This Is What It’s Like to Camp in One of the Hottest Places on Earth
As a brutal heat wave enveloped the country this summer, our writer packed up a cooler full of Gatorade and headed to the Mojave Desert
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Let me acknowledge, right up front, that in this ghastly era of anthropogenic global warming I combusted a whole bunch of fossil fuel in order to descend from the cool green sanctuary of the Colorado Rockies, where I鈥檓 blessed to reside, and cross the hot, dry, fiercely sunburned interior West. My destination was the kiln of the Mojave Desert and, sequestered within that immensity of thirst, a line on the thermometer: 120 degrees Fahrenheit.
Or perhaps worse. It depended on where my best friend Sean suggested we camp.
Was this a vacation? A gross display of privilege? According to the CDC, extreme heat waves cause . Granted, I do not belong to the especially endangered demographic groups: infant, senior, unhoused, impoverished, employed outdoors. The list is tragic and long. But trust me, the trip wasn鈥檛 idle amusement. I felt compelled to make raw somatic contact with our new and thoroughly dismaying climate regime, to face the faceless temperatures of the 21st century.
Sean is a social-studies teacher in Las Vegas who spends much of his summer break driving random dirt roads, exploring the desiccated, dust-choked hinterlands of Nevada and California. His style is the opposite of athletic, unless geography paired with existential contemplation constitutes a sport. He pokes around, parks the Hyundai, plants a parasol, eats and drinks, hikes a mile or three at dusk, counts shooting stars, sleeps, moves on. The very emptiness and quiet are his activity, the elemental place鈥攐verwhelming in a dozen different ways鈥攈is passion.
Chatting on the phone in early July, he informed me that the mercury in his apartment in North Vegas was registering 120 degrees, a record for the city. 鈥淎/C shut off yesterday,鈥 he said. 鈥淜icked back on this morning. The grid鈥 surge鈥y unit鈥 dunno. In any case, I鈥檓 heading out for 24 hours.鈥 Air temps at Furnace Creek, in Death Valley National Park, were approaching the world鈥檚 highest reliable measurement of 130 degrees, made there in 2021. 鈥淚 bet it鈥檒l only be teens in the Mojave Preserve,鈥 he continued. 鈥淎nd single digits or lower at night.鈥
This omission of the 鈥渉undred鈥 prior to 鈥渢eens鈥 and 鈥渟ingle digits鈥 reminded me of how folks at Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station, where I once worked, eschew the phrase 鈥渂elow zero鈥 because, quite simply, 鈥渁bove zero鈥 doesn鈥檛 occur in that part of Antarctica. I鈥檇 confronted (negative) 80 degrees during my stint on The Ice and handled it pretty well. In fact, I鈥檇 relished the challenge of strenuous labor, the steady, drudging effort that pumps blood to fingers and toes, lungs and brain. Our apocalyptic present is another matter. Strenuous labor is potentially lethal and the steady, drudging effort is that of patience: hunkering in the shade, trying your damnedest not to budge.
Sean isn鈥檛 exactly a fan of the heat, but he accepts its authority, and this allows him to briefly sneak outside even when doing so is deemed reckless, or at least exceedingly unpleasant. We decided I should visit him ASAP to join one of his 24-hour excursions into the reality that almost nobody is eager to embrace鈥攃all it our current and future home.
I wrote an email to my parents in Vermont after hanging up the phone, explaining the plan, tacking on a paragraph about anxiety and electrolytes. My dad replied: 鈥淒o be careful as we bubble at 108 degrees.鈥 I was unfamiliar with the verb 鈥渢o bubble鈥 in the context of human physiology, but caught his drift. My mom, whose hairdresser claims I am responsible for the grays she is paid to dye blond, cut to the chase with her usual no-nonsense wisdom: 鈥淵ou鈥檝e never experienced that kind of heat. I don鈥檛 think we are meant to experience that kind of heat. I鈥檒l just say this鈥攕how it the utmost respect.”