Desolation and Connections: The Extremes of Death Valley

Death Valley sounds like a place you should avoid. With a name that practically screams “turn back,” it’s easy to imagine it as an endless, inhospitable wasteland—scorching, lifeless, and barren. And yet, like so many things in life, first impressions don’t tell the whole story.

We pulled into Badwater Basin, the lowest point in North America, at 282 feet below sea level. The kids lined up like a parade of small explorers, crunching across the vast white salt flats under a high desert sky. The air shimmered. The land stretched impossibly wide and flat. It felt like walking into a mirage.

James, ever the adventurer, found a tiny puddle amidst the salt-crusted ground. "My tiny ocean!" he declared, delighted by his personal sea in the middle of the driest place in North America. A body of water so small you could step over it—but to him, it was mesmerizing.

There, in that surreal expanse, we spotted another family—five kids, just like ours. Around the same ages too. As we passed each other, we exchanged a knowing look with the parents just as their youngest, a little boy, collapsed dramatically into the salt. An older sister bent down beside him, coaxing him into a piggyback ride, while the other three siblings marched on ahead with Mom. It was an out-of-body moment—like watching ourselves from the outside. All too familiar, right down to the tone of the sighs and the expressions on the parents’ faces.

Natural Bridge and the Stranded Car

Later in the day, we turned down a dusty canyon road to hike Natural Bridge. It’s a short trail but steep, winding through sunbaked walls and dry streambeds to a massive stone arch.

In the small parking lot, we noticed a couple sitting in their car with the hood up. We tried to help—jumped the battery, checked cables—but no luck. And with no cell service, there was no way to call AAA or the Park Rangers.  We had to drive nearly 30 minutes back to the Furnace Creek visitor center to tell the rangers.

The couple was retired, and as we chatted, we learned they had raised five kids—and years ago, had taken a year off to homeschool and travel with them while they were young.  It is not often we meet anyone doing what we are doing, and it was completely uncanny to hear about it as a reflection of 30 years ago.

We couldn’t follow up after we let the rangers know. There’s a certain trust you have to lean into out here—no signals, no updates, just faith in strangers and that the park service, with its radios and reach, will take care of what needs taking care of.

An Oasis in the Wasteland

What struck me most about Death Valley wasn’t just the salt flats or the heat, but the presence of water—small, ancient, and improbable.

Springs, bubbling up from aquifers that hold snow and rain from the surrounding Grapevine Mountains, support entire resort outposts and lush palm groves. It feels like a trick of the imagination—seeing lawns and pools in a place where the average annual rainfall is less than two inches.

Even more incredible are the ancient springs, from rain and snow thousands or even millions of years ago. It is in these isolated places that we learned live pupfish—tiny creatures that somehow survive in hot, salty, low-oxygen pools left behind by an ancient lake that dried up 10,000 years ago. Five species, each isolated, each uniquely adapted to their tiny, shrinking worlds.

One of those worlds—Devil’s Hole—isn’t even connected to the rest of the park showing how vast the lush ecosystem was eons ago. Devil’s Hole is in Nevada, in a completely separate unit of Death Valley, protected behind fences and studied by scientists. A single species of pupfish lives there, surviving against odds that seem impossible.

A Place to Visit, Not Stay

Our kids hiked the trails in long pants and long sleeves—not intentionally for sun protection (although that was a nice benefit), but because the morning chill at higher elevations had inspired them to dress warmly. As the temperature crept up into the 80s, they wished they had brought other clothes.  We had to convince the boys to keep their shirts on.

There’s a raw beauty here, one you feel more than see. Stark cliffs. Wind-worn canyons. Sunlight bouncing off salt. It’s a place that demands attention—and respect.

But even as we marveled at its stillness and survival, we knew: this is not a place to linger. It’s a place to pass through. To be humbled by. To remember.

And sometimes, to find a tiny ocean where no one expects one.