Death Valley bills itself as the lowest, driest and hottest national park in America. Each summer, an outlandish heat grips the valley, making it unfit for humans.
People come anyway. Around 250,000 of the more than 1 million people who visit the park annually come in June, July and August. (In 2024, the park logged 1.4 million visitors for the entire year, the highest ever.)
The park's popularity coincides with another trend: rising temperatures. Seven of the 10 hottest summers in the park have occurred in the last decade. In 2007, the average temperature was 102.6 degrees; in 2024, 104.5. Last July, the park withstood temperatures of 125 or higher for nine days in a row: a record.
This summer, temperatures have risen as high as 124.
Surprisingly, none of this is a deterrent to people like Steven Yoder, from Virginia, who was in the middle of a R.V. trip across the American West with his wife and six children in mid-July. They marveled at Death Valley's dramatic peaks and stark Martian landscape. "In Virginia, we consider our heat pretty punishing, but this is something else," he said wonderingly.
"Occasionally we get visitors who are a little surprised by what 120 degrees actually feels like," said Matthew Lamar, a park ranger. He added that most summer visitors have a safe experience as long as they follow the park's safety protocols: Minimize time in the elements (no more than 10 minutes away from an air-conditioned car), drink water (at least a gallon a day), eat salty snacks and stick to paved roads.
It's not the carefree style most associate with vacationing in a national park, but Death Valley isn't like other national parks. "If you're going to live in a hot place, you might as well live in one of the hottest places on Earth," said Mr. Lamar, who has been with the park since 2016. "You get some level of bragging rights from that."
Who Are These People?
I wanted to learn more about travelers who subject themselves to these conditions, so on a recent July weekend, I booked a two-night stay at the Oasis at Death Valley. The Oasis is made up of two hotels inside the park, the Inn at Death Valley and the Ranch at Death Valley. They sit downhill from a natural spring that provides drinking water, fills the pools and irrigates the 18-hole golf course. I chose to stay at the inn.
The Spanish-style hotel opened in 1927, predating Death Valley's national monument designation by six years, and it targets luxury travelers who want a taste of the extreme. (In earlier days, it attracted the likes of Clark Gable, Bette Davis and Elvis Presley.)
European travelers, many of them families with children on their summer holidays, typically make up two-thirds of the guests in July and August, but when I arrived, things were quiet. Darren Leo, the hotel's general manager, attributes this to the overall slump in international visitors to the United States rather than any reluctance to avoid the desert climate itself.
For some, the more drastic the heat, the more appealing the park becomes, said Cameron Cole, the hotel's director of sustainability. "If there's some headline that says Death Valley is breaking heat records, we'll get a spike in visitors," he said. "You'd think it would drive people away, but they come to get a good Instagram post."
Marathon in the Desert
The hottest it got during my visit was 117 degrees. But the absence of crowds was a plus: At night, under a full moon, I swam in the pool -- which stays at a pleasant 87 degrees year-round -- and didn't see another soul. I walked the lush gardens at midday, enjoying the shade of 100-year-old date palms next to a shimmering green pond. In these surroundings, not only did the heat feel tolerable, it was almost decadent.
One afternoon, I drove 20 minutes to Badwater Basin in the park. The dried-up lake bed is the lowest point in North America, and high on visitors' must-see lists. Walking onto the glittering salt flats, I felt like I was inside an artist's sketch pad, with only the landscape's bare elements filled in: flat basin, bare rock, sun, salt. It was oddly peaceful.
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It was also hot. I tried to limit my time outdoors to the park's suggested 10 minutes, but it ended up being closer to 17 because I was interviewing tourists. When I finally retreated to my car, I turned the air-conditioning up to full blast.
The park estimates that one person dies from heat-related illness every other year -- though there were four fatalities last year alone. (Statistically, the deadliest national parks are the Grand Canyon and Lake Mead.) The unusual heat seems to provoke unusual behavior. One man, after returning from a hike last August, drove his car off a 20-foot ledge; another seared the soles of his feet walking barefoot on sand dunes. When injuries occur, the staff has to be strategic: The nearest hospital with a trauma center is two hours and 15 minutes away, in Las Vegas.
"Our most deadly trail is Golden Canyon," said Abby Wines, the park's acting deputy superintendent, referring to a trail system near the visitor center. Because of its deceptive length and sloping walls that provide zero shade, it has the highest number of fatalities. Two summers ago, a 71-year-old hiker collapsed outside of a restroom there in 121-degree heat; paramedics were unable to revive him.
The park posts warnings at trailheads, including red signs announcing "extreme heat danger" (translated into seven other languages). But in 2021, when they realized most tourists were ignoring them, they added three-foot-tall A-frame signs: "HEAT KILLS!" Below the text is an image of a helicopter with a slash through it. (Most helicopters, including air ambulances, cannot fly in temperatures of 118 degrees and above.) "That one seems to catch people's attention," Ms. Wine said.
I happened to be standing at the starting point of the Badwater 135, a 135-mile ultramarathon that takes place in July. The invite-only race, which draws about 100 competitors from the United States and places like Norway and Japan, is among the toughest in the world: After enduring an entire day in the blistering sun, runners, wearing sun hats and handkerchiefs stuffed with ice, spend the final 13 miles climbing halfway up 14,505-foot Mount Whitney. Pacers trail behind, spritzing them.
"The heat is something I've grown to love," said Los Angeles-based Erika Small, 52, who placed 42nd in this year's race. She explained that Death Valley is appealing anytime. But in July, "the desert almost seems more alive."
This statement would have struck me as absurd had I not ventured into the valley myself at the peak of summer. Driving the park's scenic loops, gaping at the hypnotic, multicolored cliffs, easing into the uncanny stillness that is everywhere -- I could begin to wrap my head around why some people spend time here. A ferocious, unforgiving, desolate place, yes; but there was majesty, too.
"When you're out there," Ms. Small reflected, "it's like the world stands still."
Cooling Off at Sunset
On my last night, I drove 30 minutes from my hotel to catch the sunset at Dante's View, a popular lookout point inside the park. At around 7 p.m., it was almost 30 degrees cooler, thanks to the 5,000-foot elevation change. Tourists lingered at the guardrail, looking out over Badwater Basin and the bright salt flats below.
I spoke briefly to a German traveler who had taken a day trip from Vegas. The heat in Vegas, he said, was just as bad, but he preferred being here, where he could stretch his legs and see the American landscape.
"Last week in Germany it was 37 degrees Celsius," he said as the orange sun dipped over the mountains. That would be over 98 degrees Fahrenheit.
Nearby was a university student from the London area. He flew a drone over the canyons as the dimpled rock radiated with vivid shades of pink and violet. He and his two friends were planning to catch the sunrise at Zabriskie Point the following morning.
When I asked what brought him to Death Valley, he said he planned his trip using ChatGPT. "I typed in our travel dates and asked where the hottest place in the world would be," he said. "Death Valley came in second, after Kuwait. So we came here."
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