After a wonderful sit-down lunch for six (as in sit down at a lone picnic table at Emigrant Gap overlooking Death Valley), we headed down into the famous, or infamous, basin below sea level.
The monthly travelogue from the-ever itinerant Maderan, Leon Emo.
Thirty years ago, three good friends — Van Neely, Keith Davis and yours truly — bounced along a typical washboard road toward the desert ghost town of Ballarat. For one passenger, it was bumpier.
Cruising along I-40 across the Mojave National Preserve that spans that Interstate and I-15 to the north the views were not exactly like the beautiful land of high mountains and deep valleys of my favorite d
It was 1966 — 50 years ago. I was through with school, high school anyway. San Francisco called and I stumbled (literally) into a newly happening scene that later would become known as Haight-Ashbury.
“It’s not like the old days.” “It is certainly not the same.” “We just stay at home, nowadays.” These are the frequent phrases yours truly has already heard from Maderans describing their New Year celebratio
For just two years, from 1954 to 1955, a group of avid local bowlers, a skilled pilot and a special airplane came together to form the country’s only flying team.
It was almost Halloween. At the entrance to Wildrose Canyon and a trail through the mighty Panamint mountain range, the western border of Death Valley, a sign in bold black letters read CLOSED.