditions to see them. Once in a long while, I get lucky and catch a rare glimpse of something special like a wildflower superbloom that I may never experience again.
From a distance, it could be mistaken for snow, a vast, flat valley of blinding whiteness. Except the temperature is 100o F (38o C). And it’s Death Valley. The field is instead a salt flat so big that from the middle of Badwater Basin, it seems to stretch to infinity, if it weren’t for the abrupt Panamint Mountains jutting up that even so are miles away to the west.
At Badwater Basin, my wife and I walked a mile onto the flat, wanting to stand at the lowest point in the continental U.S. (at 282 feet below sea level), as did many other visitors, but there was no obvious signpost or marker. The ground looks to be a mixture of mud, sand and nearly pure table salt (sodium chloride). With no defined path, everyone spread out like an alluvial fan onto the expanse. Hundreds of us were scattered to the four winds. My wife and I never did find the official ‘spot’ (identified by a pile of rocks, according to a ranger I spoke to later at the visitor center), so instead we marveled at the vastness of the surroundings. We gazed at snow-capped Telescope Peak which towers in the distance at over 11,000ft, the highest point in the national park.
Badwater Basin is an endorheic basin, meaning that the waters that do collect here from periodic rains don’t drain to any sea or ocean. Like many land-locked basins in the desert, it just dries up. And whatever salt was trapped here from ancient seas or minerals drained from surrounding mountains just concentrate from evaporation. The drainage system of Death Valley is incredulously the size of New Hampshire.
Close to the ‘trailhead,’ there were salt crusts with raised ridges hexagonal in shape, proving once again that nature, despite apparent randomness, has a tendency toward organization, toward pattern.
The Death Valley floor tilts slightly. While Badwater is at the lowest part, just to the north is another marvel, an enormous field of ‘rocks’ made of crystallized salt. At Devil’s Golf Course, several feet above Badwater and relatively dry, the salt through capillary action and weathering forms complex shapes of jagged, rock-like hardness that would seriously injure anyone unfortunate enough to slip and fall on them. It’s takes a lot of caution and mindfulness to walk on them.
The question naturally comes up if anything can live in this hyper-salinity. I visited Salt Creek in hopes of seeing pupfish that can exist in water four times saltier than the ocean and searing temperatures. I wasn’t disappointed. From the boardwalk, they darted in the water so fast that it was nearly impossible to take pictures. Finally, there were spots where they seemed less ‘frantic.’
Pickleweed and salt grass tolerate a surprising amount of salt, each having evolved in unique ways to adapt. Arrowweed tolerates some salt and grow most prolifically in an area called Devil’s Cornfield near Stovepipe Wells. The name apparently comes from the plants’ appearance as sheaves of corn bundled together as in the olden days.
One of the best ways to appreciate the salt valley’s size is from a high vantage point. Dante’s View atop the Black Mountains is likely the most spectacular. I was able to see a good portion of the valley from the parking lot, but a foot path toward the south revealed even more.
Death Valley isn’t the only salt valley in the national park. As if to emphasize the park’s huge size, it took a good 11⁄2 hours to exit the park from Furnace Creek through Panamint Springs. The road goes over the Panamint Range and across the Panamint Valley, which is yet another vast salt flat. I could see the salt pan on either side of Highway 190 that cuts across it.
Part of the thrill of walking on the intertidal lava rocks near Cape Perpetua in Oregon is to watch the seething currents offshore. If I stood too close to shore’s edge, a sneaker wave could easily claim me victim. Yet, there are sheltered tidepools that are a remarkable contrast to the chaos nearby.
Devil’s Churn is a narrow channel that opened up when a lava tube collapsed ages ago. Now, waves go barreling down the chasm and can build enough energy to create monster spouts that can and have claimed the lives of unwary victims.
Driving on my current roadtrip, I was hard-pressed not to stare at the explosions of color on the southern and central California hillsides. Not only were the hills an uncharacteristic green, but they were carpeted with mostly yellow wildflowers, some of them so densely packed and widespread that the effect was immediately mesmerizing. The recent historic rains over California made this spectacle possible.
It was just to take a quick look at Pismo Beach State Park in California. My wife and I wound up hanging around for almost two hours, enjoying the ride in our Jeep rental onto the sandy beach to watch the pounding surf. Then, we noticed what we first thought were sandpipers but were instead whimbrels. If you’re like me, I’ve never heard of them before. Also wading in the water was a snowy egret and little birds (snowy plovers) with a high ‘aww’ factor, especially a group of them that ran back and forth in lock step near tide’s edge.
They were everywhere, the caterpillars of the white-lined Sphinx moth, in a field of wildflowers at Anza-Borrego Desert State Park in southern California. I saw one, then noticed more—and more. Some plants had as many as four chomping away at their flowers. What seemed like different species of bug turns out to be the same, Hyles lineata. Their population seems to skyrocket when there is a corresponding explosion of flowers—a ‘superbloom’—like there was this year, one of the rare spectacles that my wife and I got to experience.