A lake suddenly formed in Death Valley: it appeared where for 20 years there was only dry salt

Tourists typically come to Death Valley National Park to experience the scorching heat and the barren landscapes. This fall they were attracted to another natural phenomenon - water. The publication told in more detail The New York Times.

Photo: IStock

Death Valley National Park has roadside wells Furnace Creek and Stovepipe Wells, and at sunset tourists are attracted to Dante's View, and Hell's Gate greets them to the east.

It's so hot in the summer here, along California's southeastern spine, that some of the 800 residents—almost all park employees—can bake cakes in their cars. The large unofficial thermometer has risen to 130 degrees (+54,4 Celsius) in recent years. This is what makes the park attractive to travelers; it has experienced some of the highest temperatures ever recorded on Earth.

But that’s not what prompted 59-year-old Lata Kini and her husband, 61-year-old Ramanand, to pack their bags and drive about seven hours to get here on a whim. Instead, they were drawn to the mysticism of another natural force.

“I’m here for the water,” Keeney said, watching the rising sun turn the undulating rock peaks in shades of pink and deep purple.

In the distance were the white salt marshes of Badwater Basin, the lowest point in North America, nearly 300 feet (91 m) below sea level. It was there, in the middle of salt-covered land, that a huge lake appeared almost overnight, demonstrating how a changing climate is changing life in one of the country's most remote landscapes.

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On August 20, cities in Southern California prepared for the downpour caused by Tropical Storm Hilary. Many regions suffered minor damage. But not Death Valley.

Throughout the park, rangers found that water gushing from the mountains had damaged all roads, making many of them impassable. The park received 2,2 inches (5,5 cm) of rain that day—more than it has received in a year and more than has ever fallen in a single day in Death Valley. The previous record was set just over a year ago, when flooding in the park left 1 people stranded.

After this, the park was closed for the longest period - almost two months, and reopened to visitors on October 15.

In the West, many national parks are of a scale that is difficult to comprehend without visiting them. Death Valley, about the size of Connecticut, is the largest national park in the United States. It became a national monument in 1933 under President Herbert Hoover, in part to protect two million acres from mining. The park is dotted with objects that tell the story of the boom and bust of borax mining in the area, as well as failed attempts at gold and silver mining. The park's area was designated a national park only in 1994 and today covers 3,4 million acres (1,3 million hectares).

The park now attracts more than a million visitors a year, many of whom stop en route from Las Vegas, Nevada, to see other, perhaps more traditionally photogenic, national parks such as Yosemite. However, Death Valley may look familiar to newcomers: the sand dunes and rock formations here served as the landscape of Tatooine in the original Star Wars film.

Park officials said the recent closure of the park for several weeks underscores the need to adapt to a future in which weather is increasingly extreme and less predictable.

“All climate change models suggest that this region of the country will experience more frequent and severe storms,” said Abby Wines, the park ranger in charge of safety and public affairs.

Although few people associate the park with water, flash floods have always shaped the topography of Death Valley: debris washed out of canyon mouths, forming fan-shaped accumulations of sediment. But today, floods cause more harm to residents and visitors to the region, since it can take many months to restore roads instantly destroyed by water.

The Badwater Basin is typically hard ground, essentially covered in salt from water that has flowed down the surrounding mountains and slopes over the millennia and evaporated under the scorching heat. But when Death Valley reopened to visitors this fall, they were greeted by a wondrous sight: a mirror-smooth body of water.

For the first time in almost 20 years, a lake has formed here - the last time was in the winter of 2005 - and this lake is much larger.

At the Badwater Basin boardwalk, where busloads of tourists usually come to see the salt flats, November families posed for selfies with their feet in the salty water. A lone kayaker floated by. The sun heated the air, creating a certain dissonance with the crunch of salt underfoot, which felt like week-old snow.

“The earth is constantly changing,” said Katharina Riedl, 50, looking out at bare hills dotted with minerals reflecting off the water. “It’s a little overwhelming and a little scary.”

The lake was especially desirable to Mandy Campbell, who is responsible for the preservation of historical sites of the Timbisha Shoshone Tribe, who have called the valley home for many centuries. His appearance meant the deliverance of the land, parched by the long absence of rain.

But the lake also became a reminder of what her community had lost.

She stopped at the small, unoccupied adobe house where she had lived with her grandmother decades ago.

The adobe houses were built in 1930 when tribal members were forced to move about a mile and a half from what is now the Furnace Creek Visitor Center in the national park. This was one of many instances where the federal government displaced the Timbisha Shoshone Tribe over the years.

The village is now home to a few dozen people, mostly elders, who live in shabby trailers scattered across a barren patch of land adjacent to the highway. Their coolers are increasingly failing due to rising summer temperatures.

When Campbell, 49, was a child, the honey mesquite bushes that dotted the desert soaked up groundwater and infrequent rainfall to produce a crop of beans. She recalls that in the hot summer the bushes were used as shade huts. She played in the dunes, digging her toes into the sand to cool them.

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Now when the rains come, they overwhelm the parched land. Thirsty, invasive tamarisk trees that were planted in the village by the federal government have turned green and the honey mesquite has become prickly and barren. Many of them died.

Campbell says that while she has a good relationship with park officials today, the closure served as a reprieve — a window into the valley's past.

“I think Mother Nature needed a break. The valley needed a break, she said. “Every time it floods, the roads get worse, but it’s quiet here.” It's calm here."

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