Back in late April, the few off-roading enthusiasts overlanding across the windy Mojave Road in their tricked-out Jeeps might have done a doubletake when two white Mitsubishi Monteros emerged out of the bright desert dust to cruise on by. After all, a 1994 SR and a '98 "Blister Fender" with six-figure mileage on the clock and independent front suspension with torsion bars seemingly run counter to the trends among hardcore off-roaders. But the two Monteros made it through the 150-plus mile route and performed with aplomb, only providing a few moments of genuine concern (and really, then, only mine, since it's just about stock).
After that father-son Mojave Road adventure, I wanted to get one more trip in before the Southern California deserts got too hot. Dad grew up in Laurel Canyon in the 1960s, came of age during the hippie era, and has always told me that the glory days ended when the Manson Family murdered Sharon Tate and her friends on the night of August 8th and 9th, 1969.
After Quentin Tarantino's revisionist Once Upon a Time... In Hollywood reignited those old memories, it only made sense that dad began researching the Manson Family once more. So perhaps it should have come as no surprise that in mid-May, we decided to take our two Monteros to the Manson Family's old hideout at Barker Ranch, located in the mountains skirting Death Valley, to check out the place where law enforcement finally caught up to Charles Manson himself (hiding ignominiously in a kitchen cupboard, if the legends are to be believed).
Climbing Up Through Coyote Canyon
Both of the two routes to Barker Ranch, through Coyote Canyon or over Mengel Pass, offer serious off-roading terrain that would challenge our Monteros much more than 99.9% of the Mojave Road—only the drop into Watson Wash could truly compare. We decided to give both a try and do the whole trip in one shot, with one night of camping.
Prepping for the trip and all the exposed boulders that dot the desert like live mines, I bought some hardcore stainless steel skid plates from Adventure Driven Design, only to discover that they came with no mounting hardware and would require a bit of work to actually fit on the truck's underbelly. I did replace my completely shot, probably original transmission mount beforehand, though.
Driving to Barker Ranch, we went northward on US Route 395 and dropped down into Searles Valley via Highway 178, gassed up at the tiny borderline-ghost town of Trona, and then continued further into the desert before turning off the paved road following signs to the actual ghost town of Ballarat.
From Ballarat, the extremely washboardy (yet occasionally graded) Wingate Road heads south, along the eastern edge of a dry lakebed. After about 15 miles, an unsigned dirt trail heads up into the craggy, steep southern end of Manly Peak, looking entirely too tight and rugged to allow trucks to drive up the narrow canyon.
The canyon up to Barker Ranch alternately goes by the names Coyote Canyon and Goler Wash, depending on what map you check, and it proved one of the more spectacular drives of my life. Steep cliff walls drop down and funnel a small stream of water, despite the 90-degree sunshine, flowing down the tight canyon and broken up by a few harder rock sections that can become quite slippery. Only once did I need to engage my rear locker to help my narrow Cooper Discoverer S/T tires creep up and over a more technical section where the wet rocks offered almost no traction on the steep climb. But I kept the Montero in 4-Low and the automatic transmission in L for almost the entire hour-plus ride, just to help the fluids' rate of flow.
The Manson Family Hideout At Barker Ranch
Along the trail up through Coyote Canyon, a number of mining ruins emerge dug into the rock. We stopped maybe three-quarters of the way up for lunch, hoping in vain to find shade in a designated campsite. While there, the insects thrumming and stream burbling, a big Ford F-250 slow-cruised by going downhill and the driver stopped to tell us there was no way my relatively stock Montero would make it up and over the more challenging sections of Mengel Pass, just beyond Barker Ranch along the route we'd planned to take.
Acknowledging that we'd very likely have to turn around and head back down Coyote Canyon, we nonetheless entered Death Valley National Park (where off-highway vehicles are officially restricted) and made the sharp right to head southeast for a few hundred yards and stop at Barker Ranch.
The location could not be more ideal—sheltered from the wind, seemingly cooler than the surrounding hills, spring water nearby, and even eucalyptus trees. Barker Ranch itself comprises of a burned-out rock cabin (the result of a 2009 fire), a still-standing wooden hut, and some fencing for a corral. As we explored on foot, trying to imagine where Charlie might have gotten caught, the concept of driving up Coyote Canyon in a funky old pickup truck back in the 1960s—before the road received the minimal grading work in later years—absolutely baffled the mind. And Mengel Pass was supposed to be harder!
Climbing Up To Mengel Pass
Even heading up to Mengel Pass from Barker Ranch proved pretty hairy, as the four-wheeling road narrowed and climbed up on slick sandstone, through boulder fields, and down into deep ruts. I spent the whole time in the lead—since dad's got the winch on his '94—totally focused on avoiding bottoming out, wishing I had my skids.
Our friend in the F-250 thought we'd be able to get to the top of Mengel Pass, named after a settler who lived nearby and whose grave marks the top of the traverse (seen above). With everything locked, my Montero seemed right on the edge of its abilities and when we reached the monument, I spent some serious time debating whether we should turn around rather than attempting the most treacherous terrain on the downhill descent from the open ridge headed northward.
"They Said It Couldn't Be Done"
As gnarly as the climb up to Mengel Pass from Barker Ranch felt, lasting about an hour or more as I slalomed my way around exposed rock and up steep ledges, the descent looked even worse—though it also looked much, much shorter. The gnarled road, dotted with shelves and drops, also squeezes in noticeably, even just while spotting it from the top of Mengel Pass.
I ran down in my sneakers for a closer look and decided we should go for it. If things got too sketchy, I planned to call no joy and have dad haul me back up the hill. And things got sketchy quite quickly—despite creeping down as slowly and steadily as possible, my narrow Coopers just couldn't get any grip on the sand-covered rocks and I essentially slid my way down through the hardest parts, frequently balancing on two wheels before hammering down onto a third.
At the worst point, I thought the Montero would come away with some serious damage as I edged closer and closer to a massive boulder on the driver's side, forcing myself to keep all hands and feet inside the vehicle. With about two inches to spare, I finally found some grip and cranked the steering wheel over as hard as possible, risking a tie rod end in the hopes of saving serious bodily harm.
But somehow, some way, the Montero made it down and dad's truck—with its bigger tires, lower crawling gear, skid plates, and disconnected rear sway bar—had much less trouble. Only at the bottom of Mengel Pass did I remember that I'd planned to remove my own sway bar, as well, while attempting to install the skids before the trip.
A Night At The Geologist's Cabin
Personally, I definitely recommend against going up Mengel Pass from the north side without more clearance, more armor, and more aggressive tires. I probably wouldn't even attempt to do the route we completed again, since I still believe some beginner's luck came into play. But after coming out of the narrow Mengel Pass descent, the wide expanse (and noticeably hotter weather) of Death Valley National Park's southwest corner greeted us.
In this little hard-to-reach nook, settlers used to live year-round thanks to three distinct springs delivering life-giving water to three rustic, free-to-use cabins that today await explorers who make the tough journey. Akin to Scotland's bothy houses, the cabin rules include leaving them in better shape then you found them, not staying longer than 10 nights straight, and putting up the American flag once occupied to alert other travelers that they'll need to find their own nest for the night. We made a beeline for the Geologist's Cabin, the furthest north and closest to Striped Butte, because the scuttlebutt online seemed to suggest it might be the nicest.
The View Near Striped Butte
A tiny rock cabin maybe 12 feet by 20 feet on the inside, the Geologist's Cabin sits on a little promontory looking out over the valley and Striped Butte itself. We ran up the flag, took stock of our supplies, unloaded some wood, and set up camp chairs on the shady side hoping for some respite from the blistering heat (sub-100 degrees, mind, but still hot).
Thanks to a tiny solar panel on the roof, the Geologist's Cabin even has lighting and a little sound system to go along with a sink (albeit no running water), a breakfast table, plenty of air mattresses, and some emergency rations. A few bottles of cheap whiskey, shovels and picks, and a mouse-proof food box rounded out the amenities. As the temperature dropped with the sun, we started a fire and cooked a dinner of steaks and baked potatoes.
Wild Burros Frequent Springs In Death Valley
Just after sunset, a pair of wild burros clomped their way to the spring just downhill from the Geologist's Cabin, sipping up some water before whinnying and clomping right back to the shadow of Striped Butte from whence they came. Throughout the evening (and night and next morning), we probably saw eight to 10 wild burros, including one tiny baby awkwardly trotting next to mom.
Rather than sleeping inside the Geologist's Cabin, we set dad up with a cot and I erected my little backpacking tent with no rainfly because we'd timed our trip for the new moon and expected quite a showing from the dark, starry night.
The sun rose bright and early the next morning, quickly turning the night's chill to scorching temps before seven AM even rolled around. Hoping to get back into the Monteros quickly, if just for some air conditioning, we hurriedly made some bacon and eggs for breakfast, packed up, cleaned up, dropped and folded the flag, and hit the road.
The Long, Downhill Trip Home
Looking out from the Geologist's Cabin the night before, we'd figured the twenty-plus more miles of dirt road past Striped Butte and down into Death Valley proper would take an hour or so at most. But once into the expansive valley, trundling downhill, what looked like smooth dirt turned out to be much rockier and bumpier than expected. By the time we got to Warm Springs, another abandoned mining location, we'd already been rolling for about two hours—with another hour of graded, faster segments ahead.
Despite the unexpected timeframe and a quick stop to check out Warm Springs, we made it down to just about the lowest point on earth, at the center of Death Valley, by about 10:30 AM (a few miles further north, apparently, the elevation gets about 80 feet lower). From here, the Monteros could show off some of their Dakar-bred high-speed desert-running skills and at one point before meeting up with the pavement, I set my own personal dirt speed record.
We returned to civilization in the form of the paved Badwater Road and blasted up a long 3,000-foot grade at top speed after unlocking the Aisin front hubs on the Monteros. Once again significantly underestimating the driving time ahead of us, we finally reached Baker well over an hour later and then hopped on the 15 headed towards Barstow for gas, coffee, and a late lunch.
All told, the trip gave me a chance to truly put my mostly stock Montero to the test on portions of terrain far and above the difficulty level of the Mojave Road. And this 23-year-old 4x4 once again passed with flying colors—the Old Man Emu springs and Mitsubishi's rugged design proving their worth constantly. I suspect it would have done even better if I'd been able to drive with the confidence afforded by skid plates.
But the independent front suspension did just fine and might even lend the body-on-frame SUV that perfect balance for when two wheels get off the ground. One day, I might feel the urge to return and test those skids out. In the meantime, I'm glad to have checked out the Manson Family's hideout and to once again explore the huge variety of off-roading trails available only a few miles from home in Southern California.
Sources: imdb.com, nps.gov, desertusa.com, and us.coopertire.com.