heavy with the foul smell of sulfur. With every step, the sharp crust scraped our legs and then rubbed salt into our wounds. 
We had made a pact to go from one extreme to the other, to walk from the bottom to the top of America. Since there was no place to sit without taking a hot mud bath, we pushed on, hoping to reach our first camp before sunrise brought with it the power of the blazing sun. Just before dawn, we found the supply of water and food that we'd buried at the foot of the mountains. Nearby lay the skeleton of a small animal that had strayed too far from shelter. We each drank about a quart of water, snacked on some peanuts and pitched our tents. Inside the tent the thermometer registered 128oF; outside, 113. It did not make sense. I laid the thermometer on the ground, and the mercury went to 150 degrees — the highest it could go. We had underestimated just how hot dirt and sand can get under the sun. It felt as if the ground were on fire; the humidity must have been nil. We did not know it, but temperatures surpassing 200 degrees had been recorded on the valley floor. Instead of protecting us from the 113-degree heat, the tents were concentrating the heat radiating from the ground as well as the sun's rays, baking us alive.
By nine that night some of the heat had dissipated and it was finally cool enough to walk again. Neither of us had really slept for 40 hours. Worse, we had laid our boots, caked with muddy salt, on the ground to dry. The hot ground had baked them into weird shapes. Each seemed to weigh 20 pounds. Our next water container was only five miles away by a rough road. Unfortunately, there had been flash floods in that area, destroying all familiar features and making it impossible to find the water. This was serious. We were developing severe sores on our feet, but there was no stopping — finding the water was more important than the terrible pain. About 2:30 a.m. we stumbled on the water and food; we had been on the valley floor for 26 hours. My swollen feet felt as if I'd been walking across hot coals. My second pair of boots did not fit, not even a little bit.
and we were near the end of our endurance. In the distance, 17 miles away, we could see the lights of a town. We attended to our feet and discussed giving up. In our condition, with sores and 30-pound packs, we could probably make two miles an hour. It would take a gloomy 8.5 hours to walk to town just to surrender. On the other hand, the next supply of food was eight miles away, at 2,300 feet in the mountains. With extra time to cover the climb, we judged the food to be over six hours away. It would hurt just as bad to give up as to push on, and it would be 15 degrees or so cooler at 2,300 feet. Still, if sores and fatigue kept us from reaching the rocks before noon, it could be fatal. We decided to gamble and headed for the high country.
walking along bare terrain littered with brush and chunks of white quartz; we had miles to go before the rocks would rise above us and offer shade, but it was only two hours until sunrise. Neither of us could survive another day stranded under a heat-reflecting blanket. An hour and a half later the sky suddenly burst into flame above the rim of mountains, flooding the valley floor with a light the color of blood. It was still cool — perhaps 85 degrees — but within hours the temperature would rise to 120. For the first time in my life, I was terrified by a beautiful sunrise. 
In the rocks above the bare slope, we found a narrow valley — and shade. Finally we could rest. We shared the valley with a small bird feeding on a lovely bush with red flowers and large thorns. I suddenly loved Death Valley — it slammed you from one extreme to the other. My heart seemed to expand inside my chest, and I could feel tears welling up.
and we could swap our muddy boots for our clean extra boots. I felt like skipping. By noon that day we reached an abandoned zinc mine where we had hidden more water. We were going to make it. It was easier, now, to walk during the day and sleep in the cool of the evening. The next day, climbing another range of mountains, we came upon an intermittent creek running down a small valley, with grass and clusters of trees — actual trees — along its banks. Ahead, water flowed over large rocks that had formed a natural dam.
we were practically jogging. In the middle of the following day, we began to climb up Mount Whitney. We reached the snow-covered summit in a day and a half. As we stood at the highest point in the United States (outside of Alaska) the world dropped away on all sides. Then I knew, really knew, that there is a way to get from one extreme to the other, from the valleys to the peaks. (Words:1,010)
