Abandoned roads - Jos Lammers

The more the road descends, from about 3500 feet to
finally 282 feet below sea level in Death Valley, the origin
of the name becomes clear. Hundred and twelve degrees,
reports Chevy by now. Along the road sits a tank ‘radiator
water’ for emergencies. We pull over, get out for a minute
anyhow and taste the dry crusts of salt on the bottom of
what used to be sea. The water that runs across the salty
ground in tiny streams, gave the place its name: Badwater.
Far away the perpetual snow twinkles on Mount Whitney,
at 14494 feet the highest peak in the United States. We
spread our arms to sense the heat practically lifting us.
We spend the night at Stovepipe Wells, a wooden village
right in the middle of Death Valley. One hundred and
twenty degrees, a thermometer in the shadow reads. Only
at midnight, as we lie watching the stars on the lawn in
front of our room, does the temperature drop a few degrees.
I read Janny the last bit of my notes about then by
flashlight. After I’m done, I switch the light off. In the
dark, we hold hands.
When we walk in the morning over to the local diner
for breakfast, here too the ravens follow us, with slanted
hips and their eyes fixed on us. “Kaaa, kaaaa.” “Take
care of us”, they’re saying, explains the man behind the
counter. They even knock on his kitchen door early in
the morning. “Take care of us.” And so he does. He knows
them all by their sound and how frayed they look. “They
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