The Long Way: Camping and Connecting in Death Valley National Park
- Gisa Seeholzer
- 4 days ago
- 3 min read
February 9–13, 2025
Some people call it barren.
But in Death Valley, I saw beginning.
This was the first stop on a journey I’ve named The Long Way—a path I’m walking with my children to reconnect with myself, with them, and with the land. We’re visiting national parks not just to travel, but to listen. To breathe slower. To live more deliberately. I’ve spent so long holding space for others. This trip is a way to hold space for us.
We arrived just as the morning light cast soft pinks and golds across the desert floor. Our first stop: Badwater Basin, the lowest point in North America at 282 feet below sea level. Salt shimmered like snow beneath our feet, and the air held a weight that silenced everything unnecessary. My daughter Charlotte wrapped her arm around her younger brother, Luke—the two of them anchored in the moment, the mountains rising behind them like quiet witnesses.
Charlotte was my right hand the entire trip. Always nearby, always helping. She absorbed every detail of camp life—how to pitch the tent, how to pack up, how to care for her little brother with gentle steadiness. She didn’t ask for praise; she just showed up. There’s a strength in her I hope she never doubts.
Luke, ever the storyteller, invented a character named Dumpster Boy—a quiet figure who lives inside one of the campground dumpsters. But Dumpster Boy isn’t scary. He’s an orphan, making his way through the desert, collecting scraps left behind by campers—not just their trash, but the things they forgot: a lost sock, a broken lantern, a half-melted crayon.
Dumpster Boy turns these remnants into treasures. He builds little homes from bottle caps and tin, makes maps from fast food wrappers, and leaves kindness where people least expect it. Luke said he’s not trying to scare anyone—he’s just looking for a place to belong.
And in that moment, I realized Dumpster Boy wasn’t just a story. He was a symbol—for all the parts of us that feel left behind, and all the ways children understand the world through myth and magic. Through stories of survival and soft-hearted resilience.
Our days in the valley were full but unhurried. At the Borax Museum, Luke’s eyes lit up at the sight of the massive wagons and ancient tools. He wanted to know how things worked, who lived here, what they carried, and why. His curiosity, like the land, felt wide and deep.
Charlotte loved the sand dunes—how they shifted and whispered with each gust of wind, how the light changed them from hour to hour. We brought a green plastic sled and took turns sliding down the golden slopes, laughing so hard our ribs ached. Both kids raced to climb them again and again, sandy and breathless and completely alive. That memory will stay etched in my heart: their joy framed by the endless desert and a sky that felt like forever.
One afternoon, Luke crouched beside a rock wall in Golden Canyon, tracing the sediment layers with his small fingers, quiet and focused. He didn’t say much. Just listened. I stood back, letting him have that moment. It felt like the earth was speaking to him—and he was listening in a language older than words.
That evening, I noticed his shirt. GROW AND FLOW AWAY, it read.The phrase felt like a message, not just for him, but for me. A quiet nudge from the universe to trust this process, to let the journey unfold.
We watched shadows stretch across Zabriskie Point, marveled at the expanse from Dante’s View, and laid on our backs in the quiet dark, counting stars we couldn’t name.
Death Valley, with all its extremes—its heat, stillness, and depth—was the perfect place to begin. It asked nothing from us but presence. It gave us room to remember what it feels like to just be together.
The Long Way isn’t about checking off destinations. It’s about returning to something ancient inside us. Slower days. Shared wonder. Holding each other through change. I don’t know where every bend in this road will lead, but I know that what we’re building together—me, Charlotte, and Luke—is sacred.
We didn’t rush.
We wandered.
We rested.
We remembered.
And somewhere in all that dust and silence, a little healing took root.
This was only the beginning.
We’re just getting started.
This is The Long Way.
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