Good morning, Badwater

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Few things take as much courage as leaving a warm bed in winter. Still, this morning in the frozen desert needed something a little more brash than courage; it demanded foolishness. If we were to see the sun rise over Badwater, I’d have to leave this last bastion of warmth. My sleeping bag was the only reason I could feel my toes.

Small puffs of breath penetrated the tent’s twilight. Some condensation woke me before my alarm. I knew I wasn’t going back to sleep, and I was far from ready to wake up — a common, unloved paradox. Even after my phone enthusiastically blared to life, my friend and I agreed to wait ten more minutes before a frenzied dash to our frozen car.

Normally, I’d take these minutes to warm my jeans in my sleeping bag, but, after sitting on the frosty floor all night, they had amalgamated into a pair of denim popsicles I wanted nowhere near me. But my Merino long johns were on, and those wooly sons of bitches were going to prove their worth.

We were in Stovepipe Wells, resting in the middle of Death Valley. Here, on moonless nights, the pitch blackness is betrayed only by the brilliant dazzle of the Milky Way, and the surrounding mountains just barely manage to frame the vast sky. Stovepipe is also a large, rocky parking lot, and on this weekend between Christmas and New Years’ it was packed.

Yet, we were the only ones stirring, cursing our way to the car, numbly fumbling with the keys to turn on the heater. The little rental was colder than the tent. For a brief moment, I worried that waiting for the ice to melt off the windshield would compound upon our greedily taken ten extra minutes, making us late for sunup. I’ve got a horrible habit of running late.

So, once we passed by our resting neighbors, I gunned it. We sped across the Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes. During the day, these legendary dunes are overrated. I’m usually enamored with the sprawling sublimity of a rolling wasteland, but Mesquite Flat, when chock-full of visitors, feels less like a haunting expanse and more like a glorified litter box — a litter box with a separate bathroom and a very long line.

But with some tunes wafting through the speakers, I could appreciate the blur of their megalithic silhouettes against the morning shade. Jockeying past them was a blast. Jams on, our four-cylinder sweating beneath a deep purple sky — sailing down a lonely highway is the automotive embodiment of dancing with no one watching.

High beams piercing the horizon, worldly worries melt into the desert road. All that was left was the pursuit of a prize: the sun. There are 40 miles between Stovepipe and Badwater, and I loved every single one.

We park and scramble out of the car. Bolted up high above on the rocks behind us was a sign that read, “SEA LEVEL.” Hidden from view to our left, the lurking sun fired out rays like hairs sticking up behind the mountains’ necks. Badwater Basin is the lowest point in North America, and on a clear day it’s said you can see Mount Whitney, the highest point of the contiguous 48. Our chance to see the Very Old Man was one more mile away.

I remember walking out on the salt flats, past the “282 feet below sea level” marker. It was barren and white, flat and mundane, stretching far to the east and west with alps to the north and south.

As we tramped further, we start noticing this honeycomb grid covering the ground. There are ridges of salt about two inches high, forming these hexagons and pentagons. They make a delightful, crisp crunch as we walk through them like kids in a supermarket, carefully stepping over every crack.

Halfway through the trek, looking at the southern range, I can see the sun manipulating the mountain snow caps. They change along with the sky to this marvelous band of purple to pink, playing against the feathery clouds.

And while standing in this hive woven from salt, I begin to see this strange trick in the light, a shimmer in the distance. I don’t know what could possibly be reflecting something so shiny like that in the desert, there’s no lake out here. I pass it off as a signal mirror or lens messing with my coffee deprived brain.

But as we get closer, instead of dissipating, the light upon the ground grows in definition. It gets even weirder; I can start to see little figures out on top of it. The light is so bright and loud that I know it can’t be salt. Maybe there’s a frozen lake out here that doesn’t show up on the map? Do frozen lakes sparkle like this? How much desert time does it take to see a mirage?

And how are these dozen or so people so confident that they can stand on it? None of this was adding up to me. Death Valley in winter is around 60 degrees Fahrenheit during the day, and it was well above freezing right now. No one should be standing on that ice.

But a few hundred yards ahead of me, that was the case. I could see small groups walking across the shimmer. Hopping. Skipping. We pressed on a bit more eagerly, me mumbling some stupid combination of bewilderment, apprehension, and anxiety.

And mid worry, I stopped. My lofty, learned words had leapt from reach.

“Oh holy fuck.”

Before us stretched a lake, over a mile long. Off its surface reflected the entire rosy range of mountains, their snowy gradients against a shifting sky. I could see clouds on the ground. Deep down upon the lowest point in North America, there were clouds.

And, on top of this beautiful reflection, people were walking on water. Hand in hand, laughing. Photographers had set up floating tripods. Someone was drifting in a lawn chair on this uncharted lake.

I was struck dumb. Unable to say anything intelligible, my feet moved steadily towards this radiant enigma. With every step, the light would change, the sun finally peaking over the range to our left. The sky was having a wonderful moment of confusion as it decided if it was better to stay in bed or wake up and go to work. The purples shifted to red and orange, the pinks fought for dominance against the blues.

Echoes of these hues were in the snowy peaks to the distance; the clouds now glowing gold in the sky and likewise smoldering bronze on the basin floor.

My slack jawed face coiled into a smile as I reached the water’s edge. I truly am an idiot. No, that’s no lake. It was a boundless reflecting pool, maybe a half inch deep the whole way through. I pranced into the water. Three days ago, it snowed and rained in the valley shadowed by death. This being the lowest point…meant it could all gather here and spread across the cosmic floodplain.

My friend stepped into the pond a ways away from me. The sun rising behind her, a spectrum of colors painting the sky everything from shocking orchid to vivid celeste; the stony souls of the mountains finally unveiling aeons of tectonic shift, their snowy hats — every step she took was among the clouds themselves, perfectly reflected in the calm water. It was the coolest thing ever. That’s a bit of a pun because the water was cold, but that is besides the point.

This was the lowest elevation I’d ever been, and somehow we were sky walkers. The next minutes passed by quickly. There was a flurry of activity as everyone took their shots of the mercurial heavens. And with a breath, the sky finalized its shift to blue, the mountaintops settled on white, the clouds gray. Me, a big dumb grin.

It was a wonderful morning to be foolish.

Death Valley highway at sunset