Through Dust and Dunes
Lordsburg, New Mexico, to Ozona, Texas.
It was another slow morning in Lordsburg. The Motel 6 had been a practical stop, nothing more. Its beige stucco walls, faded and cracking in places, reflected the town’s unpretentious simplicity. Outside, the asphalt parking lot shimmered in waves under the merciless high desert sun; each ripples a visible reminder of the heat bearing down on this arid corner of New Mexico. The air carried a pervasive dryness that seemed to cling to your skin, even in the early hours of the day.
We nearly stumbled out of the room into the van, a skill refined through weeks of road-weary repetition. Each morning followed a familiar rhythm: gather the scattered belongings, wrestle them into bags, and ferry everything into the van, which now felt less like a vehicle and more like a reliable traveling companion. As I secured the last of our gear, my attention caught on a single ant scaling the stucco wall just outside our door.
It moved with deliberate effort, its tiny legs navigating the wall’s rough texture like a climber scaling a mountain. Its Sisyphean task—crossing this vast and unyielding expanse—seemed both absurd and admirable. For a moment, I stood there, transfixed, watching its journey unfold. Something about the ant’s determination mirrored our own odyssey across the United States. Here we were, on the tail end of a month-long journey, crossing deserts, mountains, and plains in search of something undefinable.
The thought lingered as I considered the parallels. The ant and I are both explorers of our worlds, driven by purpose and a strange sort of hope. Its singular focus contrasted with the vast desert horizon stretching beyond the motel’s limits. This was an Odyssean quest, not just for the ant but for us—a journey that tested resilience, patience, and spirit. Knowing I could ponder the metaphor another time, I turned away from the little scout and slid the last bag into the van.
Outside, Lordsburg hinted at its transient nature, a place where the road mattered more than the destination. Across the street, the Circle K stood as a beacon for travelers, its stark red and white signage promising icy drinks, fuel, and provisions. Next door, a pizza parlor with a pitched roof and a weathered red tin facade seemed frozen in time. Its faded charm spoke of a bygone era when small-town America thrived on simplicity and familiarity.
To the west, the remnants of yesteryear stood silent under the expansive sky. Cracked concrete slabs, abandoned gas stations, and sagging structures whispered of a more prosperous past. The towering pole of a long-defunct gas station sign stretched upward, casting a skeletal shadow across the dry, cracked ground. The hum of a passing semi on Interstate 10 punctuated the silence, a subtle reminder of the modern world hurtling by outside this quiet outpost.
After another uninspiring motel breakfast—a few stale pastries and overly sweet coffee—we returned to the road. The sky, an unbroken canvas of brilliant blue, stretched endlessly above as we merged back onto I-10 and resumed our eastward journey. Not long out of town, a weathered sign advertising Bowlins Continental Divide caught my eye, and curiosity pulled us toward the roadside attraction.
The trading post, a relic of Americana, stood in defiance of time. Its pamphlet boasted nearly a century of offering passing travelers trinkets, refreshments, and a taste of the Southwest. A hallmark of an era when road trips were an adventure in themselves, Bowlins represented the golden age of the automobile—a time when the journey mattered as much as the destination.
Unfortunately, we had arrived too early. The trading post was closed, its dusty parking lot sprawling under the relentless New Mexico sun. The emptiness of the lot amplified the building’s isolation as if it were the last sentinel of a fading memory. A few cars clustered under the narrow awning, their presence seeming more symbolic than practical. Nearby, a towering American flag rippled in the desert breeze, its slow, steady movement a contrast to the stillness surrounding it.
Off to the side, a vibrant teepee sculpture broke the monotony of the desert’s muted palette, its bold hues of red, blue, and yellow standing in sharp contrast to the dusty sagebrush and gravel that surrounded it. The geometric patterns decorating its canvas bore the Zia symbol and paw prints, a striking tribute to Native American artistry. The Zia sun symbol, centered in red, radiated outwards with its four symmetrical clusters of rays, a design deeply tied to the spiritual traditions of New Mexico’s ancient peoples. For the Zia, the number four encapsulates life’s essential rhythms: the four seasons, the times of day, the stages of life, and the sacred obligations of existence.
This artistic homage was more than just decoration—it was an invitation for travelers to pause and reflect or perhaps to snap a picture that would capture a fleeting connection to the Southwest’s rich cultural heritage. Around the teepee, the land rolled away in soft waves of sagebrush and patches of bare gravel, dotted with a few wiry trees that seemed to exist purely out of stubborn will.
In the distance, tattered banners advertising pottery and local crafts flapped listlessly in the breeze, their once-vibrant colors faded under years of unrelenting sunlight. A weathered billboard proclaimed the trading post’s historical roots, an optimistic nod to a legacy that now felt more like survival than celebration. The scene spoke less of nostalgia and more of persistence—proof that even here, on the edge of nowhere, life found a way to endure in its quiet, determined fashion. Having taken in what we could of this roadside relic, we climbed back into the van and resumed our eastward trek on I-10.
The drive toward Las Cruces unfolded as a living postcard of the American Southwest. The air, dry and thin, carried the faint herbal aroma of creosote bushes, a scent that felt as much a part of the desert as the jagged rocks and unyielding sun. The landscape stretched endlessly, a vast canvas of sun-scorched earth interrupted only by clusters of yucca and mesquite, their hardy forms defying the harshness of their environment.
As we neared Las Cruces, the Organ Mountains came into view, rising abruptly from the plains like the battlements of a stone fortress. Their sharp, angular peaks, painted in dusty shades of blue and gray, seemed to shimmer under the intense light of the late morning sun. Above, the sky was an unbroken expanse of azure so vivid it felt almost surreal, a dome that seemed to stretch infinitely in every direction.
Maggie’s request to stop at a bookstore gave us a purpose in town, so we navigated toward New Mexico State University, hopeful that its campus bookstore might provide some literary sustenance. The campus itself was a small marvel of adaptation, where the harsh desert environment gave way to shaded walkways and meticulously xeriscaped gardens. Low-maintenance greenery—succulents, native grasses, and hardy trees—flourished in carefully curated spaces, a testament to the art of working with nature rather than against it.
Even so, the desert never felt far. Dry winds whispered through open spaces, carrying with them the faint tang of dust and heat, while the ever-present silhouette of the Chihuahuan Desert mountains framed the horizon. The campus felt like an oasis, a brief respite from the harsh world beyond its boundaries.
Our hopes for the bookstore were dashed when we found it closed—Sunday hours, it turned out, were not in our favor. Fortunately, a Panda Express attached to the bookstore had just opened for the day, and we decided to take advantage. Over steaming bowls of noodles and rice, we savored the small victory of a simple meal in an unfamiliar place, the hum of a quiet Sunday morning providing a soothing backdrop.
With lunch behind us, we pressed on, heading east out of Las Cruces toward the towering Organ Mountains. The ascent to San Augustin Pass on U.S. Highway 70 revealed the rugged beauty of southern New Mexico in all its grandeur. The road climbed steadily, carving through a landscape of jagged outcroppings and sparse desert grasses, their resilience a testament to life’s tenacity in unforgiving places.
At the pass’s summit, elevation 5,710 feet, the vista opened into a breathtaking panorama. The Tularosa Basin stretched out below in a vast, dramatic sweep, flanked by the Organ Mountains to the west and the Sacramento Mountains to the east. The gypsum dunes of White Sands National Park shimmered in the distance, a stark, brilliant white against the earthy tones of the desert. The air here felt a little thinner, crisper, carrying a faint mineral tang that spoke of the ancient geology surrounding us. Above, the sky was an endless expanse of piercing blue, the kind of sky that makes you pause and marvel at the sheer scale of the world.
In the distance, the gypsum dunes of White Sands National Park shimmered like a mirage, their brilliant whiteness almost otherworldly against the muted, earthy tones of the surrounding desert. The dunes appeared to ripple in the heat, an illusion that blurred the line between earth and sky. The air, crisp and thin at this elevation, carried a faint mineral tang that seemed to heighten the senses. Above, the sky stretched on a vast and impossibly deep expanse of blue that felt as though it could swallow you whole. From this vantage point, the desert’s enormity was humbling, a stark reminder of nature’s scale and its ability to inspire awe with the simplest of elements—earth, sand, and sky.
White Sands National Park, located in the heart of southern New Mexico’s Tularosa Basin, is a place of striking natural beauty and profound historical significance. While it is known for its shimmering gypsum dunes, its history is deeply intertwined with the military’s presence and the United States’ advancements in aerospace and weaponry. This unique intersection of nature and technology makes White Sands one of the most fascinating landscapes in the country.
The park itself is part of a much larger area known as the White Sands Missile Range, a sprawling military testing ground established in 1945. During World War II, the United States government realized the strategic potential of the Tularosa Basin’s vast, isolated desert. Its remote location and harsh environment made it an ideal testing ground for cutting-edge military technology. The missile range soon became central to the development of advanced weaponry during the Cold War and beyond.
One of the most significant historical moments associated with White Sands was the Trinity Test, conducted on July 16, 1945. Although the test site lies slightly north of the modern missile range, the detonation of the first atomic bomb forever linked the area to the dawn of the nuclear age. The test proved pivotal in bringing an end to World War II but also marked the beginning of a new and complex chapter in global military history.
White Sands Missile Range quickly became a hub for missile testing, serving as the birthplace of modern rocketry. In the late 1940s and 1950s, German scientists who had been part of Nazi Germany’s rocket program, including Wernher von Braun, were brought to the United States under Operation Paperclip. They worked at White Sands to develop missile technology, including further development on Nazi Germany’s infamous V-2 rocket, which served as the foundation for America’s space exploration programs and intercontinental ballistic missiles.
The missile range also played a critical role during the Space Race. In the 1960s and 1970s, astronauts trained in the Tularosa Basin, using the stark, lunar-like landscape of White Sands as a stand-in for the Moon’s surface. The vast gypsum dunes provided a surreal yet practical environment for practicing extravehicular activities and other surface operations in preparation for the Apollo missions.
In addition to its contributions to space exploration, White Sands has been the site of numerous military tests over the decades. The missile range tested everything from ballistic missiles and drones to advanced radar systems. Its importance to the Department of Defense continues to this day, with cutting-edge weapons and defense technologies still being evaluated on its vast expanses.
Despite its military associations, White Sands National Park was officially designated as a national monument in 1933, predating the establishment of the missile range. It was later elevated to national park status in 2019, ensuring the preservation of its unique gypsum dunes for future generations. The dual-use nature of the area means that access to certain parts of the park is occasionally restricted due to military testing, a reminder of the ever-present connection between this extraordinary natural landscape and its strategic importance to national security.
Today, White Sands National Park stands as a testament to the complexities of human history. Its blindingly white dunes offer a serene escape into nature, while its surrounding areas echo with the sounds of rockets and missiles shaping the future of aerospace technology. This juxtaposition of peace and progress makes White Sands not just a national treasure, but a living chronicle of some of the most pivotal moments in modern history.
Descending through the San Augustin Pass, the land below unfurled like a sun-bleached tapestry. The arid expanse of the Tularosa Basin stretched to the horizon, a sea of pale, cracked earth punctuated by clusters of hardy shrubs and the occasional yucca standing like sentinels in the harsh landscape. Skeletal power lines flanked the highway, their angular forms cutting through the undulating terrain. The road itself carved a deliberate path, a human-made artery through this boundless wilderness, beckoning travelers deeper into the heart of the Southwest.
As we neared White Sands, the desert underwent a dramatic transformation. The muted browns and grays of the landscape gave way to dazzling mounds of gypsum sand, their pristine whiteness so bright it seemed almost luminous under the midday sun. The dunes rose like frozen waves, their smooth contours defying the jagged lines of the surrounding terrain. Against the backdrop of the impossibly blue sky, the stark contrast was both startling and mesmerizing.
Arriving at White Sands National Park, we were greeted by the adobe-style visitor center, its warm, earthy tones a perfect complement to the desert around it. The textured walls, designed to withstand the harsh environment, exuded a timeless charm, while clusters of desert vegetation—yucca, mesquite, and hardy grasses—framed the building, their resilience echoing the spirit of the land. It was a place that felt as though it had always been there, quietly coexisting with the dunes and the sky.
Nearby, the park’s entrance sign stood as a gateway to this extraordinary place. Families gathered there, smiling against the backdrop of windswept dunes, their brilliance dazzling under the relentless sun. The juxtaposition of human joy and the stark, raw beauty of the dunes was striking—proof that even in a landscape so seemingly inhospitable, the human spirit found a way to connect with it.
Venturing deeper into the park, the surreal beauty of White Sands unfolded with each bend in the road. The gypsum dunes rolled in gentle waves, their stark whiteness contrasting sharply with the scattered desert shrubs and spindly yucca clinging to life at their edges. In the distance, the hazy outline of the San Andres Mountains provided a grounding presence, their rugged forms rising as a tranquil counterpoint to the ethereal landscape.
A boardwalk trail cut through the dunes, its sleek, modern rails standing in quiet contrast to the timeless sands. The path offered an unobtrusive way to experience the heart of this unique ecosystem, allowing visitors to tread lightly on the fragile environment. Under the intense sunlight, the gypsum sparkled as though alive with light, a dazzling display that felt almost magical.
Closer to the ground, desert vegetation held its ground against the shifting sands. Clumps of grass and skeletal shrubs stood as quiet testaments to adaptability, their forms casting sharp, intricate shadows on the white dunes. Tenacious yucca plants dotted the slopes, their long, spindly leaves reaching skyward as though drawing strength from the sun itself. The contrast of life against such stark emptiness was humbling—a reminder of nature’s resilience and the quiet beauty of survival in even the harshest places.
Driving deeper into White Sands National Park feels like venturing into another world. The road, once asphalt, transforms into packed gypsum sand, blending seamlessly with the surrounding dunes. Signs warning about driving on sand and shifting conditions serve as a reminder of the unique terrain. The winding path hugs the curves of the dunes, bordered by scrubby desert plants that stubbornly cling to life in this stark environment.
The further you go, the more surreal the landscape becomes. The endless dunes stretch in every direction, their smooth, sunlit slopes undulating like waves frozen in time. In the distance, faint plumes of gypsum dust swirl in the air, stirred by the desert winds, adding a sense of movement to this still world. Now rare and scattered, cars look like tiny specks on this vast, alien expanse.
A panoramic view reveals the sheer scale of the park—rolling white dunes under an intense blue sky, interrupted only by the distant shadow of mountains. Silence reigns, broken only by the crunch of tires on the sand and the occasional whisper of the wind. It’s both humbling and exhilarating, a stark example of nature’s ability to craft beauty from the simplest of elements.
As Diem and I ventured deeper into the heart of the dune field, the world became a symphony of white and blue—endless ridges of fine gypsum sand under a sky so vivid it felt surreal. The light danced across the pristine landscape, casting soft, subtle shadows along the dunes’ curves. Each step left a fleeting mark in the silky sand, quickly softened by the often robust breeze.
The solitude of this vast expanse amplifies its serenity. Diem stood against this stark backdrop, her silhouette and bright clothing strikingly vivid against the dunes’ brilliance. Together, we shared a moment of quiet awe, embraced by the stillness and immensity of this natural wonder.
Everywhere you look, the dunes seem to roll endlessly, their soft peaks and valleys painting a picture of calm resilience. In this untouched beauty, the world seems to narrow to just the two of us, the sand and the sky—a perfect, timeless memory captured in this extraordinary place. With the girls resting away from the penetrating heat back in the van, Diem and I explored the vast dune field as long as the relentless heat would allow. Eventually, we returned to the van and pressed out again towards I-10.
Crossing into Texas at El Paso, the scene was filled with bold symbols of state pride. The towering monument adorned with the Lone Star and the silhouette of Texas stands sentinel, surrounded by rugged desert terrain. The “Welcome to Texas” sign, promising friendly driving “The Texas Way,” greets travelers as they approach the sprawling cityscape.
El Paso emerges as a striking contrast to the desolate beauty of the journey so far. The Franklin Mountains loom over the city, their jagged peaks creating a dramatic backdrop for the bustling urban environment below. From the highway, the view stretches out to reveal Juárez just across the border, its tightly packed buildings climbing the hills in vibrant clusters. The international bridge, a lifeline between two nations, underscores the cultural and geographical ties of this unique border region.
The landscape is a fusion of natural and human-made marvels: arid mountains, sprawling cityscapes, and the Rio Grande carving its way through the valley. El Paso feels like a gateway, a place where cultures merge and journeys take on a new chapter under the expansive Texas sky.
We made a quick stop at a Barnes and Noble in El Paso, an oasis of modernity amidst the vast desert landscape. Inside, the cool air and the scent of freshly printed pages provided a brief respite from the heat outside. Maggie and Jennie eagerly perused the shelves, and we left with a few new books to accompany us on the next leg of our journey. With our literary treasures in hand, we headed back onto the road, leaving the city behind and aiming for quieter corners near the border.
Near Fort Hancock, we veered off the interstate and found ourselves on a road that seemed to stretch endlessly into the horizon. An old Spanish mission punctuated the monotony of the desert, its whitewashed walls gleaming under the Texas sun. It stood as a stoic reminder of the region’s layered history—a blend of faith, resilience, and the enduring presence of humanity in this rugged land. The mission’s simple yet elegant design drew us in, and for a moment, we were transported to a time when this place was a beacon for weary travelers seeking solace.
Back on the road, just outside Fort Hancock, traffic on I-10 came to an abrupt halt. Every car was directed off the highway, funneled toward a large warehouse-like structure that loomed in the distance. Border Patrol agents were stationed there, their vehicles lined up like sentinels. As we approached, my pulse quickened. Immigration officials in Atlanta had assured me that Diem, Lisa, and Jennie’s resident alien cards wouldn’t be necessary for domestic travel. But as we rolled down the window and the officer asked if everyone was a citizen, I realized the moment might test that assurance.
I told the officer the truth. Diem, Lisa, and Jennie were not citizens. His face remained neutral as he asked for their resident alien cards. When I explained we didn’t have them, a flicker of concern crossed his face, and he began speaking into his radio. Panic bubbled beneath my calm exterior, but I concentrated on projecting ease. I offered Diem’s driver’s license, a tangible piece of proof that she was here legally. The seconds stretched into what felt like hours as he scrutinized the ID and continued his radio conversation. I reassured myself that we were in compliance with the law, but doubt gnawed at the edges of my composure. I was sure he wasn’t looking for illegal Asian immigrants in this part of the country, and he eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, waived us through. The relief that followed was immense, though I knew my hands had gripped the steering wheel just a little tighter since that encounter.
From there, the road stretched on, the miles slipping away as the sun dipped lower into the horizon. Near Fort Stockton, we stopped for fuel and a quick dinner at a gas station. The meal was nothing to write home about—french fries and fried chicken that had likely been under the heat lamps too long—but it filled the gap for our road-weary stomachs. We ate quietly, the events of the day still lingering in my mind.
By the time we reached Ozona, night had fully embraced the landscape. The stars above, scattered across the vast Texas sky, seemed to mock the fluorescent glow of the Hampton Inn, where we finally stopped for the night. The hum of the van’s engine faded as I turned it off, and the day’s tension melted into the stillness of the parking lot. Tomorrow, the journey would continue, but for now, rest awaited, and with it, a chance to recalibrate for whatever the road might bring next.
Click here for the National Park Services to explore some of the parks and monuments we’ve explored and more.
