The Ranch at Death Valley

Stephanie Fluger
Apr 29, 2022
3 min read

This was our first overnight trip after my son’s diagnosis.

Not our first outing. We had done Disneyland. We had attempted the zoo. We had tried an aquarium. Even Mammoth — though Mammoth doesn’t really count for us (separate story entirely). But we had never packed up, slept somewhere new, and stayed.

And to say I was terrified would be accurate.

Living in Orange County means we’re lucky. I can drive almost anywhere. So I packed like someone preparing for relocation. The car was filled to the brim — backup snacks, comfort items, extra clothes, contingency plans for every possible scenario I could imagine. If there was a meltdown variable, I packed around it.

We were staying at The Ranch at Death Valley for four nights in one of their brand-new cottages. One bedroom. Large living room. Darling porch with two rocking chairs. It was charming and thoughtfully done — you could tell everything was new.

But this trip wasn’t about charm. It was about testing.

In December we had a trip planned to DC where we’d be staying in a small hotel room. This was our practice round. I needed to know:

Could we sleep somewhere unfamiliar? 
Would my son panic? 
Would anyone rest?

The Ranch didn’t offer rollaway beds. There was a pullout couch. At the time, the kids were four and two. I had one primary concern: nighttime anxiety.

I have always been afraid of my son waking up disoriented in a new place. Afraid of him not knowing where he was. Afraid of him trying to leave the room. So the kids and I slept in the living room and my husband took the bedroom.

It turned out to be the right call.

My son woke up about every 90 minutes just to check that I was there. Not dramatic. Not melting down. Just calling for me. It was easier for me to roll off the couch, say, “I’m here,” and let him drift back to sleep than to walk across rooms and risk waking everyone fully.

Sleep wasn’t restful. But it was manageable.

And then there was food.

Top secret: we brought a microwave.

Yes. A full microwave.

Before we had language like ARFID, we still knew food was unpredictable. Buffets and resort dining felt overwhelming for a first overnight experiment. A microwave weighs maybe fifteen pounds and needs one outlet. That felt easier than negotiating every meal in a new environment.

It reduced one major unknown. And when you’re doing your first overnight after diagnosis, reducing unknowns matters.

The days themselves were simple. Lodge-style travel. Desert mornings. A hike. Back to the cottage to regulate. Maybe an evening stroll.

There were meltdowns. There was recovery. There was complaining. We learned something important about our kids: two back-to-back days of hikes is the limit. After that, it’s not whining — it’s full-body refusal. Like a dog lying down mid-walk. Except you can’t drag a child. Nor should you.

So we adjusted.

One of the main reasons we chose Death Valley was because my husband and I had always wanted to go — and because my son loves space. We wanted him to see stars the way they’re meant to be seen.

The best stargazing is around midnight. So one night we let the kids nap early, loaded them into the car around 11:30, and drove to Dante’s View — 5,575 feet up, overlooking the valley. We had already seen it during the day. This time, we were there for the sky.

Of course it was cloudy.

Because of course it was.

We were leaving the next day, so we committed anyway. At midnight we gently woke my son. He stepped out into the dark, groggy but curious. He looked up. He was calm. I don’t know how much he truly comprehended — but he was there.

My daughter never woke up. She stayed asleep in the car.