We clambered into out best frocks for dinner at the Awahanee (thanks, Moyra, it was lovely!) and being wusses and not wanting to venture into the black blackness of Yosemite without streetlights, or, as far as we could see, any kind of reflective guides to steer you away from the odd one-hundred foot drop – we took the bus. Free, fast and as reliable as the sun rising, we'd recommend it.
The Awahanee was a bit like Fawlty Towers without John Cleese or Sybil, but with a pretty startling dining room, piano player and sky-high prices for wine. When we'd finished our meal, we called for the shuttle we were deposited gently back at The Lodge in about five minutes. Within another ten we were sound asleep, dreaming of deserts and maps.
So we left the lushness of Yosemite (which has, incidentally, possibly the nicest people on earth living there) for the hotter, harsher climes of Death Valley. You can imagine the Eddie Izzard sketch around Death Valley – the Pioneers, looking over this hot desert and saying things such as “Well, I wanted to turn LEFT at Fresno, but would he listen to me? And just LOOK at this place! Promised land? I don't think so!”
The drive was longer than we thought – not least because every ten feet Karen would pull over to take a photo – but after climbing to about nine thousand feet to make our way over the Sierra Nevada mountains, we eventually began to drop gently into Death Valley.....
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