Dune desire

LITTLE ROCK — Every few years the urge to experience the rocky, scraped-clean landscape of New Mexico becomes overwhelming.

I've been to the Land of Enchantment seven or eight times in an attempt to recapture that amazement I first felt venturing into that strange place with its crazy looming sky.

A favorite destination in the southern part of the state is White Sands National Monument.

I was visiting a friend, a fellow photographer who lives in Roswell, a notorious town of some 50,000 people, where folks scan the sky for extraterrestrials and make a quick buck selling plastic ones.

White Sands is 100 miles or so south-southwest of Roswell; the closest town is Alamogordo, another medium-size city whose name, loosely translated, means "fat cottonwood."

Alamogordo has a symbiotic relationship with nearby Holloman Air Force Base and the White Sands Missile Range. The space shtick is played to the hilt in Alamogordo. I stayed at the retro-cheap Satellite Inn, with its spacey neon sign; rocket and airplane advertising icons dot the cityscape.

It's home to the New

Mexico Museum of Space

History, which also houses

the International Space Hall

of Fame. Interestingly, it's the

final resting place of Ham

the Astrochimp, making it an

interspecies hall of fame as

well.

The museum is a destina-tion for those who know who Ham the Astrochimp was.

I'm familiar with said chimp, so I highly recommend the museum.

Alamogordo crouches at the base of the Sacramento Mountains that stretch south, paralleling U.S. 54, which will deliver the traveler to El Paso, Texas, about 85 miles away.

And about 15 miles west of Alamogordo sprawls White Sands National Monument, a unique landscape in a state full of unique landscapes.

My friend had never been there, so it was an opportunity to introduce it to him and experience again its strange loveliness.

The name is certainly descriptive; the place is a big pile of white sand. Only sand. But that's sort of like calling Niagara Falls a bunch of water.

The monument is just off U.S. 70, an east-west route that connects Alamogordo and Las Cruces and passes through the middle of the White Sands Missile Test Range.

First thing, you're greeted by the inevitable Southwesternstyle visitor center and gift shop. We decide to skip the infotainment for now; we're feeling the famous "lure of the dunes."

The narrow paved road into the monument stretches 10 or so miles northward from the visitor center, interrupted at the start by a hut containing a park ranger, who collects $4 a head. Your receipt will get you in for a week and a brochure.

The road meanders along. The sand begins to pile up, lapping at the edges of the road like snow; indeed, plows are sent out periodically to battle the encroaching sand.

At this point it's not very pretty; a jumble of scrub brush littering rising piles of sand. I don't think my friend's very impressed. Yes, it looks a little trashy, I say, but it gets better.

The scrubby dunes begin to clear up and the whiteness begins to show through. And the dunes get larger.

After a few more miles the dunes emerge as bare white sand and begin to loom over the road, a little claustrophobic because the view is increasingly limited by sloping walls of sand.

Snaking gently along, the road empties into a hard-packed sand parking lot.

The size of a couple of football fields, the lot is lined with picnic tables sheltered by spaceage looking roofs that provide an appropriate metallic clutter to the sparse setting.

We've gotten there at around 2 p.m. There aren't many cars parked there, making the lot look even bigger.

It's surrounded by dunes; we're nestled in a shallow white soup bowl.

On the northern edge of the packed sand lot, directly in front of our car, is a wall of sand we'll need to slog over to get into the dune fields.

We brought water. Sunglasses are a must. I also remembered to wear boots. Experience taught me that low shoes quickly fill up with sand.

We slung our cameras around our necks and trudged forward, the trudge being the official walking style of White Sands National Monument.

The dune looming above the long end of the lot looked almost vertical as we approached, but the going wasn't bad, sort of like climbing rubbery stairs.

My friend staggered up to the crest of the dune, put his hands on his hips and stared.

"Wow," he said after a long moment. I agreed.

It can't be described any way other than breathtaking.

Dunes undulate in the distance like enormous white ocean waves.

The San Andres Mountains to the west and the Sacramento Mountains to the east create the Tularosa Basin. The basin keeps the sand in place and wind keeps it slowly creeping forward.

I'd read the brochure on my last visit.

"You know what the dunes are made of?" I asked.

"Sand?" my friend replied.

"Well, yeah, sand, but what's the sand made of?" I asked.

He stared at me, patiently allowing me my Mr. Science moment.

"Gypsum," I said.

He nodded thoughtfully.

"The stuff that dry-wall, sheet rock, is made of," I added. "White Sands is the world's largest gypsum dune field."

"Cool," he said, looking back toward the dunes, "Cool indeed sir."

He started galumphing down the dune, toward one of the pancake flat spaces between the dunes. These areas, dotted with bushes and yucca, provide an easier path around the dunes.

The dunes are geometric, arrayed in great sweeps and curved scimitar shapes of blinding white and deep shadow.

The best time to visit is in the morning or afternoon and we are there at a great time. The angled afternoon light models the dunes perfectly, bringing into relief the ripples and ridges etched into the surfaces by the ceaseless wind.

It also highlights the defects : footprints. This sandy tabula rasa surface invites invasion; adult footprints are surrounded by a circled wagon train of small kid prints.

Some people stamp out messages in the sand. Some benignly signatory, others oddly profane. On my first visit I made a sand angel.

For now my photographic search isn't just for a good composition, but for one unspoiled by someone leaving his transitory mark.

Eventually, the wind will sweep everything clean again.

The huge expanse of sky above the dunes, usually emptyof everything but deep blue, is today dodgy with scudding gray and white clouds, remnants of a cold front that brought a quick rain during our drive down.

As my friend and I reconnoiter around and over the dunes I notice that movement is a lot easier than it was the last time I was here.

The rain has lightly cemented the sand together, just enough for better footing. My friend, panting, shakes his head at the notion of harder, drier, climbing.

The lowering sun and the sliding clouds merge into a long spectacular sunset. The edges of the dunes are scalloped with warm orange light; the shadows are a deep bluish purple.

I look to the east and the Sacramentos are partially enveloped by dark gray rain clouds with a broad but faint rainbow smeared lightly over their tan flanks.

If you venture far enough, you'll run out of people but you still have plenty of dunes. Footprints are fewer; usually they're yours. Keeping a dune pristine enough to photograph becomes a tactical exercise, as we warily circle each other.

Struggling up the highest dune in sight rewards us with the amazing vista we saw earlier in the day atop our first dune. I spin around dizzily, stumbling, taking it all in.

The view to the south is clear enough to make out people meandering about on the dunes nearest the parking lot.

They seem to be having fun, jumping around, sliding down the dunes, even from this distance clearly having a good time.

We sit at the base of a bush and take a breather. The wind swirls gently and the sun is nearing the western mountains. After soaking in the view for a few more minutes, we struggle to our feet.

We're moving more slowly now, stopping more often to sip water and pivot around, hands on hips and involuntarily exhale sighs of contentment. A couple of hours have passed dreamily.

The sun's on the horizon, so we decide to head back into Alamogordo for dinner.

We joke about getting lost but I think it would be hard to get end-up-dead lost, unless you were many miles out. Go south and keep walking and if you miss the parking lot you'll eventually run into U.S. 70. After about a dozen miles or so.

Of course we miss the parking lot, but soon realize our mistake. We've wandered to the west, lured toward the sunset. We turn left and keep walking.

A trampled-over-looking dune comes into view. It looks familiar and I think it could be the first dune we ascended.

I head up. I have a panicky moment halfway up as I waver, losing my footing in the stirred up sand and I nearly fall backward. The tumble probably wouldn't hurt but would subject my cameras to an unwelcome dunking in the powdery sand.

My friend looks for another way around.

Making the crest, I see below me the parking lot. Ours is the only car left, surrounded by the empty space-age picnic structures. The lot is in cool open shadow, but the metal-roofed picnic shelters are catching the last brush of the sun. They gleam with an amber insectile sheen.

My friend appears at the other end of the lot.

The interior of the car seems sterile and quiet as we pull out. We watch the picnic tables slip out of sight as we drive out of the park.

I'm filled with a sense of contentment, ready to savor a relaxing dinner and later an easy descent into sleep.

My friend is watching the dunes disappear into the gathering dimness.

He turns and I feel his gaze on me.

"Gypsum, eh?" he says.

I nod.

"Cool," he says lazily.

For more information, check out the following Web sites: White Sands National Monument, nps.gov/whsa; New Mexico Museum of Space History, nmspacemuseum.org; The Satellite Inn, satelliteinn. com; Alamogordo Chamber of Commerce, alamogordo.com.