Tango and I have been at Death Valley (Sunset Campground) for 3 weeks. For two of those weeks, we hung out with the single RVers group, Escapees Solos. The gathering is planned every year to coincide with the 49ers Encampment, a music and history festival.
We are pulling out today but first, like every other morning, we walk. Tango and I both relish the routine and always feel out-of-sync when we cannot go for some reason. So, off we go while it is still dark-ish. Soon the sun will burst over the eastern mountain ridge but for now, it is barely dawn. Tango is on a leash and I carry 3 plastic bags to clean up after him. This time, the walk is nostalgic because everything we pass tells a piece of our new Death Valley Story.
We walk first to the far edge of the campground where the coyotes cross in the early mornings as they head home from hunting. Several times I have seen a wayward coyote running and crying frantically as he tries to catch up with the others. He must be young, I decide, and his curiosity leads him astray. Shortly after I see him sprinting over the rocks, the coyote calls fade so I know he finds his pack. The area where he runs toward looks parched and lifeless, but I know there is a spring and some trees up there. One time Tango and I walked with a friend into the campground back there. It is an amazing oasis. I can see why the coyotes congregate there.
Below: Death Valley Coyotes! We saw one who hung out along the main road and begged from passersby. Some in our group actually fed him.
Below: the view from the campground to the east where the coyotes run to each morning. Not too inviting, but the campground in the next photo is tucked up in there! 
Next, we walk past the large campground sink. I know that doesn’t sound like an exciting place, or something to even write about, but that sink made the experience of dry camping in a desert almost luxurious! Imagine something like a fish cleaning station, which you may have seen around lakes. The Sunset Campground sinks are like that, long and deep, but newly built using stainless steel! They are tucked under a wood overhang, which provides some shade, at least some of the time. It, too, was like an oasis, a gathering place where people congregate after breakfast to wash out the coffee pot and dishes. Besides washing my own dishes there, each morning I hand wash clothes from the previous day. Several times each week I wash my hair at the sink. I am just tall enough to get my head inside the sink and under the faucet. A shorter person would need a little step stool, but I never saw anyone else wash their hair. I wonder, maybe they do not know that after a hot afternoon, the water in the pipes is actually warm and soothing. Maybe they have enough water in their holding tank and enough room to wash their hair in their own sink. For me, however, the campground sink is a luxury, a 4-star feature out in the desert.
Below: the campground sink, which made life so wonderful! If you have ever washed camping dishes under a faucet, stooping over, you will understand. I have my own sink in the RV but this camp sink helped me save water since I did not have any hookups.
Next, Tango and I walk up and down each row in the campground. We start at Row F, in the middle, and by now are walking down K. We will turn at the end and head up J. Then we will round J and head down G and so on, passing every site for every person we met. I say a little blessing as we pass each new friend, who at this early hour is still snuggled in. My closest neighbor taught me a great deal about my solar system. My other neighbor took off early to attend a van-build gathering. We had a great night playing dominoes outside my rig with a few of the others. Eventually, I pass the now empty site of the guy who surprised me by tilting his head towards me and planting a little kiss. That was flattering, although nothing ever came of it. Then, I pass the nice gal from the Sacramento area who I talked with several times. Not far from her, I pass the rigs of the two 87-year-old women. One pulls a 5th wheel and the other drives a class C. By themselves. It is inspiring and I gain confidence about RVing for many more years. Decades?
As Tango and I round row C, we come upon the group of shiny, elegant motorhomes belonging to the organizers who made the event a success. They were so welcoming to me, a new-comer. Soon, we round another corner and walk up what I call Main Street. The club president is parked lengthwise right in the middle, and we set up our chairs there for group gatherings, early for morning coffee, and in the afternoon for happy hour. As we meander by, chairs are still out, arranged now in a haphazard fashion instead of the usual circle. The table that we fill with munchies is gone, probably packed in someone’s rig. I swear I can still hear the laughter and loud conversations of happy people enjoying themselves. I met so many people at the gathering place- maybe 40? They are so independent and adventurous. Each one has a story and we are all over the socio-economic scale. What unites us is a love of travel.
We continue to the end of Main Street and go around the other side of the row. We pass a group of women in Class Bs. One stands out because I babysit the owner’s elderly dog one day. The dog bites me lightly when I try to pick her up to go out. Instead, while I am supposedly babysitting, she poops and pukes on the inside rug, which I drag out later to keep the smell from overwhelming the tiny rig. Then we pass the rig of another new person who invited several of us in one night for dominoes. We are at Row A now, and would normally walk across the far end again but I decide to keep going. I tell Tango, who was already on autopilot for home, “Let’s walk across the street one more time before we go.” Tango tires out now, but he came along without any resistance. He always knows when we are leaving because he knows my “pack-up” routine, which had started before our walk. Was he reminiscing too?
We cross right where the 20-Mule Team and the Wagon Train drove into town yesterday in a sort-of reenactment parade. The history in the area includes borax mining (carried out of the valley by the mule teams) and 49ers who were looking for a short cut to the goldfields but became lost in Death Valley. The parade was astounding to see, and I watch from a slight embankment bordering the road as the wagons and mules pull in. Standing there, I feel surprising happiness through my entire being, and I find myself grinning wildly. Was it the excitement around seeing the mule teams? Being with a fun group of like-minded souls? Warm sun and an outdoor setting? Some of each, no doubt. And more. Simple things seem to bring the greatest happiness now.
Below: old photo of an original mule team used to haul borax from Death Valley. The stuff you buy today is mined just outside
Below: the beautifully handcrafted replica of carts pulled by the mule teams
Below: 49er wagon train. They took about a week to travel the old-fashioned way up to Death Valley. We met up with them about half-way for a wonderful dinner of dutch oven dishes. We brought salads, side dishes, and desserts. It is a long-standing tradition between the wagon train folks and my group (Escapee Solos).
We continue our walk through the quiet grounds of a lovely inn that is right across from the campground. The grounds are sprawling and include a swimming pool where I went a few times to relax and shower ($10 fee). We also pass the restaurant where I enjoyed a buffet breakfast with others. We turn right then and walk past the newly planted palm trees and into the private campground where the bands play on the weekend. At the entrance to this area, Tango and I pass the little hut where I volunteer during the last week to sell tickets for the 49er Encampment music and history festival that takes place every year. I remember again all the excitement. All the people. All the joy.
Below: venue across the street where the bands played
As we cross the street once more and walk through the shrubs and into our campground, the sun is finally above the mountains. The world lights up and the camp is starting to rustle with waking sounds: the clink of a coffee pot, the yipping of a dog. Tango knows the way to our site and practically pulls me there. When I open the van, he jumps in. Like always, he will wait there while I hitch up. About 45 minutes later, we pull out, filled to the brim with new memories and friendships.
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