Death Valley.

From the Panamints to the Funerals.

For many years I avoided Death Valley. It wasn't the desert I loved; it was a parody of the desert, a desert gone Hollywood. Nothing about it was easy to like or to understand. It's famous for terrible suffering, with great odds against survival. Its very name is dreadful: Death Valley. These words conjure visions of legends, of men bigger than life, tackling a frontier so wildly strange that the moon seems more hospitable.

I didn't like it, I didn't understand it, but I had to go see if it was real. When we finally bit the bullet and pushed the Jeep over Towne's Pass and down the hill to Furnace Creek, I fell in ...

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