Photograph by Tom Spitz Donna took the wheel and followed the machine’s instructions. “Drive 550 feet, then turn right on unnamed road,” Nell commanded in a voice brimming with digital certainty. “Turn left, then drive one mile. Turn right. Turn left. Recalculating. Drive five miles, then make a U-turn.”
Travelers have been losing their way in Death Valley—often fatally—since 1849, when pioneers began using it as a shortcut to California’s gold fields. Recently, growing numbers have been led astray by GPS devices, whose databases for remote areas such as Death Valley may include maps that haven’t been updated for decades. As Donna drove in loops and zigzags on unmarked roads that grew ever narrower and rockier, Gina’s head throbbed; nausea set in.
“I want to go home,” Gina moaned.
“Stop being so immature,” Donna snapped.
In the front seat, Jenny struggled not to cry. Since arriving in the United States in May, she’d enjoyed traveling with Donna to Florida, the Grand Canyon, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. This, however, was more adventure than she wanted. Though the car was air-conditioned, her lips had become painfully dry. But three of the four 16-ounce bottles of water they’d brought along were already empty, and she couldn’t bring herself to touch the last one. When Donna handed her the bottle, Jenny pretended to take a swig.
“Cut that out,” Donna said sternly. “You’ve got to drink your share.”
Jenny took a sip and swished it in her mouth for a long time before she swallowed.
As they drove on, the shadows lengthened, but the heat barely diminished. Outside the car, sand, scrub, and rubble stretched for miles around. At intervals, all three women tried calling 911 on their cell phones. No reception. Donna took inventory: Besides the remaining water, they had two apples, what was left of a bag of chips, and some cookies. The hatchback’s cargo hold contained blankets, sweaters, extra shoes, a tool kit, and a first-aid kit. There was still more than a quarter tank of gas.
Donna inhaled deeply, then exhaled the fear that had been building inside her. She’d survived worse fixes than this—including a serious accident in her 20s that had left her hospitalized for weeks and a near-fatal intestinal illness in Haiti earlier that year. She and her husband had raised eight children. Now, she knew, two young lives were depending on her to get them out of the desert alive.
Around 8 p.m., Nell’s robotic voice led them into a rock-rimmed dead end. Gina spotted a faint trail leading into the brush, and they followed it downhill to a smoother dirt road. As they rounded a bend, past a mostly dried-up salt lake shimmering in the sunset, they noticed a sign of civilization—a mailbox. Inside, Donna found a crinkled, handwritten note: “Sorry we missed you,” it read. Farther along was a wire fence, a padlocked gate, and an isolated stand of trees.
“Let’s see if anybody’s back there,” Gina said.
“We can’t waste time,” Donna replied. “We’re on a good road now. We’re going to find our way out.”
Following Nell’s instructions, Donna kept to the road as it rose into the barren mountains. As they gained altitude, Gina glanced back at where they’d come from. Behind the trees, she thought she saw some kind of habitation. But night was falling, and they’d gone too far to turn around.
At home in Pahrump, Charlene Dean, an old friend of Donna’s and a reporter for a local newspaper, wasn’t worried when Donna and the girls didn’t show up for dinner. Dean, 51, was boarding with the Coopers in exchange for house-sitting when they were out of town. She’d known Donna long enough to assume that her friend had changed her plans.
Donna’s husband, Rodger, 62, was in North Port, Florida, visiting their daughter Sky. He, too, was used to Donna’s independent ways. But Sky, a 21-year-old nursing home aide, had undergone gallbladder surgery that afternoon, and she couldn’t believe that her mother wouldn’t get in touch. “Something’s wrong,” she kept saying.
