Leaving the Big City Lights, we were looking forward to Death Valley National Park.
But really, it just didn’t do much for us after everywhere we’ve been. And the campgrounds there…well what can I say, they were pretty much dusty, graveled parking lots with wall to wall people.
I guess it’s a popular spot for this time of year.
We couldn’t bring ourselves to camp in this situation, so we just kept going.
We drove to Lone Pine, a little town above the pitiful remains of Owens Lake, on the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
We had heard about the Alabama Hills, where so many movies have been made, they named the road there, ingeniously “Movie Road.” According to local lore, over 400 hollywood movies have been filmed in these hills.
Were we ever wowed when we drove in, just hoping to find a place to sleep for the night! Boulders and mountains and lots of open spaces with views to die for.
Mt. Whitney, the tallest mountain in the continental United States with a summit of 14, 505 feet, was what we saw from our van door here! This is actually the back side of Whitney, seen from the east. How majestic her grandeur.
We felt pretty humbled and privileged to be camped here. To think that the likes of John Wayne to Johnny Depp have left their footprints here in the dust, and may have camped in the exact spot we did. (Well – probably not this exact spot, but maybe close by.)
Not a bad spot for morning coffee and breakfast. My own “John/ny” cooking up some yummy grub.
I wonder how much you would have to pay for a kitchen window with this view??
I wish I could say this was us, jogging along the road, but we enjoyed the view just as much while casually walking along behind these lucky folks who obviously run here often.
Another time when it’s just really hard to pull away…
We’ll be back here again.
❧
PS…For those who care, I am now officially caught up and current on this blog!!!
Keevan Soul 
These photos are spectacular!
http://itsjpei.wordpress.com/
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Ah…Thanks.
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Wow! I’ve never heard of this, although my grandfather grew up tending sheep in the area, before the water in the Owen’s Valley went south. Thank you for this lovely post and the amazing pictures.
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Folks, I don’t remember your names but we met and talked an hour or so this summer at Guadalupe National Park. I get your blog automatically in my emails. I just thought that I should tell you, well, I really like reading your story. The texts are concise. And the traveling is something we wish we could do. We did live in a truck camper for a whole year when the first 4 were under 5. And we spent some weeks in a VW camper when there was only 2, but that’s another story. You’ve broken free from the comfortable life for something far more valuable and memorable. I thank you for the news of your travels.
My favorite poem, (sums up our situation) By Robert Frost:
Who’s woods these are I think I know His house is in the village though He will not see us stopping here to watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer to stop without a farmhouse near between the woods and frozen lake the darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake to ask if there is some mistake the only other sound’s the sweep of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep and miles to go before I sleep.
Cheers and good fortunes to you, El Paso Mark & Sylvie
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Mark, we totally do remember meeting you at Guadalupe. What a wonderful evening chat we had around the van. So glad you are following along. It’s those casual encounters like that, that make this trip extra special for us.
Thank you for sharing that lovely poem. I love Robert Frost! I believe the traveling will be in your future again, when the time is right.
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Joy, it really is an amazing spot, hidden away. If we had kept rolling along the highway and hadn’t turned west from Lone Pine, we would have passed it by, never knowing it existed. That’s what has been so wonderful about this journey, being able to take the time to explore these areas.
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