White Sands National Monument

With the Ford Ranger rejuvenated, it was time for the Southwest.

I left the South Bay at around 11 a.m. and chose to go the Vista Del Mar route because it felt more appropriate. Maybe more romantic. More John Fante. Something about moving from the Pacific to the middle of the country in one day and having seen all of that with my own eyes. Something like that. I figure one day I’ll try to see the Pacific, Atlantic, and Gulf all in one day. If I surfed, I’d say I’d surf all of them. The sharks in Corpus Cristi would probably eat me.

I got out on the 10 and near those huge windmills out in Palm Springs there was a huge fire up in the hills and soon thereafter I came to realize that my air conditioner was not in functioning order. My skin was crinkling. Sweat from every pore. I tried to put my mind somewhere else but the hot air just kept sweeping in through the window and I had to turn off. I pulled into a Flying J with all the trucks so that I could be alone-ish and not have to look like my car broke down. There’s something embarrassing about standing near a car with the hood up. So I flipped in a bunch of different fuses into slot 18 of my fuse box and each time I switched the AC on I could hear them pop. So I figured, “Fuck it,” and kept moving on into the desert. But it was hot. Really hot. So I pulled off a few miles down at another gas station and went in and bought some fuses. There were people inside the gas station that looked like they lived there. Signs for “extended stay amenities” and an old cowboy sleeping in the hard plastic seats of the Wendy’s portion of the shop. Alas. I put the fuse in and it didn’t blow, but neither did the cold air. A stalemate. I drove on.

I passed Blythe and thought of Paulson Metzger. It could have happened.

I stopped in Phoenix near 6 p.m. because I was hot still and the water I had brought was already the temperature of steaming tea. I drove through and followed signs to the Arts District. It was either that or the Downtown District. That seemed like tall buildings and closed stores. Hippies are better than that. Thus Arts District. Subway seemed like the cleanest thing I could put in my body, so, after giving a dollar in change to a man on meth, I got a BMT and two large tubs of Coke and brought in my Arizona/New Mexico Tour Book produced by the AAA company. There wasn’t a good map, and most of the “sites” seemed a bit too far off the beaten path for me to enjoy. But White Sands National Monument was only seventy miles off the 10 and it sounded like a scene from that Doors movie so that was it. I left and headed for Las Cruces. It was 117 degrees out.

The night drive was a pleasant 80 degrees and the moon rose red and huge and it was so different out in the pitch black that I thought it might be the infamous The Thing that I kept seeing signs for. I think I had the Hot Snakes blaring.

A night at the Las Cruces, New Mexico Motel 6. A pod shower. A smoking room with a used ashtray. Bad television. My head throbbing from all the caffeine buzzing about my veins. That sense that things never change much in Las Cruces. A depressing, stable, wonderful feeling.




So the next day was the dunes and they rose out of the desert between hills and mesas and mountains on the 70, just northeast of Las Cruces. White Sands National Monument is seventeen square miles of white quartz dunes, situated in land that is also used for missile testing by the United States government. Sometimes there are park closures while missiles fly overhead. Debris and fuel and scraps litter the ground here and there. So I paid my $3 to the nice woman at the gates and headed in on the road that winds through the middle of the sands. They rise slowly, pure white, at first crammed full of desert plants and cactus shrubs, but then just white sand, rising taller and taller, until you feel like you are in Big Bear and there might be a cabin popping up sometime soon. Imagine snow. But not cold. Not wet. That’s the white sand dunes of New Mexico.



I took the road to the end and parked my car.



I got out and headed for the Alkali Flat trail. I didn’t read the signs. There was an old couple lurking near the information booth and I didn’t want to get engulfed in a long conversation. Or a small conversation. Straight to the dunes in my checkered Vans. Pictures were taken. I climbed up and down these dunes and everything was white. Like some crazy dreamland where everything was made of powdered sugar.







The sun was overhead. I had no water. About a mile into the trail I realized that it was much longer than I imagined. The map I got at the gate made it look like small hike. It was not. The sun was straight overhead and there were no shadows and my eyes were starting to fail and I reached a point where I thought I might pass out and not be found for a day or so.



I gave up near this mountain and headed back.



The information at the booth said the hike was 4.7 miles long and intended for serious hikers only. I need to get serious. The rest of that hike will be seen.

Another time, I guess.

Al