Darwin
On the fringes of Death Valley, there is a town. Only 35 people live there. It’s named Darwin, and visitors are not welcome.
Featured photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/5Y6XcVBTRz58Khws8
April 12th, 2023
On the road to Darwin, there’s a sign that reads “No Gas or Services Beyond this Point.” Later we’d learn that the inhabitants of Darwin put this sign up themselves. They want to keep people out.
We were in search of the elusive Darwin Falls, a supposed waterfall adored by hikers. We hadn’t originally planned on visiting Darwin Falls, but after reading an alluring description on a park sign, we were intrigued. Waterfalls at Death Valley? Count us in!
It’s long and lonely stretch of desert to Darwin. Nothing but dust accompanied us. Bored, perhaps, hills eventually rose into a small mountain ridge. Nestled at the base of the ridge, haunting rows of empty shacks stared at us with dead window eyes. They were startlingly small. Beyond them, semi trailers were parked haphazardly. On top of the ridge, rusted equipment supervised the ragtag village. It was the exact picture of an abandoned mine. Perhaps Darwin was nothing but a desert ghost town.
The road carried us onward. Some questionable houses shuffled down to meet us, forming rows along one lane side roads. There they stood, awkwardly, looking not quite abandoned, but not quite lived in. An uneasy feeling settled over us. It was an instinct, the creepy crawly feeling that you get when you think you’re alone but you aren’t. Was that a flutter of a curtain? Was that a person ducking out of view?
We passed “The Outpost,” a characteristic ghost town gas station with one ancient pump. There was the Darwin Dance Hall, a low rectangular building with no gaiety of the dances it used to hold. And then there was Darwin Station, a wood-paneled old storefront possibly converted to a home. The picnic bench sitting solidly to the right of the front door implied an inhabitant. The owner was nowhere to be found.
Yet someone must live here. We passed a newish-looking camper with a decorative pole hung with teapots. A Ukraine flag flapped above a house. A blue Subaru was parked nearby. An ancient post office had recent public notices tacked on the bulletin board. One, scrawled in Sharpie, advertised a scripture reading study and discussion. Fridays at 5 PM. Contact Yellow Bus Tom for questions.
I had many questions.
To begin with, I wanted to ask Yellow Bus Tom about the art. Scattered throughout the town, marble sculptures rose between piles of garbage and half-destroyed houses. They were well-kept and otherworldly. One portrayed a passionate embrace between a couple. Another was an egg. They felt like a testament to an unseen artist, like mysterious headstones. Maybe this was an artsy town, a place for eccentric artists to be inspired without dull everyday concerns. Like taxes. Or laws.
We were certainly outsiders here. When we finally spotted two women (our first sign of life!), one with a purple hat waved at us. Yet, when we stopped to chat with her, she turned away as if she hadn’t seen us. She continued her conversation with the other woman, ignoring us. It felt like a boundary.
My Midwestern anxiety wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. In her shoes, I would have tried my darndest to make a visitor feel welcome. In Darwin, evidently, you wait your turn. She finally turned to us without a smile. We explained that we were looking for the falls. Her response was warm, but didn’t quite match her words. “Oh, the falls! Well, here’s what you need to do. You need to get back in your car and leave the way you came… You can get to them from the dirt road here, but you might not make it back in one piece…” She went on to explain an easier way to the falls, but something still didn’t quite feel right. I found myself noticing a tear in her puffy jacket. It had been patched with a fat bandaid. I was curious. How did the tear get there? How did she decide on a bandaid to fix it? I wished I could read her thoughts. She was impenetrable. When she’d finished giving us directions, we thanked her for her time. “You’ve been very kind,” we said.
“Well, I’m not always very kind!” she said with a laugh.
What was that supposed to mean?
The uneasy feeling grew stronger as we retreated back to our car. Still curious, however, we stopped to look at a pavilion perched on a little hill. It was called the “Darwin Stone Circle,” built in memory of a local sculptor. A sandstone bust stared suspiciously at us. There were sculptures all around the pavilion, strange grotesque figures with mysterious energy. And then there were the lawn chairs, forming circles inside and outside of the pavilion. It felt like a sacred space.
It felt like it was time to go.
So we did, getting in our car and leaving the way we came. We traveled onwards, out of Death Valley. The strangeness of the experience followed us. Perhaps there was nothing there, just a collection of artists who wanted to be left alone. Maybe there was more than met the eye.
Either way, our time in Darwin won’t soon be forgotten.
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