Several months ago, when something called coronavirus was barely garnering a 6-inch story on page 4 of the local newspaper, my computer beeped with a message from a colleague in California by way of Montana with an invitation to participate in a camping trip to Death Valley National Park.
The trip was planned for early March, she said, and would consist of about a dozen people, including a handful of media types, an outfitter/guide and a few industry folks. The late winter timeframe came with the promise of friendly weather while avoiding the sizzling summer temperatures for which Death Valley is famous. Coronavirus, with the death and havoc it would bring, was an insignificant blip on the national health radar. I signed on, unsure of what exactly to expect.
Death Valley National Park is about a two-hour drive from Las Vegas’ McCarran International Airport and sprawls across 3.4 million acres along the California-Nevada border. All but a sliver of the park is in California. It is the largest national park outside of Alaska. Hemmed by mountains, the valley floor stretches nearly 150 miles. Most of the park is designated wilderness, much of which is surprisingly accessible via a maze of unpaved, hardscrabble roads. A few are accessible only by four-wheel drive or all-wheel drive, but many are family-vehicle friendly.
We spent our first afternoon in a trio of rented Jeeps crawling along Titus Canyon Road, a 24-mile-long, one-way trek that follows a craggy, winding path through a fold between Funeral and Grapevine mountains. About halfway through the lonesome, rocky route, we encountered a family of three in an aging Nissan Altima, a sedan that struck me as more suited to the Watterson Expressway than Titus Canyon. We paused to offer help, but no help was needed. They were picnicking.
Death Valley is a land of extremes. It has sand dunes and sidewinders, scorpions and ghost towns. It is the hottest recorded spot on the planet (134 degrees F on July 10, 1913) and the driest place in North America, with an average of less than 2 inches of rain annually. (Kentucky is drenched with about 45 inches of rain annually and is relatively cool by comparison, with a recorded high heat mark of 114 degrees F on July 28, 1930, in Greensburg.)
Rare but intense Death Valley thunderstorms generate flash floods that can move boulders the size of cars. Its most visited and well-known spot is Badwater Basin, which—at 282 feet below sea level—is the lowest point in the continental United States. But about 16 miles west of Badwater Basin, snow-capped Telescope Peak towers 11,331 feet above the valley floor and is the park’s highest point. The park is a dazzling, desolate and sometimes dangerous place speckled with piercing light. Nighttime also sparkles with starlight and moonlight, earning Death Valley a designation as an International Dark Sky Park.
We emerged from Titus Canyon and traveled south along the valley floor; crossed Panamint Mountains; and finally, in the fading light, made camp and prepared for Takibi time.
Our hosts had camp mostly set up by the time we arrived. I stowed my gear, dug through my pack for a jacket against the evening chill, and returned to the crackling fire, where camp cook Meredith Terhardt was marinating pork steaks for the grill.
We were camping just outside the park boundary, and the fire was the reason why. Inside the park, campfires are restricted to designated fire rings, and one of the things our hosts wanted to demonstrate was the fire pit—officially the Takibi Fire & Grill.
It seemed a nifty setup—something of a collapsible pit, well made from stainless steel with a simple design. I gave it little mind. The fire was roaring and the steaks sizzling under a cloudless sky awash in starlight.
The next evening, following a day roaming through a park nearly surreal in its landscape and natural lighting, I watched while Wayne Coxen took about 30 seconds to assemble a Takibi and another couple of minutes to get a fire going in it. This time, I was more attentive. Watching Coxen, I realized this would be a near-perfect tool for river camps, shore lunches and deer camp. It weighs 24 pounds, is nearly indestructible, and comes with a lifetime guarantee. A carrying pouch is included. It is as simple as it is functional and has apparently been a staple for camping, cooking and general outside gatherings in Japan for decades. Now, it is being given a fresh push into the U.S.
You can add a slew of accessories (oven, grill pan, coal bed and more), but the basic unit (base plate, fireplace, grill bridge and grill net) are all that’s really needed.
“There have only been two returned during the entire time they’ve been in production,” said Coxen, content coordinator for Snow Peak USA, the company that makes the Takibi. “I have mine set up in my backyard right now, but I use it on road trips and when camping. And I use it on the river.”
A couple of days later, I flew home. Within weeks, the world was engulfed by coronavirus and its deadly manifestation, COVID-19. Kentucky and most of the country was in lockdown. Death Valley National Park was closed due to the virus. Gov. Andy Beshear was reminding citizens daily to be safe at home.
I glanced at the bag in the corner of my office and recalled what Coxen had said. “I have mine set up in my backyard.”
“Let’s try this,” I suggested to my wife. We did. You should, too.
For information on the Takibi, visit snowpeak.com/takibi.