Infinite Inedible Sugar

We've arrived at the White Sands Visitors Center a couple hours late. I misread the dates on their website, which causes them to close at 5pm, rather than 7pm. They've just locked the door as I set my bike against an adobe wall. Knocking on the door consistently for a couple minutes, somebody eventually opens the door. The method of being obnoxious until somebody inevitably notices. Tall and dressed administratively, I'm already sure of what she's going to remind me off. Backcountry camping access closed hours ago. She tells me to ride back the way we came and camp in a dried up lake bed. Doesn't sound too appealing. Wes and I start to run ideas past each other. They say we can't camp here, but we're surely not enthused about backtracking. 

"How you guys doing this evening?" asks the strapped ranger, wearing a circle-brimmed hat. John Gonzalez is spelled out across his name tag. 

We're doing well, other than the predicament we now find ourselves in. Probably not best to tell this ranger about our thoughts of getting into the camping area regardless. Might throw a few rocks into the gears of our plan. With a little conversation though, he wants to help us find a place to rest. He's retrieved a camping permit from inside. Watching us fill it out, he reads all the rules of the park to us, making sure we know exactly how lucky we are and how agreeing we need to be. 

"Seven miles that way." Ranger Gonzalez points towards the only road in the park. We can see the gate, otherwise it trails into empty darkness. "I hope you have lights!"

We ride through the gate, laughing with each other and the darkness. Exuberant. For a moment, we thought we would be sleeping amongst truckers at a nearby missile loading area. The well-paved road is all ours, without any lights in sight. We take hold of these opportunities by using the whole road, weaving between the dotted black lines in the center of the road and simply never looking behind us. Brushy shoulders give way to intermittent banks of overflowing white sand. It looks as if to be constantly overtaking the road, yet stops at a very specific line. Each bank forms a figure similar to a wave, before it forms any face. 

Pavement gives way to a road of sand in the distance. We brace ourselves for loose traction and the loss of control. Our tires only find smooth transition. The sand road seems to be smoother and less resistant than the dark pavement. The feeling even heightened, due to us expecting a more difficult ride. We pedal along lightly, admiring both the rough shadows of dunes and the detailed road right in front of us. I feel as if I'm riding on a frozen lake, without the fear of sliding out with every movement. All the thrill and excitement of sprinting on ice, but without the fear or consequences. Small scrapings of sand, sized between droplets and dimes, create depth resembling the air pockets in the ice of a frozen lake. Roughed-up car tracks mimic the rough areas caused by weeks worth of ice skating. 

We push our bikes off the road and through the dunes, towards our camping spot. Heavy bicycles, on narrow tires, require considerable fight to navigate across the ups and downs of fine white sand. There's signs, but they make very little sense. We find a route and stick to it, ending in a saddle between a big dune and her more humble neighbor. Shoes and socks come off, only to be replaced once we leave the next morning. The sand is cold and unfamiliar, but the peculiarity of it keeps me digging my toes into it. It fills the gaps between my toes and is cold at first, but slowly warms and insulates if I keep my feet in the same place. Unlike beach sand, it doesn't clump or feel rough on the skin. I imagine it polishing rather than scuffing. It feels like sugar, with all its fine sweetness. I lay down in the sand, on my back, and wiggle around. Creating the perfect match to my lack of curves, I lay there and watch the bright moon come up over the mountains of Cloudcroft. It illuminates the sky with a reddish tint when mixed with the distant city lights of Alamogordo. 

Sleeping out in the open sounds like the most basic and obvious plan. I imagine the sun rising at 6 am and immediately beginning its delivery of awakening rays. The night is still, without a gust of wind, and therefore I set up a tarp to help with finding immediate shade in the morning. I lay my sleeping bag underneath it, feeling content with it only because clouds already hide the stars above. Only minutes pass before consistent winds swoop in, without any easing or tenderness. Still and quiet night is swiftly replaced by whirling winds of propelled sand. It creates a haze in the air, countering the illumination of the large moon from moments before. The tarp whips loudly in the air, keeping me awake with snapping noises as it extends outwards. Guaranteeing my restlessness, it beats on me with persistence when the wind pushes it inwards. Sand flies in every direction, into every crevice. I zip up my sleeping bag completely and wrap the hood over me, creating only a small hole to breathe through. Sand finds its way in, crusting my nose and making it look like I've been up to no good. I find sleep in roughly twenty minute intervals, in which I have dreams of a mud storm. Hurricanes of mud blanket the world. 

We wake up in the morning to find the sun fully draped by clouds. There was no need to set up the tarp. I probably would have found sleep without it. We bundle up and are now able to look out at the massive gatherings of sand in the daylight. It's bleach white and only interrupted by small groupings of resilient desert plants. There's no variance in the grains of sand. All seem to be of the same minute size and consuming whiteness. 

This sand is different than that which most commonly forms dunes. It's gypsum-based rather than, the more commonly found, quartz-based. This allows it to be much finer than common sand and also prevents it from heating up and holding heat in the desert sun. One might think this is because it's white, but it's actually because of its heat retention abilities as gypsum. One ancient lake from the last ice age, Lake Otero, and a current lake, Lake Lucero, which fluctuates its fill according to rainfall, both have selenite crystals in their beds and lining their shores. Being water-based, it evaporates with water on hot days and then essentially rains gypsum on the sand dunes. This causes them to constantly grow, but also move more southwest. After learning all this, I can't help but imagine myself walking on piles upon piles of crushed up drywall. There must be a factory around the dune, where people trudge on old sheets of drywall throughout all hours of the day and night. 

We flip and tumble through the sand. Making ridiculous movements and gestures as we jump over the crest of each dune. Sometimes we fold our knees in at the top, nestle into a tight little ball, then let gravity do the work as we tumble to the bottom. I use our cutting board and chair in combination to create a makeshift sled. It works quite poorly and I resort back to throwing myself from the tops in haphazard ways. Each tumble introduces a new cup of sand into my hair, pants and corners of my eyes. I soon learn the night of blowing sand has filled every nook and cranny of my possessions. I even spot white sand within the elements of my camera lens, which was sheltered by two bags. We continue to run up and down the dunes until our calves grow tired. What started out as a run, has now turned into a slow lurch back to the top. Collapsing in the sand at the bottom for the last time, we spend a digging with our fingers and toes. 

Needing to leave by 1pm, we slowly pack up and throw on our shoes. The night's wind has taken a stuff sack and the shifting sand has buried a bowl. We search and dig, but they've been consumed, hopefully to be found by the next dune tumbler. Riding between the dunes, sections are crusted with a hard layer, strong enough to support us on our narrow tires. We ride on the sand, passing dunes and dodging plants, until we reach the frozen road once again.