1962 Tour To Death Valley
1962 TOUR TO DEATH VALLEY
EVERY YEAR the Death Valley Run, sponsored by Harley-Davidson dealers of Southern California and operated by a perpetual committee with Dick Hutchins as chairman, gets bigger and better and is now the largest organized tour of motorcycles in the U.S. (1414 registered riders and an estimated one thousand more just came along for the ride and the scenery.)
Beautiful weather was the order of both days. Many motorcyclists rode straight through after work on Friday, or cruised part way, slept on the desert, then continued on Saturday morning. Others left early Saturday morning, as the couple from San Diego who left at the wee hour of 2 a.m. When we saw them they were about ready to fall from their cycle at the western entrance in Wildrose canyon. The average distance traveled each way is about 350 miles, as near as we can figure it. It takes some doing for a person who rides only occasionally to herd his machine 350 miles across the desert one day, and back the next.
One person froze at the throttle and drove straight into the rocks; another failed to heed warning signs, and skidded on gravel which had been sprinkled on the highway. But four accidents out of two-thousand riders is not a bad average considering that many are not accustomed to mountain or semi-treacherous stretches of poor road.
Death Valley in late October is a place of spectacular beauty; long shadows cast by a winter sun silhouette mountain ranges in bold relief so that ridge beyond ridge stand out in bold relief. Pastel colors of mineral laden rock vie with rich shades of brown and grey in sedimentary deposits which have been thrust up from the bottom of what was once an arm of the Pacific ocean.
We spent a night at the old ghost town of Skidoo, and saw the great sink change from pinks, greens, blues, purples, whites and browns to heavy shadows cast by a setting sun. An all-encompassing crimsonrose hue across the Funeral and Black Mountains changing the desolate peaks and canyons into objects of awesome splendor.
Odd as it may seem, large expanses in the floor of Death Valley are composed of a thick layer of salt crystals covering water and ooze; the Devil's Golf Course exemplifies this condition. It consists of sharp hard crystals upended because of drying and expanding pressures from below into an impassable field of horror which can slice the shoes from a man in a few hundred yards of travel. Seen from above, a stream of water is clearly recognizable as it meanders through some of the flats.
Much of this view is evident from the Emigrant Pass entrance on the west and Daylight Pass on the northwest. A side trip to Dante's View on the east side oï the valley presents a spectacular picture of the entire sink.
Activities begin as soon as two or more motorcyclists arrive at Furnace Creek Ranch, headquarters for the run. They may take the form of opening a can of cold beer or pop, saying hello to a friend, or just sitting and watching. Considerable time may be consumed in these enjoyably relaxing situations; however, sooner or later one must pick out a spot at the campgrounds and reserve it by spreading out his sleeping bag. A new area near the Park visiting center gives shelter from winds by rows of tamarisk trees — a relief from the barren slopes of Texas Springs Campground where many have spent some windy, dusty nights.
A western feed, served by H-D dealers and wives and other volunteers, supplies hungry motorcyclists with beef stew, and who isn't hungry after several hundred miles of riding?
Park rangers oblige with an illustrated lecture on Death Valley geology and wild life at 7 p.m., and at 8 the organized festivities begin with Hutchins as master of ceremonies. Sixty popular Death Valley trophies of an iron frying pan and a small statue of a desert prospector mounted on a hardwood base are given away in the next two hours. Every registered rider is a contestant. He may receive a trophy if he has a lucky number, or he may be the fattest, shortest, tallest, baldest, have the most beautiful legs (men only, a pretty silly thing), have ridden the farthest, have the best looking machine or the oldest, or belong to the best looking club, etc.
Sunday morning comes early to Death Valley. In fact, one is hardly in bed before hearing the chatter of machines warming up for the long ride home.
The Death Valley Run officially ends at noon, Sunday. Shortly before that hour the well equipped Inyo County Sheriff's posse takes positions along the various exits to insure a safe and satisfactory withdrawal of all riders. Their radio equipped 4-wheel drive vehicles are fitted for rescue operations as well as for emergency service of any nature. Their presence and that of the California Highway Patrol are welcome accessories to an efficiently designed and operated event.
The Death Valley Run is an experience long to be remembered. •
DEATH VALLEY COMMITTEE
