Death Valley National Park | 36.5323° N, 116.9325° W | February 24, 2020
The midday desert sun beats down relentlessly. I drink more water and sit down in the dirt next to my car. Leaning my head against the bumper, I take a deep breath and remind myself that I am okay.
I’m currently stuck in a remote corner of Death Valley National Park. My car is busted, I have absolutely no cell phone signal, and I am all alone.
But I’m okay.
From years of expedition experience and a lifetime of being the daughter of a pilot, I know this much is true: we cannot control what happens to us. We can only control how we react.
I force my brain into calm, methodical emergency response mode:
1.) Don’t panic.
2.) Assess the situation.
3.) Make a plan.
There is no need to freak out. I have plenty of food, water, and shelter (my tent and a warm sleeping bag).
I smile, thinking of my dear dad. Throughout my life, one of his classic Dad mantras has been: “you should always have a gallon of water and a sleeping bag in the trunk of your car — in case you get stuck somewhere.”
Yep, you were right Dad.
The fact that my little, old Honda Civic crapped out in this remote location is an inconvenience. But it’s not a life-threatening situation — which is not always the case in a place like the aptly named Death Valley.
I may be in the middle of nowhere, but I’m not the only person out here. Over the course of the day, I have flagged down over a dozen different people, asking if I can borrow a phone. Most of them also have zero service, but a few have been able to get a signal. Through the kindness of strangers, I have been in contact with a tow truck company.
But that was over five hours ago and I am beginning to doubt whether or not a tow truck is actually coming.
I set up my camp chair and open my book, trying to ignore how alone I feel in this moment. I can’t scroll through social media feeds, or check my email, or exchange a few text messages with friends. I am usually pretty good at being alone without feeling lonely. I got myself into this situation, and I’ll get myself out of it.
But it sure would be nice to have someone to talk to.
To remain calm and kill time, I spend several hours reading (and taking photos of myself).
After hours of entertaining myself by reading, snacking, and taking photos, the sun begins to go down. I decide I need to stop sitting around waiting.
I flag down a couple in their mid-50s. They don’t have cell phone signal but they write down all of my information and promise to call the tow truck company as soon as they get cell reception.
As soon as they drive off, an SUV pulls over. The driver is a bright, cheery woman who looks to be roughly my age. A fellow ardent adventurer and solo traveler, she hands me a can of sparkling water and and listens intently as I tell her my story.
“I just have no way of knowing whether or not the tow truck is coming,” I say. “If they’re not coming, I’ll go ahead and set up camp. But I don’t want to pitch my tent if the truck is about to roll up.”
I realize how good it feels just to talk to someone that feels like a friend. Tara immediately offers empathy, sharing my frustration and offering similar stories of car breakdowns in the middle of nowhere. After chatting for about 20 minutes, we decide to set up camp together. As we’re loading my camping gear into the back of Tara’s SUV, the couple who wrote down all my information reappears.
They roll down the window and explain that they just drove 10 miles up the road to get service.
“We called the tow shop and gave them all your information,” the woman says. “They have no record of your call in their system.”
Despite my frustration with the tow truck company, I feel immense gratitude for this dear couple who just drove 20 miles out of their way to relay this information to me. Tara joins the conversation and we quickly figure out both the couple and Tara are Canadian, and they all have the same cell carrier. They tell us where they went to get service.
“Canadians for the win!”
Two hours later, Tara and I sit at a picnic table under a dazzling starry sky. We mostly talk about Alaska – she tells me about going to college there. I tell her about my adventures around Anchorage this past summer.
“I really want to work up there,” I say, thinking of some of my scientist colleagues. “I don’t know if I would move up there permanently, but I would definitely try living there for a couple years.”
“Where is home base now?” she asks.
“Well, I have a storage unit and a post office box in Durham.”
“Ah you’re basically already an Alaskan!” she says in her cheery voice. This sentiment warms my heart. Tara tells me about the transient nature of many Alaskans. She says several of her friends alternate between Alaska, Hawaii, and parts of Canada.
“That sounds lovely,” I say, gazing up at the impossibly bright night sky and allowing myself to dream for a moment. “I can see myself doing that.”
“Yeah, you really should live up there. You would find your people immediately.”
Happy I captured this image of the sky above Death Valley before settling into my tent.
The next morning, Tara drives me 10 miles up the road. As soon as her phone gets a bar of service, she hands it to me so I can contact the tow truck company yet again and confirm someone is actually coming out to retrieve me and my busted car. When Tara drives me back to my car, we hug multiple times and exchange phone numbers. I promise her I’ll send a message when I finally get out of here.
Alone again, I sit in my car and think about how I’ll have to adjust my itinerary for this week. So much for going to Zion National Park and Bryce Canyon.
It’s a bummer I won’t make it to those places, but I don’t waste any time feeling sorry for myself. Not giving into panic and coming up with a new plan are the most important components of getting through a misadventure. But keeping everything in perspective (and recognizing all the ways in which this experience could have been much worse) is also very helpful.
At least I know I can handle breaking down in the middle of nowhere, and this won’t be my last adventure in the southwest. I’ll plan another trip to go to Zion, and I’m sure I’ll come back to Death Valley.
But the next time I come out here, I will be in an all-terrain vehicle.