Death Valley Sunday

A humongous high-pressure dome developed over Las Vegas the second weekend in February. On Saturday the winds were brisk, about 20 knots, but Sunday dawned crystal clear and still. My buddy, Matt Cooper, and I headed for the airport. At 11 a.m. the altimeter setting was 30.73 inches, the highest reading I can recall seeing in the 30-plus years I have been flying. Just for grins, I twisted the altimeter to see what the highest possible mechanical setting was: 31 inches. Of course, air circulating clockwise around this massive high was going to warm Southern California and cause stupendous Santa Ana winds — on Monday we learned that winds as high as 102 mph were recorded in one location, with winds over 70 in a dozen others from San Diego to Santa Barbara. Yet in Las Vegas the flying conditions were sublime. Matt and I pulled my Cessna 310 from the hangar, fueled it, kicked the tires, and committed lift.

Flying folks in Vegas have a marvelous Sunday destination just over the hill — Furnace Creek Airport in Death Valley National Park, 83 nm west of the North Las Vegas Airport. Needless to say, Matt and I didn't go direct. With me in the left seat for the outbound leg, we headed west from the airport, climbing to clear the Spring Mountains — topping the ridge with only a trace of turbulence, and away we went over the Mojave Desert, feeling bucked with life. The air was smooth, with nary a burble, and the sky was a great blue vault. I love days like this.

After we crossed the crest of the Spring Mountains, three mountain ranges were visible to the west. The lowest and closest was the Nopah Range. Sticking up behind it was the Amargosa, which forms the eastern wall of Death Valley. Between these two ranges is a scenic desert village, Shoshone, tucked in against the mountains like something from a Norman Rockwell painting. That Sunday the playa near Shoshone was white with borax, which resembled snow against the washed-out browns and yellows, pinks and reds of the desert. Shoshone is unique among crossroad hamlets in that it has its own airport, a strip 2,300 feet long and 35 feet wide. It looks a bit tight for my 310 so I have never been tempted, but someday, when I am with Matt in his Saratoga, I'll try to talk him into it.

Climbing the slope of the Amargosa Range, which averages about 3,500 feet msl, we skimmed over rock and talus and black basaltic cores of ancient volcanoes. The vast bulk of this range is sedimentary rock tilted at marvelous angles from ancient uplifts.

Passing the ridge crest the land drops precipitously away into the depths of Death Valley, which is one cool ditch. On the west side, rising more than a mile higher than the Amargosa, are the peaks of the Panamint Range. Death Valley itself is a huge fault valley, like the Great Rift Valley in East Africa, and drops to several hundred feet below sea level at Furnace Creek, the site of the lowest airport in the United States. Alas, you can't buy a T-shirt that says you landed there, as you can at Leadville, Colorado, which sits in rarer air at 9,927 feet.

Flying north in the valley toward Furnace Creek with mountains towering above on both sides is the high life — as good as it gets. It reminded me of flying up the Hudson on a clear summer day at a thousand feet with the skyscrapers of Manhattan just off the wing. The memory zipped through my mind and I forced it away: Not today.

As we descended toward Furnace Creek a Bonanza approached from the north. We chatted on unicom, saw each other, then Matt and I looked for the windsock. A dozen planes were parked on the ramp and I saw people, although no one answered our radio calls. There seemed to be little wind, so I swung out for Runway 15.

The runway here is only 3,000 feet long, according to the sectional; 3,100 feet, according to the GPS. Once upon a time it was several thousand feet longer, but the asphalt on the northern end has been ripped up and mounds of dirt heaped on the old grade to discourage anyone tempted to use that area as an overrun.

On the eastern end of the parking mat is a small building that contains restrooms and a telephone. If you lift the receiver you will find yourself talking to the desk clerk at the Furnace Creek Inn, a gorgeous stone hotel built in 1927 on the edge of the valley, a hundred feet or so above the valley floor and about three miles from the present location of the runway. The clerk will send a van to the airport to pick you up. While the ride is free, be sure to tip the driver.

Today one of the inn's vans was already at the airport loading the luggage of a couple who flew in from Oregon in a Cessna 182 for a three-day stay. As the husband fueled the plane, we basked in the balmy, 70-degree day and visited with his wife, who said they came to Death Valley to escape the snow and cold of the Oregon winter.

Unlike Yosemite and Yellowstone, the high season in Death Valley is the winter. And it isn't crowded. The place to stay is the Furnace Creek Inn and Ranch Resort, which is operated by AmFac Parks and Resorts, a national park concessionaire. You will find them online ( www.furnacecreekresort.com). The cheapest time to stay at the resort is, naturally, the summer off-season, when Death Valley regularly records the highest temperatures in the United States. If you think you may be destined for a very hot place, you might want to sample it here some August before you die.

On this day Matt and I ended up riding to the inn in a second van that off-loaded a couple and their luggage beside a well-kept Cessna 170. We shared this ride with the man and two women from the V35 Bonanza that landed after we did. They had just flown in from San Jose, they said. The van took us right by a Perry Dye-designed golf course operated by the resort. At 70 degrees, in that setting, it looked inviting.

At the inn Sunday brunch is an event. Served from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m., it features everything from prepared-to-order omelets to roast beef and shrimp. The $21 tab also includes a fabulous dessert bar. We blew the diet big time while we discussed flying and the state of the republic.

If you arrive too late for the buffet at the inn, ask the van driver to take you to the ranch, which is only a mile from the airport. The café there serves food all afternoon and evening (I like the buffalo burger). The ranch also has cheaper accommodations than those at the inn.

The inn has a porch made for reading a good book while sipping coffee or a cold one. For some reason I can never find time to do much porch sitting. Maybe someday, when life slows down a little. The view from this porch is across the valley at Telescope Peak, the highest summit of the Panamints at 11,049 feet. Gazing upward at a monster like this from a hundred feet below sea level gives the word mountain a whole new meaning. This day it wore a crown of snow.

Matt flew the leg home from the left seat. We were off the ground with at least 500 feet of runway remaining. The 310 climbed away from the valley floor like a homesick angel. We headed south, down the valley, between the enormous mountain ranges towering on our left and right.

This is the American West, with a capital W. The sweeping vistas and naked mountains of the great empty deserts have a unique, stark beauty. And it never looks the same twice; as the shadows lengthen there are always new colors, a new vision.

When we got back to Las Vegas the monster high was beginning to disintegrate: the altimeter was down to 30.64 inches. That afternoon at home I told my wife, Deborah, how it had been. "As we flew over Shoshone, I told Matt, 'A perfect day, a good airplane, most of our bills paid, and our wives aren't mad at us.' And Matt said, 'Not right now, anyway.'"

"The angels weep for you," Deborah replied.

Being happily married, I let her have the last word. But the truth is, as we flew through the mountains I thought I heard the angels sing.

Stephen Coonts is the author of nine New York Times bestsellers. His latest novel is Saucer, published in March by St. Martins/Griffin.