As the sun came up on the second day, I crept out of the campground and into town. Yep, this is Milford. Milford's only claim to fame appears to be the fact that it is only 61 miles from Reno.
It's even less to the Nevada state line. Those of you who are more astute may recognize that I appear to be leaving,rather than entering Nevada. That is because the bike, laden with all my touring gear, does not rest very reassuringly on its side stand when there is a pronounced upward slope to the pavement, right to left. For that reason, I have done a temporary u-turn, so that I can park with the slope rising left to right (as one is seated on the bike). This is very important to remember - for the rider, more so than the reader. I learned it the hard way a few years back, while on a trip to South Dakota on the KLR. Anyway, rest assured. I am, in fact, entering Nevada.
For the entire day before, I had debated whether to go to Death Valley via the Nevada side or the California side. The more I thought about it, the more complicated and multi-faceted the problem became. Reno was the branch point. South of there, there are no easy ways to switch sides. Somehow, I had to decide. I spent half an hour, standing by the bike, staring at my map spread out on the seat. More than one person, thinking I was lost, offered help with directions. In the end, it came down to the morning chill in the air, which had sunk down a bit into my bones as well. At that point, a ride through the desert sounded much better than a ride over frigid Sierra Nevada mountain passes. I decided to save that route for the ride back, even though it would mean quite a bit of back-tracking in the park.
By the time I reached Walker Lake, above, I was feeling very good about my choice. The weather was perfect, and the warmth radiated through me like I was wrapped in an electric blanket. Nice.
By the time I passed Tonopah, 130 miles later, and pulled up alongside these Joshua Trees, the warmth was baking me like a Thanksgiving turkey.
I gassed up at Beatty, including an extra gallon in my reserve can. I knew it would be a long time before I passed another service station. Just before entering the park, I took a short side road into Rhyolite, NV. No cold drinks at the store today.
No cash at the bank, either.
I entered the park along the Titus Canyon Road, in the center of its east side. By the time I reached the boundary sign, only a few miles from the pavement, I had already stopped to wrap another strap around the gas can, which had almost shook off its rack, due to the extreme washboarded surface of the road.
A bit farther and I noticed that my add-on wind screen was only held on by two of the four bolts it had started the trip with. The bolts were no where to be found, so I removed the screen entirely and strapped it to the top of my tent, which became its spot for the next 1300 miles. This was the worst washboard road I had ever attempted on any motorcycle. The pictures don't do it justice. Mile after mile after mile - fast, slow, left side, right site, middle - didn't matter. I'd let some air out of my tires, which helps with off-road traction, but didn't seem to do much for the washboards. There was plenty of daylight left, however - too much, in fact, as the sun was shining right in my face and temps were in the high 80s. Whose idea was this anyway?
When I finally reached the mountains and the road began to climb, the surface became more packed and smooth. Ahhh. Much better!
The switchbacks even gave me momentary relief from the blazing sun - and awesome views! Life was good again.
One last pause, just short of the pass.
Then a new world opened up below me, to the west.
I was surprised how well my street-oriented tire had done on the steep grade coming up. I just might make it after all. Knobbies are for sissies!
The front tire was only marginally better, having gone to Florida and back the previous year. You certainly wouldn't want to go too fast out here with these tires, but I was more enthralled with the scenery, and just the fact that I had finally made it to Death Valley after dreaming about it since I was a kid.
Down from the pass, I entered the canyon from which the road got its name. It began innocently enough. This bit of shade was a welcome relief.
Just above the tightest part of Titus Canyon, this pullout makes a good place for photos. For some reason, I like the effect I got from digitally taking all but a hint of color out of this shot.
There we go - back to brilliant orange. Am thinking of painting the house that color.
Down deep in the narrows, it looks a bit like some roads in Utah - but the rocks are much different in color and texture.
When you come out of the canyon, you have to descend a steep debris fan of loose gravel. It was the trickiest part of the road. Once back on pavement, I stopped to pour my extra gas into the tank. Out of nowhere, a lone car stopped to ask if I needed any assistance. Not this time, but it's nice to be asked.
Somewhere in the distance, up this long steady grade, is the famous Scotty's Castle. A cold beverage was sounding real good by this time - especially on the shaded terrace of an expansive, ornate, Spanish-style mansion!
Not this time. The parking lot had just closed. So close! I did get some good information on the campground I was headed for, however - and an offer of extra water if I needed it. Everyone here seems to think I'm in trouble. I still had almost 24 ounces in my tank bag, and a gallon in my saddle bags, so I told him I was good. It wasn't cold, though.
I turned and rode back out into the desert. Maybe should have asked him for food. Forgot about that.
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