Can Yeti Coolers Withstand Death Valley’s 117-Degree Heat? We Found Out.
I spent part of grad school working at a river outfitter in Flagstaff, Arizona, gearing up private float trips down the Grand Canyon. (You have to be prepared to do anything to fund a poetry degree.) Food prep was part of our service. We had a “proprietary” method of flash-freezing meals in varying amounts of ice, calculated to thaw at the exact moment you needed it on your three-week expedition. I didn’t question the science. But I did take note of the coolers. The only two brands we trusted to sustain our paying customers were Flagstaff’s own Canyon Coolers and the big dog in the cooler fight: Yeti.
Normally, I root for the underdog, but Yeti earned my respect and loyalty on a Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim backpacking trip. At the bottom of the canyon, temperatures hit the mid-90s. It’s the only time in my life I’ve had legitimate heat exhaustion. It was bad. But two nights and three days later, when we emerged up the 5,000-foot ascent of Bright Angel Trail and stumbled back to our parked car, our beers were still gloriously cold.
But when work sent me to Death Valley this July to spectate the Badwater 135, a 135-mile ultra-running road race, I was curious. Could those same coolers handle the even more legendary heat of Death Valley?
Only one way to know.
I ordered some of Yeti’s newer styles, the Tundra Haul Wheeled Cooler and the Roadie, and sent them to my hotel in the middle of Death Valley. But a warehouse delay meant the coolers were set to arrive after my trip. Scratching my head, I Googled “can you check a cooler?” Answers about the volatility of dry ice and how to pack bear meat popped up, but the short answer is yes, you can check a cooler. So I rolled up to my small Michigan airport in a straw cowboy hat with the already used Tundra 35 and 45 I had in my garage secured with NRS cam straps. If it were bear season, I would definitely look like a guy with bear meat in the cooler. I just hoped they’d make it through the luggage gauntlet. The coolers did, but my zip ties didn’t.
The evening before the race, staying at the appropriately named Oasis at Death Valley—which is 290 feet below sea level according to an unverified sign next to a defiant courtyard fountain—I slipped out for a late-night swim in the hotel’s spring-fed pool. It was as warm as bathwater, refreshing all the same. After 45 minutes of submersion and drinking Miller Lites to rehydrate, I made the brief, two-minute walk back to my Freon-cooled room. My swimsuit was dry by the time I got back. And this is all while the sun was down. The weekend turned out to be mild for Death Valley, but this is still the hottest place on earth.
Over the next 48 hours, I watched runners from around the world slog for miles through Death Valley’s heat to finish in the alpine wonder of the Eastern Sierras. Occasionally I helped deliver coffee and towels to crews and athletes. Mostly I did a writer’s pastime: watched and listened, stared and eavesdropped. And I hydrated. Temperatures climbed to 117 this year, not quite cresting the dramatically promised 120 or the life-threatening 130 we’d been promised by the race director. But still damn hot. Enough to short-circuit my camera and ruin the planned money shot my editor asked for (and which I purchased an ambient air thermometer for): a Yeti in the desert scrub, filled with ice, with the thermometer off the charts.
But how’d the Yetis do? They persevered. I won’t lie and say these coolers are miracle workers, turning water to ice. But they’re insulated like motherfuckers. In Death Valley’s extreme temperatures, regular cubed ice didn’t stand a chance. Crews (and myself) replaced those at every aid station. Even with a roto-molded exterior and three inches of insulation space filled with pressurized injected polyurethane, a regular bag of small pieces of ice stood no chance. The key for extended cooler use is to pick up a block of ice to begin with. For us, that changed everything. My Tundra 35 turned into a freezer. The chocolate Kind bars froze, and loose beers turned into that beer-slushy consistency.
In 48 hours among the world’s most extreme heat, my ice block remained. It felt a little like a betrayal to toss it into the bushes at the end of the weekend. It wasn’t a perfect experiment, though. We were too busy for the scientific method. The coolers spent some time in the air-conditioned rental, but it was a Jeep Wrangler that leaked cool air like a sieve, and I parked in the sun for several hours at a time. Bottom line, the coolers held up. Pack smart and they can hold temperatures over a weekend in Death Valley. If you’re going on a weekend away, this is as good as you can get.
The culture of Yeti sale hunting and all the accessory gear the brand makes has taken away from the ultimate truth about Yeti: These coolers are pro-level outdoor tech. They’re designed for commercial fishermen, backcountry hunters, and ultra-running crews. Are they overkill for your family beach picnic? Of course. But there are enough mundane things in our world. Get yourself a cooler capable of greatness, and maybe one day you’ll be checking a Tundra 45 full of bear meat back from a Siberian spear-hunting trip. And then picnic on the beach.
esquire
