The plan was to drive up to the White Mountain trailhead and bike to the summit. We planned to sleep on top and descend early the next morning, continue down toward Wyman Creek Canyon and on to White Mountain City. From there we would ride on to Highway 168 over Westgard Pass and down into Fish Lake Valley. From Fish Lake Valley continue south on dirt roads toward Eureka Valley, and climb over the Last Chance Mountains toward Death Valley.Once in Death Valley we would switch to road bikes and ride the last 65 miles to Badwater. Sounds pretty simple, as most plans do.

I drafted my father and father-in-law to drive the support vehicle. The roads they would have to follow us on were pretty narrow with sand pits and water crossings that would swallow most vehicles. Fortunately my father owns a four-wheel drive pick-up that can hold our supplies as well as our bikes. Basically they would have to keep us fed, hydrated, and supported with gear.

We left from Sacramento on the Thursday before the last weekend of August. There was a freak rainstorm that came in that night and we couldn’t help but wonder if the storm would drop any snow on the summit and how this would affect the ride off the top. The next morning in Mammoth Lakes we could clearly see White Mountain and its new snowcap. This could have changed our attempt to ride off the summit; however, we would not know until we were on the snow. That Friday we were to ride our bikes to the summit; however, supplies had to be gathered first. We loaded up on such items as pasta for carbs, lean lunchmeats for protein, and fruits and vegetables to keep it exciting. In addition, we carried water, sports drink, and juices for hydration. Once supplied we were on our way south on Highway 395 toward Big Pine.This is the last stop for food and fuel. I highly recommend topping off your tank here. Turning east on Highway 168 and then north toward the Ancient Bristle Cone Pine Forest follow the signs to the trailhead.

The trailhead to White Mountain is approximately 12,000 feet and the summit is at 14,242 feet. This would seem like a simple 2,000 foot climb; however, there are two drops in the trail that eventually increase the total gain to the summit. We hung at 12,000 feet most of the afternoon and acclimatized as best as possible. Knowing that it would be pretty cold on the summit and the energy required to bike there, we took in a large pasta dinner several hours before heading out. I highly recommend a support crew that will take care of all of your needs. Later in the ride that pampering becomes necessary to stay focused on the goal.

We started biking for the summit sometime around five in the afternoon. At 12,000 feet it takes sometime to get your breathing rhythm, and the altitude makes a small hill seem mountainous. But once underway the ride was fairly straightforward. After about two miles the High Altitude Research Center is reached. From here on out, the trail gets a little steeper and more technical. Low gears are required if not for the trail as well as the effects the altitude was having on us. As we persist, the sun was going down in the west and there was a noticeable temperature change. It’s that familiar biting cold that can only be felt in the mountains. The dryness of the air and the cold along with the heavy breathing as I climbed created a thirst in my throat no matter how much I tried to quench it.

After climbing descending and climbing again we reach the snow line. The snow felt like soft mushy cold mashed potatoes. As we pushed our bikes toward the summit, the snow created more resistance. At this point, we started to wonder how this snow might affect our ride down the next morning. If it stayed soft we would sink right through; however, if it freezes overnight it could support our weight and make for one smooth downhill ride. We reached the summit and found the research shack at the top locked, so we set up tarps and our sleeping bags on the only dry spot, under an eve on some very hard and cold concrete. The wind began to howl and the temperature dropped. It was a very long night of tossing and turning from discomfort and anxiety of what the next day had in store.

After a sleepless night we prepared for the descent to our support crew and hot coffee. Fortunately, the snow had hardened overnight, and as we waited for the sun to rise we surveyed our surroundings. To the west lay the Palisades and Mount Whitney. To the north the rest of the White Mountain range and to the east lay the Great Basin of Nevada. Of course toward the south is our goal "Death Valley". There was an orange and pink alpinglow in the Sierras reflecting from the new fallen snow. We readied our gear and began the descent. I left first and then Larry followed. Except for the occasional holes created by the previous day’s climber's footprints, the frozen snow made for a smooth and controllable ride. After about two miles we were back on dirt and loose shale. The temperature had already begun to rise. The descent was easier than I imagined. There were loose scree areas to negotiate; however, we were past the research center in less than a half-hour and back at base camp in another fifteen minutes.

Once in base camp we shared stories about the ride and the last nights weather conditions. The temperature at 12,000 feet had already warmed up so much we were down to shorts and long sleeve tee shirts. I knew this was going to be one long hot day.

After refueling on breakfast and a quick cup of coffee it was back on the trail. At this point the trail was a wide graded gravel road which required us to get into a mind numbing spin. After finally reaching Wyman Creek Canyon road, we began what I would call an exhilarating 8,000 foot descent into the desert. We dropped fast down an unmaintained road, over rock debris, and at least twelve stream crossings. Some of them so deep that my front tire would submerge to the brake pads. As we descended deeper and deeper into the canyon, the temperatures climbed into the upper 90’s. The cold stream crossings became more of a relief than the shock they were higher in the canyon. We passed by some old decaying ranch houses and never saw a single soul during the canyon run.

At the bottom, the dirt road became deep sand, and while we were able to stay on our bikes, the effort hardly seemed worth it. The road eventually connected to Highway 168 near the long deserted ghost town of White Mountain City. We turned east on 168 toward the 3,000-foot climb up Westgard pass. The air was very dry and the temperatures were climbing into the high 90’s. As we climbed this steep paved road the heat waves could easily be seen on the horizon. We climbed and saw no one and suddenly there was a white pickup that made its way toward us. Our first thoughts were of the support vehicle and the cold drinks it carried. Once closer we knew it wasn’t to be so. The vehicle was too small and a different make. The vehicle slowed down and as the occupants rolled down their windows they asked where we came from. White Mountain was in clear view and with our dry throats we were unable to speak loud enough so as to be heard. I just pointed t the mountain and continued upward.

At the summit pass, Fish Valley lay before us. It was a steep curving downhill ride on the pavement. I could only think of how much air I released from my tires earlier in the sandy canyon roads below and how mushy it made the turns feel. At last, we saw the support vehicle. It was parked at appropriately name Oasis Road with food and drink ready for our consumption. We ate and drank and told each other about the route. So far we were feeling pretty good. I stayed with my hydration plan of 16 oz of sports drink an hour, along with constant sips off my hydration pack.

After lunch, we went south on Eureka Valley Road.The road was a dirt and sand double track with a slight climb. Unfortunately, the previous rain had washed the road out so that the support vehicle could not follow. We reevaluated the map and decided that the support vehicle would go around and back track from the east side of Death Valley National Park and meet us some place on the road.

For the next 30 miles Larry and I were on our own.The temperatures were in the low 100s and the road looked long and straight. The heat waves rose over the valley so as to look like there was a large body of water ahead. It was a mirage of course. We climbed a slight rise for a few miles and once on top we began to drop into a canyon. The road was definitely washed out and appeared more like a dry riverbed than a road. Many times we dropped into washes that crossed the remnants of our road. With steep sandy drops the road was definitely not passable with a four-wheel drive vehicle. The near vertical canyon walls were steep and rose several hundred feet. As we dropped further into the canyon, we noticed that the canyon floor had become so narrow that even when the road was not washed out only one vehicle at a time could have driven through.

As we proceeded, we came upon a small sign that identified the Park boundary. This really gave us a sense of accomplishment and really lifted our sprits.We continued south and the canyon opened up to a large valley. This was the large expanse of Eureka Valley. Bordered by mountains on all sides, we dropped slowly into the sediment filled basin. We were in the direct sun and it was getting so hot that Larry and I noticed the heat building inside our black bike shoes. We continue to drop until we reach a short paved road. At the intersection of Eureka Valley and Death Valley Roads we turned east toward Last Chance Mountain.

This short section of paved road is about 6 miles long and climbs about 3,000 feet to Last Chance Pass. The paved section is straight and wide open as to get full sun.Continuing east we reached another intersection. South Eureka Road leads south and is much longer than the route we are taking. At the intersection there was a sign that said Furnace Creek 86 miles. Larry asked if our destination is before that and I am reluctant to tell him that Badwater is at least 18 miles further. We proceed to climb to the pass and as I look at my thermometer it reads 118 degrees.This is as hot as it gets that day, but the air is so dry that I constantly have to sip on my hydration pack. As far as my hydration plan goes, without our support vehicle we have to conserve. Since we last saw the support vehicle, we were 3 hours into the ride and both of my water bottles are empty.

Occasionally, there was a slight breeze that flowed down from the pass. It was our only relief from the relentless heat. I was overly optimistic to think we would have traveled further then our present location. It was extremely hard to go more than a minute or two without a sip of water. At that rate we would be dry by the time we reached the pass. The going was slow.At one point Larry estimated our speed at a 6-mile per hour pace, we would be at the summit pass in 45 minutes. I with my speedometer didn’t have the heart to tell him we were going closer to 3 to 4 miles per hour. As we neared the top, I stopped to eat as Larry continued. Suddenly, there was the support vehicle! Larry was there guzzling down sports drink and as I neared my energy picked up.

We ate and drank, drank and ate. We rested in the shade of the truck and tried to reenergize, but the heat and dehydration took too much out of us. It was difficult to start again, but we were determined to follow this through. Once on the Pass, the road turned to dirt again and we began a fast steep descent into Death Valley itself. The road was washed out and wide, but the rock was so loose that it would be easy to lose it. Our support vehicle went ahead to wait at Crankshaft Junction. We flew down and once at the bottom my hands were aching from having to brake so much.Once at Crankshaft Junction, we turned south and after another 20 miles we would reach the north entrance of the Park and the beginning of the paved road. There we would switch to road bikes and continue south toward Badwater.

The dirt road was wide, flat, and sandy. As the sun sat behind the Last Chance Range the temperatures finally began to drop into the 90’s. Our support vehicle went ahead and this turned out to be a major mistake. With the recent rains the road was washed out in places and was sandier than usual. As it became darker we realized that our bike lights were in the support vehicle. As we continued to ride southward we would drop into these washed out areas and crash. Sometimes the drops were so severe I went over my handlebars. Fortunately for us it was sandy enough to break our falls.

The full moon began to rise and this helped somewhat. I would recommend radios to s tay in contact with the support vehicle, that way if any thing goes wrong, or assistance is needed, help is a short call away. The support vehicle returned out of concern for our not showing up at the ranger station. We attached our lights and told the support crew to get some fuel for the vehicle. Gas stations are scarce in that area and most are closed by at least 8 p.m.Finally, we popped out onto the paved road near the Ubehebe Crater. After another three miles, we arrived at the ranger station somewhere around 10 p.m.

Without our support vehicle, we decided to get some sleep. It is amazing how comfortable warm hard concrete can be when you are that tired. It was still pretty hot at 3,000 feet and the bugs were a real nuisance. After about two hours of rest our support vehicle showed up. They had to convince a storeowner to open the pumps and sell them some fuel. We ate, and prepared our road bikes for the final leg of our journey. We still had another 68 miles to go, but at least it was on paved road and a 3,000-foot drop.

We started out ahead of the support vehicle as they reloaded the gear. We wanted them to drive behind us and provide some lighting with their headlights. It was a pretty fast and dark descent. There were no lights in the area. The road was the same color as the shoulder. The surrounding terrain was a combination of a gray sandy soil and rocks blackened over time by the intense sun. In the moonlight, everything was washed out into a light gray or black depending on whether I was in the moonlight or not. The contrast was so intense that it was very hard for my eyes to adjust. I would just look straight ahead and focus on the faded center divide line in the middle of the road.

Descending fast into the darkness it wasn’t until 20 miles later that the support vehicle caught up with us. From here on out the headlights of the support vehicle lighted our way and made it much easier to relax our intense focus on the road. The road continued south as we dropped toward Furnace Creek. We began the repeated climbs, descents, climbs, and descents. I was hoping to get a better break from the downhill, but as the rest of the trip went, this part too would continue to have climbs. We took a short break at Beatty Junction. Finally, we crossed the sea level marker. This gave me a brief burst of energy that soon faded with the next climb.Still heading south on the North Highway we noted these occasional cool spots. I didn’t know why they were there, but every so often there were these almost cold spots where the temperature was drastically lower then surrounding areas. The difference was so great that it almost gave me goose bumps. Later, I found out they were salt creeks.

After a while I could see the lights of Furnace Creek.It was still some 20 miles away, but the lights made it seem closer. I could smell the strong scent of sage in the air. It was so deserted out there that we only saw one car during the whole road ride from the ranger station to Badwater. This was a relief to me. I didn’t want to deal with sleepy drivers passing our support vehicle and then finding us in the lane just ahead. After a few more ups and downs we reached Furnace Creek.Larry and I took a break at the visitor’s center and began to contemplate our motivation to Badwater. A little rest and food are a good thing. Once our bodies were partially restored with fuel we could think straight enough to realize the necessity of pushing forward.

Climbing back into the saddle of my bike, that familiar muscle pain quickly resumed. It was 3:30 a.m. and as we looked at the only two hotels in town it was easy to fantasize about checking in for the night.Just south of town the road to Badwater is clearly marked and begins to turn southwest. Only 18 miles to go! I try to think of it as the start of a casual ride around home. I thought to myself 18 miles that’s not at all far. It’s only as far as a bike commute to work, or a ride around Lake Natoma. No big deal, this will be easy. In reality we are both slowing down.

On our left, there are mountains and cliffs and as we descend they appear to get taller. On our right, a flat dry salt lakebed has gotten larger the further we rode.The moonlight reflected on the dry lake causing an almost pure white, like sugar spread across a white countertop. I continued to see faint road signs in the distance that while I knew were not indicators of our goal I still hoped they were. We passed several roads such as Artist Drive and Natural Bridge Road. Suddenly, we saw a sign that read “Badwater ¼ Mile”. I could hardly believe it. We rolled into the graveled parking lot and are the only ones there. No surprise, since it is 4:30 am. No fan fair, just a beer at a picnic table and a few pictures around the sign that marks “Badwater –282 feet”. Up on a cliff there was another sign that marked sea level.

There was this familiar joy and sadness when a goal is first reached. I was glad it is over, but at the same time I felt like I should have been more excited about this accomplishment. Also, I couldn’t help but feel a little sad that all the planning, and talking to friends about the trip is over. All I can do now is plan another trip. Maybe next time a ride from Badwater to White Mountain?

Two years later my wife and I are at Badwater. We look around and it is full of tourists. Some amazed at the vastness, and some congratulating themselves for just being there. I wanted to tell everyone of White-Death, but I don’t. Who would believe me? Would they even care? As I listened to each of them, and I realized that each person’s adventure is not how they get there. It’s just getting out there.

(All altitudes, gains, losses and mileages herein are estimates).