White Sands National Park
“Do you want to go?” she asked looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “Really?!” I wanted to make sure it was something she was actually down for and not just saying that because she knew I wanted to go. “I mean, why not?” she retorted matter of factly. “Let’s GOOOO!” I hollered out as we barreled down interstate 10 towards El Paso. That’s as west as West Texas gets. More Mexico than Texas some may argue. It takes a special person to want to tack on 2 additional hours to a 3 day, 1800 mile, 25 hour road trip to swing through a national park that wasn’t on their radar until the day before. Not to mention that the trip had already been prolonged thanks to a faulty gasket in the water pump of our Jeep. But she was down.
The alarm went off well before sunrise and in that dark hotel room in Las Cruces, New Mexico there loomed the always present first thought in those earliest of morning hours, do we reeeeeeeally want to do this or do we roll back over? That’s always my first thought anyway. Maybe some hardened marine or self-disciplined guru who salivates at the thought of cold showers doesn’t fight those thoughts, but I am neither. I enjoy the pleasures of a hot shower and a warm bed. So, for me, it’s always my first thought no matter how excited I am for the adventure. But, nevertheless, my feet hit the floor and hers weren’t far behind me.
The morning’s first light began illuminating the angry, sharp mountain range north of Las Cruses as Hannah and I drove towards White Sands National Park. I’ve only heard this park referenced once or twice in my life and it was only by some of those who have traveled the most. Never was it a raving like other places I had heard about over and over again. However, we were 60 miles away and I don’t plan on taking any weekend trips to south eastern New Mexico in the coming decade. So, onward we trekked. Some of the roads reminded me of the entrance to Death Valley National Park - a long slow climb up to the desert mountain pass and after cresting it, miles and miles of the expansive desert landscape lay rolled out before us. Brown. Different shades of brown. It’s a unique beauty that I’m sure is revered differently by those who see it differently. Much like a friend of mine from Texas once told me that he felt “claustrophobic” driving through the hills of Arkansas. Beauty is truly in the eyes of the beholder. But I can respect this beauty. It’s not the beauty I wish to wake up to every day, but I respect it and call it beauty nonetheless.
The temperature gauge on the dash read 35 degrees as the “blood-orange” sun morphed the morning sky from an ignited pink to rays of lemon yellow and light blue. The desert lands hold some of the most magnificent sunrises and sunsets. It’s almost as if the sky takes up the slack for the earth’s lack of color variance in these places and says, “I got you, watch this.” We rolled on, each mile looking like the last as our eyes continued to be drawn upwards to the ever changing colors filtering across the morning sky. And there it was, the sign reading “White Sands National Park - Next Left”. It was as if God used the spin the globe and where your your finger lands method when choosing where to place these white sands in the middle of this desert land. No seeming rhyme or reason, this is just the place where his finger landed on the globe. Pulling up to the entrance, the park ranger greeted us. Small talk led to the weather and he informed us it had snowed the day before. That would’ve seemed hard to believe for this area except for the fact that the temperature gauge still read just a few degrees above freezing. The windy roads began to reveal a snow white sand between desert shrubs on either side. We came to a stop at the end of the road and looked out at what appeared to be a bleached white Sahara Desert.
It is wild. Truly, a uniqueness that I have never seen in all my travels. There’s something special about sand dunes. I don’t mean the sand dunes at the beach. I mean when it’s miles of just sand, no vegetation, just sand. Those sand dunes are something that I don’t know how to precisely put into words. Maybe another post, another time, I’ll attempt it. But for now, I’ll just say that they are a beauty unlike any other on this earth. They don’t take your breath like the giants rising out of Glacier National Park or Yosemite. The aren’t as diverse as the terrain of Yellowstone National Park. They aren’t as far stretching as the peaks in Rocky Mountain National Park. They are unique. They are a softer beauty. If granite mountains were a finely crafted walnut dresser with it’s sharp precise corners and edges, sand dunes would be something done on a lathe. Something with flowing curves and rounded angles that mirrored each other. They are perfect. Flawless in design and shape. Better yet, the wind is constantly erasing the imperfections that man leaves behind, our footsteps. They remain only until the next strong wind storm comes and then as we had never been there, each footprint is swept away. The wind, constantly mending, constantly molding.
White Sands National Park is just that, but with each granule of sand hand dipped into thimble of bleach. Hike to the top of a sand dune and peer out as they stretch for miles rising and falling, perfect in shape and contour. Man can move parts of the earth. Man can shape and mold. Man can create. But here, wind is the ultimate sculptor, and sand is its perfect medium.
No comments:
Post a Comment