Essay: A travel writer summits a desert sand dune
By
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Maggie Downs
Sandwiched between my home in Palm Springs and the twinkling casinos of Nevada are the sand dunes of Mojave National Preserve, a soft respite from the surrounding hunks of granite. The dunes seem out of place and out of time, as though someone spliced a Lawrence of Arabia clip into modern-day California.
After a decade of driving past it, I finally made a detour to hike the largest dune, which rises 700 feet.
Imagine summiting a mountain of marshmallow fluff.
On most hiking trails, you look for stable rock or seek a structured path. Not with a sand dune. They’re always shifting—that’s their nature. So you have to be agile, maintain a sense of balance, learn to move confidently when the ground is unstable. You’ve got to listen to the sand.
© WWF-US/Lauren Tamaki
It was frustrating, unpredictable, and exhausting. For every step I took, I slid three-quarters of a step back. Eventually the trail dissolved until there was no clear path, only silent sand. It grew steep, and I faltered, sometimes to the point of crawling. But I’m not ashamed to admit it—I’ve learned in life that how you move matters less than the fact you keep moving.
At last, the top. I had dragged a flattened cardboard box with me to use as a makeshift sled. I envisioned whizzing down the slope, gathering momentum, taking flight. But poised there, tipped over the edge, the cardboard refused to budge. Finally, I dug my heels down and heaved myself forward.
That’s when it happened.
As I glided, the dune rumbled and vibrated, and then—it sang. The tone was low and resonant, like the sound from a didgeridoo, a voice from the Earth. I had ventured into the desert to overcome a mountain of sand; instead, it cradled me with song.
Maggie Downs is a travel writer living in the California desert. Most days you'll find her with a book or a backpack—or both—listening for whatever the world has to say.
© Juozas Cernius / WWF-UK
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