What's in a name?
A muncipality known as "America's Basement" hopes a name change will bring better luck and more tourists
By Cathleen Toguchi
Newport Beach News staff reporter
DEATH VALLEY, California—Residents in "America's lowest city" are hot under the collar, and it's not because of the 120-plus temperatures that bake this place even after the sun goes down.
The eighty-three permanent residents of the City of Death Valley are caught up in a heated debate over the local city council's efforts to change the name of their municipality and the park it's located in.
With the help of the National Park Service, the City of Death Valley is quietly pushing a resolution in both the US House and Senate that would permanently change the name of Death Valley.
The people behind the bill, including the mayor and most of the city council, are the residents of the only town located within the vast park, which includes the lowest point in the western hemisphere and the second hottest place on Earth.
Mayor Arthur Hirotsu (at left) explains the rationale. "Our reasoning is simple: the name 'death' is simply a turn-off to tourists. Who would want to visit a place called Death Valley? Rather than forever be tagged as the place where hundreds of wayward pioneers died seeking a shortcut to the California gold fields and a promise of a better tomorrow, we thought it would be much more positive to celebrate those who survived to tell about their adventure."The council's proposed name? Valley of Life National Park.
Proponents hope the name change will mean other changes to the isolated high desert community.
Mayor Hirotsu explains this as he dips another French fry into the secret barbecue sauce at Lupe's Bar & Grill, a 1950s-era eatery that is the only dining establishment in town. It is now empty except for Hirotsu, Deputy Mayor Howard Saterdalen, and a tour group of Germans visiting from Frankfurt.
Saterdalen's eyes dart nervously toward the tourists as he makes a grab for some of the mayor's fries. "In about half an hour they're going to start singing German bar songs," he says. "Every damn busload of Krauts sounds like a bunch of Nazis when they get drunk. But God bless 'em, if it weren't for the Germans, Death Valley would have no tourism industry at all."
Indeed, statistics indicate that 89% of Death Valley's summer visitors arrive from Germany. Internal studies conducted by the California Department of Tourism in Sacramento indicate that a majority of them come on some sort of dare.
Sensing a very un-PC discussion about to erupt, I steer the topic back toward the proposed name change. Saterdalen whips out a beige cap emblazoned with COVOL in red.
"It stands for City of Valley of Life," he explains. "I think it's your size." I put it on, conscious that I am dangerously close to becoming part of my story.
Hirotsu is eager to lay out the name change rationale. The name is rooted, proponents say, in other facts. Death Valley, they say, is actually teeming with life. Says the Mayor: "There are desert tortoises, and even foxes that thrive in the 120-plus heat routinely found here in summer months. And by 'thrive' I mean they don't die."
The City of Death Valley's elusive mascot, "Foxy"
Despite the enthusiasm of the Mayor, the Deputy Mayor, and most of the other members of the City Council, there are naysayers, including Lupe's owner, Lupe Rodrigues.
Lupe walks toward our table, wiping her greasy left hand on her apron as she ominously holds up her spatula with her right, as if she is ready to slap down the Deputy Mayor.
"The name change is the dumbest idea these yahoos have come up with in a long time," she says, punctuating her shouting by swinging the spatula. "And that's no easy feat. We woulda voted in term limits here, but we realized we'd run out of people to hold office."
Lupe's main complaint is that she doesn't want to change her stationery. "Forty years ago," she explains, "my mother received a bunch of stationery from a traveling salesman who couldn't pay his tab, and we're only half way through the box."
Other critics say that council's arguments just don't hold water.
[picture of Fred Ionescu to go here]
Fred Ionescu, chairman of the Committee to Leave Our Town's Name the Hell Alone, or CLOTNHE, points out that the lack of visitors may indeed be due to Death Valley's inhospitable conditions. Simply put, it's very, very hot.
Ionescu rushed over to Lupe's as soon as he'd heard that "the media" (me) had arrived. "There's a reason these old fogies are all sitting inside in the air-conditioning," Ionescu says. "and it isn't the ambience or the greasy pie." Lupe demonstrates that the spatula indeed is a weapon as she whacks Ionescu in the back of the head.
"Look, this place is hot," Ionescu elabortes. "People die outside. And the sooner we embrace that, the better off we'll be."
Indeed, among the tourists the intense heat is the sole topic of conversation, which annoys Deputy Mayor Saterdalen even further. Though he can't string together a sentence in German, he is able to recognize at least ten different German words related to heat or temperature, simply because he's heard them over and over.
"All right, it's hot. So what? Is that all there is to this place?" he angrily says. "Every day, 'looks like a scorcher,' 'oh, yeah, gonna be hot today,' 'oh, look there's another load of tourists in a black car; they're goners for sure.'"
"For me, talking about the heat got old back in '63. Imagine if every day in L.A. there were a magnitude-7 earthquake...every day. That's all people would talk about. Imagine how fast the art of conversation would deteriorate then."
The few English-speaking tourists I encountered appeared to bolster Saterdalen's claims.
"There's no way to describe it," said tourist Goff Chung of Daly City about the heat, which is typically accompanied by scorching winds. "It's like someone is blowing a hair dryer in your face and won't turn it off." He and his family said they were just driving through on their way to Las Vegas.
His wife Stace chimed in: "We don't know if we should keep the baby as clothed as possible to protect her from the sun, or dress her as lightly as possible to keep her ventilated. It's a very confusing place."
They found the place "eerily beautiful," but said they would prefer to return around Thanksgiving, when temperatures usually dip below 110.
Jethro Wilkinson, president of Death Valley's chamber of commerce, thinks that name change or not, the city and park will have to do more to compete for scarce tourist dollars. On the top of his list of ideas to attract tourists revitalize the Valley's economy (and yes, it is an actual list, which he carries around in case inspiration strikes) is a casino. Second on his list: stop charging $7 a gallon for gasoline.
Death Valley Chamber of Commerce president Jethro Wilkinson
Wilkinson drags me and my photographer across the street to his convenience store, where a mock-up of a casino complex is wedged between the Doritos and the beef jerky. It's an impressive-looking model, the grandest use of sugar cubes and glue I have ever seen.
After we've had time to digest the model (figuratively), Wilkinson brings us back outside and points to some sand dunes behind his store. This is to be where "The Boraxo" Hotel and Casino Resort will go. Wilkinson even has a proposed slogan to go with the advertising campaign: "Clean family fun at The Boraxo."
Site of proposed casino complex in East Death Valley
But Wilkinson's enthusiasm for the idea is not matched by his certainty. He gives the likelihood of a casino 50-50 odds at best, and he is constantly plotting ways to get the idea accepted by Sacramento: "Mayor Hirotsu looks like he could be Injun. We're looking into ways to get him declared a tribe so we can launch legalized gambling." After a short reprimand by Ionescu on the importance of political correctness when talking to outsiders, Wilkinson adds, "we have tried to get some Native Americans to come here, but they won't touch this hellhole with a ten-foot teepee."
Deputy Mayor Saterdalen has finished his pie and come across the street to rejoin our discussion. When Wilkinson mentions Sacramento, Saterdalen is quick to point out that the governor speaks German.
Saterdalen is enthusiastic about the the casino proposal. "By shifting the focus to 'life' and maybe enticing people with gambling, we're hoping to attract people with a positive, uplifting image of our community. This will probably also mean fewer Germans."
Death Valley's claim to fame are its heat and its low elevation. Opponents of the name change say "it won't make one damned bit of difference" if names like Badwater are retained.
Blackpoll warbler
Attendees of the city council meeting take a break from name change discussions to signal the plane bringing weekly airdrops of food and magazines.
Death Valley residents discuss town name change while filling up
Death Valley's Shoshone Museum hosted its 100th visitor this year. The curators insists that fifty-six of those visits were not local residents coming in to use the restroom.
Death Valley business district
Councilman Paul Grosserman
City Treasurer Doug "Possum" Williams
I don't think it's the just the temperature, he explains. Nearby Las Vegas is also blisteringly hot and it gets millions of tourists a year. I just think that if people play the slots, win thousands of dollars, the idea of then visiting Death Valley has no appeal.
Longtime resident and current mayor Arthur Hirotsu says the proposed name change also has something to do with a longtime rivalry with Antelope Valley. Local lore says that decades ago, the residents of Dead Antelope Valley packed the Death Valley City Council with people on its payroll. They then voted a city name change from Dead Adventurer Valley to Death Valley, solely so that Dead Antelope Valley would come first in California road atlases. Eventually, in a further effort to move up in the alphabetical rankings, they dropped the word "dead" altogether from their name.
"It's a horrible place full of teeth-missing yokels living out of rusty, old trailers. The only antelope in that Godsaken hell hole are road kill strapped on top of a camper truck.
By changing the name from such-and-such valley to valley of such-and-such, we're just removing ourselves from that whole silly game of oneupmanship.
A day spa and salt bath are also planned.
Superintendent of Schools Jeb Barlow expressed reservations about the proposed name change. "We fu--ing change our g--dam name to some bulls--t like 'Valley of Life' and next thing you fu--ing know, you've got g--dam fundamentalistas coming out your a--hole."
Superintendent of Schools Jeb Barlow
Ionescu rushed over to Lupe's as soon as he'd heard that "the media" (me) had arrived. "There's a reason these old fogies are all sitting inside in the air-conditioning," Ionescu says. "and it isn't the ambience or the greasy pie." Lupe demonstrates that the spatula indeed is a weapon as she whacks Ionescu in the back of the head.
"Look, this place is hot," Ionescu elabortes. "People die outside. And the sooner we embrace that, the better off we'll be."
Indeed, among the tourists the intense heat is the sole topic of conversation, which annoys Deputy Mayor Saterdalen even further. Though he can't string together a sentence in German, he is able to recognize at least ten different German words related to heat or temperature, simply because he's heard them over and over.
"All right, it's hot. So what? Is that all there is to this place?" he angrily says. "Every day, 'looks like a scorcher,' 'oh, yeah, gonna be hot today,' 'oh, look there's another load of tourists in a black car; they're goners for sure.'"
"For me, talking about the heat got old back in '63. Imagine if every day in L.A. there were a magnitude-7 earthquake...every day. That's all people would talk about. Imagine how fast the art of conversation would deteriorate then."
The few English-speaking tourists I encountered appeared to bolster Saterdalen's claims.
"There's no way to describe it," said tourist Goff Chung of Daly City about the heat, which is typically accompanied by scorching winds. "It's like someone is blowing a hair dryer in your face and won't turn it off." He and his family said they were just driving through on their way to Las Vegas. His wife Stace chimed in: "We don't know if we should keep the baby as clothed as possible to protect her from the sun, or dress her as lightly as possible to keep her ventilated. It's a very confusing place."
They found the place "eerily beautiful," but said they would prefer to return around Thanksgiving, when temperatures usually dip below 110.
Jethro Wilkinson, president of Death Valley's chamber of commerce, thinks that name change or not, the city and park will have to do more to compete for scarce tourist dollars. On the top of his list of ideas to attract tourists revitalize the Valley's economy (and yes, it is an actual list, which he carries around in case inspiration strikes) is a casino. Second on his list: stop charging $7 a gallon for gasoline.
Death Valley Chamber of Commerce president Jethro Wilkinson
Wilkinson drags me and my photographer across the street to his convenience store, where a mock-up of a casino complex is wedged between the Doritos and the beef jerky. It's an impressive-looking model, the grandest use of sugar cubes and glue I have ever seen.
After we've had time to digest the model (figuratively), Wilkinson brings us back outside and points to some sand dunes behind his store. This is to be where "The Boraxo" Hotel and Casino Resort will go. Wilkinson even has a proposed slogan to go with the advertising campaign: "Clean family fun at The Boraxo."
Site of proposed casino complex in East Death Valley
But Wilkinson's enthusiasm for the idea is not matched by his certainty. He gives the likelihood of a casino 50-50 odds at best, and he is constantly plotting ways to get the idea accepted by Sacramento: "Mayor Hirotsu looks like he could be Injun. We're looking into ways to get him declared a tribe so we can launch legalized gambling." After a short reprimand by Ionescu on the importance of political correctness when talking to outsiders, Wilkinson adds, "we have tried to get some Native Americans to come here, but they won't touch this hellhole with a ten-foot teepee."
Deputy Mayor Saterdalen has finished his pie and come across the street to rejoin our discussion. When Wilkinson mentions Sacramento, Saterdalen is quick to point out that the governor speaks German.
Saterdalen is enthusiastic about the the casino proposal. "By shifting the focus to 'life' and maybe enticing people with gambling, we're hoping to attract people with a positive, uplifting image of our community. This will probably also mean fewer Germans."
Death Valley's claim to fame are its heat and its low elevation. Opponents of the name change say "it won't make one damned bit of difference" if names like Badwater are retained.
Blackpoll warbler
Attendees of the city council meeting take a break from name change discussions to signal the plane bringing weekly airdrops of food and magazines.
Death Valley residents discuss town name change while filling up
Death Valley's Shoshone Museum hosted its 100th visitor this year. The curators insists that fifty-six of those visits were not local residents coming in to use the restroom.
Death Valley business district
Councilman Paul Grosserman
City Treasurer Doug "Possum" Williams
I don't think it's the just the temperature, he explains. Nearby Las Vegas is also blisteringly hot and it gets millions of tourists a year. I just think that if people play the slots, win thousands of dollars, the idea of then visiting Death Valley has no appeal.
Longtime resident and current mayor Arthur Hirotsu says the proposed name change also has something to do with a longtime rivalry with Antelope Valley. Local lore says that decades ago, the residents of Dead Antelope Valley packed the Death Valley City Council with people on its payroll. They then voted a city name change from Dead Adventurer Valley to Death Valley, solely so that Dead Antelope Valley would come first in California road atlases. Eventually, in a further effort to move up in the alphabetical rankings, they dropped the word "dead" altogether from their name.
"It's a horrible place full of teeth-missing yokels living out of rusty, old trailers. The only antelope in that Godsaken hell hole are road kill strapped on top of a camper truck.
By changing the name from such-and-such valley to valley of such-and-such, we're just removing ourselves from that whole silly game of oneupmanship.
A day spa and salt bath are also planned.
Superintendent of Schools Jeb Barlow expressed reservations about the proposed name change. "We fu--ing change our g--dam name to some bulls--t like 'Valley of Life' and next thing you fu--ing know, you've got g--dam fundamentalistas coming out your a--hole."
Superintendent of Schools Jeb Barlow
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