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 and 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, with the heat bearing down on this arid corner of New Mexico. The air carried a 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 of gathering the scattered belongings, wrestling them into bags and ferrying everything into the van. 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. Its Sisyphean task of 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 for us as well as for the ant, 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 as a place where the road mattered more than the destination. Across the street was the Circle K, its stark red and white signage promising travelers 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 spoke of a more prosperous past. The towering pole of a long-defunct gas station sign stretched upward and cast a skeletal shadow across the dry, cracked ground. The hum of a passing semi on Interstate 10 broke the silence.
After another uninspiring motel breakfast of a few stale pastries and overly sweet coffee, we returned to the road. The sky was a brilliant blue 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 was a relic of Americana. Its pamphlet boasted nearly a century of offering passing travelers trinkets, refreshments and a taste of the Southwest. Bowlins represented the golden age of the automobile, an era when road trips were an adventure in themselves and the journey mattered as much as the destination.
Unfortunately, we had arrived too early. The trading post was closed and its dusty parking lot sprawled under the New Mexico sun. The emptiness of the lot amplified the building’s isolation. A few cars clustered under the narrow awning, and nearby a towering American flag rippled in the desert breeze.
Off to the side, a vibrant teepee sculpture broke the monotony of the desert, its bold 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 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 in the four seasons, the times of day, the stages of life and the sacred obligations of existence. This artistic homage was an invitation for travelers to pause and reflect or perhaps to snap a picture. Around the teepee, the land rolled away in sagebrush and patches of bare gravel, dotted with a few wiry trees.
In the distance, tattered banners advertising pottery and local crafts flapped listlessly in the breeze, their colors faded by years of sunlight. A weathered billboard proclaimed the trading post’s historical roots, though the legacy now felt more like survival than celebration. The scene spoke less of nostalgia and more of persistence, even here on the edge of nowhere. 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 was a postcard of the American Southwest. The air was dry and thin and carried the faint herbal aroma of creosote bushes. The landscape stretched out in sun-scorched earth interrupted only by clusters of yucca and mesquite. As we neared Las Cruces, the Organ Mountains came into view, rising abruptly from the plains. Their sharp, angular peaks in dusty shades of blue and gray seemed to shimmer under the intense light of the late morning sun. Above, the sky was a vivid azure.
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 succulents, native grasses and hardy trees flourished in carefully curated spaces, working with nature rather than against it.
Even so, the desert never felt far. Dry winds blew through open spaces carrying the faint tang of dust and heat, and the silhouette of the Chihuahuan Desert mountains framed the horizon. The campus felt like an oasis. 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 on a quiet Sunday morning.
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. The road climbed steadily through a landscape of jagged outcroppings and sparse desert grasses.
At the pass’s summit, elevation 5,710 feet, the view opened into a wide panorama. The Tularosa Basin stretched out below, 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 and crisper and carried a faint mineral tang. Above, the sky was a piercing blue. The dunes appeared to ripple in the heat, an illusion that blurred the line between earth and sky. From this vantage point, the desert’s enormity was humbling.
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 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 in the northern part 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 and 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. Today, the blindingly white dunes of White Sands National Park offer a serene escape into nature, while the surrounding areas echo with the sounds of rockets and missiles shaping the future of aerospace technology. White Sands is a national treasure and a living chronicle of some of the most pivotal moments in modern history.
Descending through the San Augustin Pass, the arid expanse of the Tularosa Basin stretched to the horizon, pale, cracked earth punctuated by clusters of hardy shrubs and the occasional yucca. Power lines flanked the highway, cutting through the undulating terrain, and the road carved its path deeper into the heart of the Southwest. As we neared White Sands, the desert changed dramatically. The muted browns and grays of the landscape gave way to mounds of gypsum sand so white they seemed almost luminous under the midday sun. The dunes rose in smooth contours against the jagged lines of the surrounding terrain, and against the blue sky the contrast was startling.
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 were designed to withstand the harsh environment, and clusters of yucca, mesquite and hardy grasses framed the building. It felt as though it had always been there.
Nearby was the park’s entrance sign. Families gathered there, smiling against the backdrop of windswept dunes bright under the sun. The contrast of human joy and the stark, raw beauty of the dunes was striking.
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, white against the scattered desert shrubs and spindly yucca clinging to life at their edges. In the distance rose the hazy outline of the San Andres Mountains. A boardwalk trail with sleek, modern rails cut through the dunes. The path offered an unobtrusive way to experience the heart of this ecosystem and let visitors tread lightly on the fragile environment. Under the intense sunlight, the gypsum sparkled.
The path offered an unobtrusive way to experience the heart of this ecosystem and let visitors tread lightly on the fragile environment.
Closer to the ground, desert vegetation held out against the shifting sands. Clumps of grass and skeletal shrubs cast sharp, intricate shadows on the white dunes. Yucca plants dotted the slopes, their long, spindly leaves reaching skyward. The contrast of life against such stark emptiness was humbling.
Driving deeper into White Sands National Park, the road changes from asphalt to packed gypsum sand that blends with the surrounding dunes. Signs warn about driving on sand and shifting conditions. The winding path hugs the curves of the dunes, bordered by scrubby desert plants that stubbornly cling to life.
The further you go, the more surreal the landscape becomes. The dunes stretch in every direction, their smooth slopes lit by the sun. In the distance, faint plumes of gypsum dust swirl in the air, stirred by the desert winds. Cars are rare and scattered now and look like tiny specks on this vast 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. It is silent apart from the crunch of tires on the sand and the occasional sigh of the wind. It’s both humbling and exhilarating.
As Diem and I ventured deeper into the heart of the dune field, the world turned white and blue, ridges of fine gypsum sand under a vivid sky. The light cast 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 vivid against the dunes. Together, we shared a moment of quiet awe in the stillness.
Everywhere you look, the dunes seem to roll endlessly in soft peaks and valleys. The world seems to narrow to just the two of us, the sand and the sky. 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, we were met by bold symbols of state pride. The towering monument with the Lone Star and the silhouette of Texas stands 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 is a striking contrast to the desolate beauty of the journey so far. The Franklin Mountains loom over the city, their jagged peaks a backdrop for the busy urban environment below. From the highway, the view stretches out to Juárez just across the border, its tightly packed buildings climbing the hills. The international bridge links the two nations in this border region.
The landscape mixes 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 under the expansive Texas sky. We made a quick stop at a Barnes and Noble in El Paso. 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 for the next leg of our journey. With our books 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 broke the monotony of the desert, its whitewashed walls gleaming under the Texas sun. It stood as a reminder of the region’s layered history. 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 refuge for weary travelers.
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 with their vehicles lined up. 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, waved 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 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. It was 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 fallen. 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.
Click here for the National Park Service to explore some of the parks and monuments we’ve explored and more.
