Tracking Down Our Younger Days March 16 - April 1, 2007 About a mental loop in my space-time continuum, which leads to Racetrack, a.k.a. a childless weekend

	We used to be young and beautiful, now were just -- beautiful...

	...and we return to familiar places

We have put together grandiose plans for the duration of our grandmother's stay. As, for example, skiing with the whole family, and while granny would watch the kids, Sid and I could squeeze out a half day on the slopes. Alas, this year's snow has been sparse, and the plan got rejected -- we know how to sulk, locked up somewhere, or desperately run our offspring in some muddy ditch, without having Sid waste his valuable time off from his job for a day-long journey to the Sierra.

Our second grand plan was based on granny watching over our kids in our house, while Sid and I would drive out somewhere far. Counting whichever way I could, it turned out that during the last three and half years, there was no single night without the juniors, and we had entire three moments longer than two/three hours for our own. In the spring of 2004 we had enjoyed a one-day snow resort loop (granny watched Tom from eight in the morning till half past eight in the evening). Success of such endeavor made us repeat it in December 2004 -- but I was already pregnant with Lisa, and a question remains how much one can really count it as a "day without kids". A third such situation occurred on July 29, 2005. At ten in the morning I left Tom with granny and drove away to have a prenatal checkup. The doctor rushed me to the hospital where Lisa was born at 6:15 PM the same evening -- hence I enjoyed being with just my husband for entire EIGHT HOURS! And yes, it was a relaxing time (if you discount IV feeds and pain). Since Lisa was born, I have been spending 24 hours a day with my children, seven days a week, twenty months, day in, day out. No free weekends, lunches with colleagues, vacation, sick time.

	Backside of Wildrose Kilns

	My Hippo on a rock over Wildrose Canyon.

I don't mean to complain: we wanted children, we counted on having to take care of them. Our little ones are healthy, reasonably behaved, we don't suffer for lack of means -- but the stress from the uninterrupted load is bothersome. I had resolved to have a weekend without the children at almost any cost.

Sid had started on March 26 in his new job, and we understood that he could just not take the next Friday off -- and we really had only that one weekend left. On Friday I moved kid seats from the bus to the wagon and rushed to Tony's for oil change and checkup. The children were ecstatic: they love Tony's shop. Tommy enters into long conversations with Tony about cars, Lisa reorganizes the toy cars in Tony's counter showcase. It was a family morning. In the afternoon, I sent granny out with the kids to take a walk, and started to pack. It got to me how quickly and easily one packs for two adults. No counting and estimating of diapers, food cans, milk bottles, napkins, toys, blankets, and snacks for the ride. I tossed two sleeping bags into the trunk, two mats, two big water bottles -- and we were practically ready.

	Zoom to oasis (the green spot in the middle/left). On the right side of the large picture you can see a winding road leading into the hills.

	Although we did not make it to the top, nevertheless the saddle offered beautiful views.

Sid had arrived home shortly before seven, we all had a decent supper, then he brought a duffle bag with our clothes from our bedroom, we waved our relatives goodbye and drove away. All the way to the nearest corner -- and came back to fetch Sid's fleece jacket. The second attempt was successful; the journey without the offspring unbelievably comfortable. We were free to speed like demons, stopping only once for bathroom and swapping the drivers, reaching our favorite Travelodge in Tehachapi by midnight. Meanwhile they had built another wing, which is clean and pretty -- the only flaw I could find on the east-facing room was the absence of curtains. Most likely, we would have woken up anyway -- Lisa has us trained for seven a.m.

Given the fact that Sid discovered that he had not packed any T-shirts for the weekend, we took advantage of our early rising -- for we were bound to visit the local K-mart. Sid purchased an amazing camo top, which makes him look like a pretty serious redneck, and further he bought a polo shirt, claiming he needed one (his wardrobe is about three times the size of mine, but I admit that this may in part be caused by his unfading love to totally faded pieces of clothing that weren't new seven years ago, when we had met).

	This time again we were lucky for a clear night -- on our journey through Death Valley

	A view from the saddle to Telescope Peak. By that time we were in shape similar to the one of the tree.

I had the choice of destination. I did not hesitate a second -- after four years I felt an almost physical need to leave all people behind -- and go to the desert. Therefore we headed for Death Valley. I wanted to take the same road as we did on our very first trip there. I still remember a dusty turnout a few miles past Trona, where I got first enchanted by the desert. This time I knew what awaited me, but still the transition from the bustling civilization into the voluminous silence was very soothing.

It surprised me how little I missed my children. It came natural to me to be alone with Sid -- perhaps because we were passing through the landscape of our marital beginnings. I had the feeling of moving inside a completely different space/time. Our morning call home surely helped, too -- granny sounded like having fun, kids were chuckling in the background, and Tom's priority announcement focused on granny loaning him her hair curler. Thus I could indulge in my relaxation with a good conscience.

	Our favorite night stand.

	The view from our camping place towards Racetrack

We took a turn to the Wildrose Canyon -- I wanted to take time to examine the Kilns and snap some pictures. Wondering whether to continue on the dirt road leading up below Telescope Peak, we eventually found ourselves attracted to a small path starting behind the kilns. A signpost declared it to be a 4.2 miles long trail up to Wildrose Peak. I did not have the slightest wish to scramble up some hill, but I did want to check out that rock over there with a view to the valley. We found ourselves at some seven thousand feet above sea level and my head, used to our twenty feet ASL, felt quite dizzy. I also have been feeling some pain in my left foot, where I must have pulled some ligaments -- old age is horrible, one aches all the time. Using a leisure walking pace, we reached the rock. We even found a bolt three, so we began to construct rock-climbing theories. To my surprise, Sid asked to continue a bit up the trail. I was seriously disquieted -- at one thirty p.m. my Hippo had not mentioned the need of lunch! Instead, he demanded to trot away from the last outposts of civilization, represented by a few muesli bars located in our wagon's trunk!

Hence I remained convinced that my Hippo would soften up soon, and let him talk me into some more walking. In one moment I hoped we would call for retreat -- my ill adapted knees were shaking un-sportswoman-likely and my head kept spinning. One more fact spoke for return: we had entered a tree grove and there were no more views. Yet Sid remained full of energy and so we -- with much huffing and puffing -- climbed up. Some hour later a miracle happened and we reached a saddle with a beautiful view of Death Valley. Some sporty hiker, briskly running in the opposite direction, lowered our high spirits -- it was at least one more hour hike to the top, ending in a brutal climb.

	Coaching a perspective runner.

	The vast area of the playa.

After about half hour, Wildrose Peak emerged ahead of us - and we lost all resolve. I had been doubtful since the beginning: my game foot, unused to such high altitude, and after all, completely unprepared for such a trek. Besides, clock showed three thirty, and all of descend was ahead of us, followed by a drive across the entire National Monument, topped by twenty five miles of dirt road rattling to Racetrack. Not to mention that our last meal was a breakfast, and that our bodies demanded some dinner. After a moment of dithering we opted for a cowardly retreat. Nine thousand sixty four feet (2,763 m) high peak thus remains unconquered. But let me stop denigrating our achievements: parking is at six thousand nine hundred feet, we hiked up to eight thousand two hundred and fifty -- it's some four hundred meters of elevation gain, at two and half kilometers altitude.

In the end we were probably right -- having reached our car quite exhausted. During the next sixty miles drive to Furnace Creek, we discovered another setback -- neither of us thought of transferring an annual pass for all National Parks, from the bus into our wagon. We hoped that rangers, being federal employees, would not be at work on Saturday evening, and we would subsequently not need to haggle with anyone regarding a fee. Not that shelling out a few more dollars could kill us, but to pay twice for the same thing goes against our principles.

	Racetrack Grand Stand Morning tourists can be found on the larger image.

	First time for our wagon: at Teakettle Junction.

We had hard time finding a parking spot near a restaurant at the Furnace Creek oasis; the entrance was completely clogged by a busload of senior citizens. Catching a free table anytime soon did not seem possible, much less any meal for that matter, and we elected to try nearby Furnace Creek Inn. There we were told that one needs to have a reservation and adhere to a dress code. A knave at the door conceded that perhaps we could be allowed to sit at the bar, but when I beheld the select cream of the society with botox faces reflecting memories of seven to eight decades of care-free life, I lost all appetite. We returned to our original joint - a steakhouse, and discovered an entrance to an inconspicuous cafe at the other end of the same building. It offered formica tables, each depicting a map of Death Valley, and a clientele much closer to our blood type. Newcastle Ale washed away desert dust from our throats, we ate a simple dinner and headed for our night stand near Racetrack.

Full moon was due in two days and the moonlit landscape had amplified my impression of a time loop -- this was exactly the same night we drove near Ubehebe Crater to Racetrack, four years ago. The bulldozed surface rattled us just like then, all stars could be found in their familiar locations, yuccas flashed past in the faint side-scatter of our headlights. Sid kept turning the wheel wildly with his eyes bulging into the nightly desert; I was looking forward to bed. Our old camping loop was easy to find, just our wagon was new. However our old wagon seemed to be more robust, the new one contains at least one improvement -- back seats are much easier convertible into a bed -- and space thus created is noticeably longer than with the older type, which is much appreciated especially by my Hippo. We had a unexpected great sleep, just it was quite warm at night -- I had no idea that I would, at the end of March, reject a sleeping bag and take comfort under a mere fuzzy blanket.

	Dirt roads often form ripples. In that case, one must drive on them rather briskly.

	Panamint Valley

In the morning I ran up the nearest mound, where I had spotted some flowers. Usually the desert of Death Valley is in full bloom in March and April, but this year's winter was dry, there's little snow in the mountains, and so flowers are few and far between. Just as I was taking a picture of one in the silent desert, something buzzed around my ears. It sounded like some elephant mutation of a bumblebee -- and then I saw it -- a small hummingbird, who's wings filled the absolute silence of the deserted landscape like a jet fighter fly-over. A little while later, just as I got ready to change clothes, a pack of jeepers drove past up. In this moment I did envy them -- with extra gas tanks on their roofs they carefully descended into a canyon behind us. We were not so lucky -- primarily, our wagon is not quite an off road vehicle -- but our gas gage was turned brutally below half -- and you don't venture into the wilderness in that case. It made me sad a bit, for Lost Burro Gap would most likely be passable, as the last winter was not strong enough to damage established dirt roads.

We drove down to Racetrack, reassured each other that our previous hike made us both sore and that we were not about to march anywhere far -- and then we marched across the vast playa and hang out among the racing rocks. Our experience got reinforced that overnighting near Racetrack is the best way how to enjoy this attraction in peace and solitude. Before the columns of tourists manage to get here across the vast distance of the Park, we get baked and worn out that we gladly hop back into our car. And it was really so: by the time we were returning to the road and our parked wagon, small dust clouds had appeared on the horizon. Our private encounter was over.

	This year has been very dry; chances to find a cactus in bloom are rather slim.

	The flight of a hummingbird sounds in the quiet desert like a jet fighter fly-over.

I sat down behind the wheel and soon we were speeding down the un-road. Rippled dirt is most drivable at some forty miles per hour. Cars in opposite direction are marked by their dust trail, shoulders of the track naturally form gravel hedges, our wagon with its all wheel drive tends to squat down in turns, sinking deeper into road's grooves, feeling very stable. Because we started back before everybody else, we were not forced to drag behind some frightened newbie; I could enjoy my ride to the fullest.

I feel that every mother, after some time, finds a desire to re-establish her own personality. One carries a small intruder inside one's own body for nine months, and cutting the umbilical cord does not really end it. A mother is never her own -- she nurses, carries, wakes up to, hushes. Sticky little hands are omnipresent, the little human remains for a long time her inseparable component. A mother cannot sleep when and where she wants, she cannot eat when and where she wants, she cannot go to a bathroom when she needs to. She's not really herself, the baby interlocks with her every living minute, enters her interrupted dreams. And so, sooner or later, a mother starts to seek out situations, where she can be, for a moment, limited to only her body and her own soul. Some have a coffee with a friend, some get their hair done, some study or take a new job. I have discovered that a road trip to the desert is very cleansing for me. Despite being all achy from sleeping in the car, it's a return to freedom. Just being able to think of myself alone -- when I'm cold, I cover up and don't have to check if anyone else has cold hands. When I rush down a rocky road through a canyon, I can focus on driving -- I don't have to hand out drinks, gather toys, or worry about someone barfing in these turns.

Every fun must end, though -- paved road replaced dirt, stretching fifty miles to Beatty, NV. There we finally got a cell signal, made sure that kids were still healthy and merry, and our granny by her senses; we ate lunch, pumped gas and headed back home. I held my siesta from Beatty to Tehachapi, but then I lasted behind the wheel all the way to our house. We arrived at ten thirty in the evening, kids were fast asleep. I felt a sting of guilt of being a bad mother, for I really had not missed them during the weekend. The children burst into our bedroom like a flood in the morning, and they were certainly happy for our re-appearance, though there were no sentimental scenes. Thus I suppressed any guilt immediately -- my kids obviously live with an unshaken sense of safety, and a little thing like parents disappearing for the weekend, cannot possibly frighten their world.

Copyright © 2007 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.