2001may31. The vacation was nice. Death Valley hit 115 degrees, which wasn’t a record, but I think it’s a personal best. One of the old codgers at the Saline Valley springs introduced himself by saying something like “hot enough for ya?” which I could have predicted had the heat not melted my brain thirty minutes prior. The springs are an oasis in the middle of a desert, just like the movies. Clothing optional, so I was very careful to hide my pee-pee in a bold series of toreador-like towel manuverings (“ole! opa! didi-7!”). One of the springs has a roster of names listed next to it, including a “thanks” to a certain “Charles” (“'65”) who I was later told was the “ Manson.” I tried to avoid sitting in that pool, but at a certain point it was the only one left.
I soaked in the Manson Death Spring