Chapter 6 – On White Knuckles and Windswept Sands
Colorado Springs, CO, to Alamosa, CO.
That morning, as the sun gently cast its cloud-suppressed silvery hues over the world, we gathered around a modest breakfast table, indulging in the simple pleasures of motel scrambled eggs, mostly crispy bacon, and “fresh” orange juice. Still not thrilled about the early mornings on vacation, the girls sat with a subdued excitement as we hurriedly finished breakfast. It was clear, however, that the previous day’s winter adventure still had our party abuzz with the reality of what we were pursuing.
Soon, we were on the road, venturing down Hwy 115 towards Penrose. The Colorado Piedmont unfolded like a beautifully penned poem, its rolling hills a lush green carpet peppered with wildflowers, swaying grasses, and the forest green hues of alpine trees. The landscape was alive with the vibrant dance of nature, each curve revealing a new and breathtaking perspective.
As we drove, the world outside the windows transformed into a mesmerizing tableau, like some whimsical travelogue. On one side, Cheyenne Mountain State Park sprawled out, a kaleidoscope of greens and browns, where the pines and spruces seemed almost to hum with hidden secrets.
On the other side, Beaver Creek State Wildlife Area caught the eye, with streams glittering in the sunlight and underbrush rustling with unseen activity. Further on, Pike-San Isabel National Forest spread out, its expansive wilderness promising adventures on winding trails through time-worn woods and past cascading waterfalls—a tantalizing glimpse of adventures waiting for some future exploration. It was a drive filled with visual appetizers, a feast for the eyes, where every mile seemed to whisper, “Oh, if only you had the time.”
And yet, amidst the bounty, the majestic peaks remained just out of sight, hidden behind a veil of thick clouds. Their ghostly presence, felt rather than seen, a tantalizing hint of the grandeur that lay beyond. The air seemed to crackle with their withheld secrets, a mystique that added an enticing layer of anticipation to our journey. Would we see snow again today?
Upon reaching Penrose, the real adventure began. Highway 50 ushered us towards Cañon City, guiding us through a panorama of geological wonders that only increased the spectacle. The route flirted with cliff edges and canyon walls, snaking its way through rock formations that told stories of time itself. We were officially in the Southwest. In the unassuming Cañon City, we experienced our first thrill of the day.
Skyline Drive
Skyline Drive in Cañon City is a narrow ribbon of road that seems to scoff at the very notion of fear, echoing the audacious spirit of the Colorado terrain itself. Ascending from the valley, this single-lane, one-way path clings to the crest of Skyline Ridge, surveying the cityscape from its elevated throne.
Driving this winding road is a heart-pounding affair. It teeters along the ridge, offering nothing but air on either side and refuses the safety of guardrails, thus allowing an unbridled view of the world beyond.
Constructed by the hands of inmates in the early 1900s, this road is a testament to human ingenuity and mirrors the wild, untamable allure of its surroundings. Its steep ascents and sinuous bends are like a rollercoaster crafted by nature herself.
As we reached the peak, Cañon City unfolded beneath us, a sprawling canvas of civilization tucked into the mountainous embrace. The white-knuckled ride had me clinging to the steering wheel, my hands slick with a youthful excitement I hadn’t felt in years.
The climb was nerve-wracking, but as we reached the summit and the breathtaking views revealed themselves, all anxiety faded. There, standing on the brink of the magnificent, the world seemed to pause, holding its breath in awe, and we were enveloped in a timeless moment, forever etched in memory. It was more than a mere overlook; it was a gateway to something grand, an experience that tied us to the wild beauty of the land.
Leaving Cañon City behind, the landscape underwent a magical transformation, as if we had crossed into another realm. The gentle greenery had given way before Canon City, and now the rugged desert mountains had closed in. Their jagged peaks cut against the sky as we wound our way to the northern edge of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The transition was stark, yet breathtakingly beautiful, like stepping into a wilder, more feral version of the world. The snowy peaks and alpine forests returned as we crossed over at Poncha Pass on Hwy 285 and slid down into the San Luis Valley.
Here, the land presented a vivid juxtaposition of dusty scrublands, their raw, arid beauty contrasting sharply with the neat, well-manicured circular fields of irrigated food crops. A painter’s palette of earth tones and the vibrant greens of agriculture blended into a harsh yet nurturing landscape. At the valley’s northern edge, we found ourselves on Hwy 17, a road that seemed to stretch into eternity, a thin, unbroken line drawn into the distance, vanishing into nothingness at an unseeable spot on the distant horizon.
Nestled on the eastern slope of Colorado’s section of the Continental Divide, the San Luis Valley and thusly the San Luis Closed Basin unfolds as a fascinating geographical wonder. Once upon a time, the surrounding mountains directed all of its water into this unique basin, where it was carefully absorbed and transformed through a gentle dance of evaporation. Leaving behind a dry, mystical playa beside the Great Sand Dunes. It was a land independent of the Continental Divide. No water came into, or out of the basin except by rain or evaporation.
However, in the 1970s, human ingenuity intervened, crafting a canal that would divert some of this precious liquid toward the Rio Grande. This diversion, known as the Closed Basin Project, changed the very essence of the basin. A portion of the once dry playa transformed into an intermittent recreational lake, christened San Luis Lake, where visitors could indulge in the joys of water-based recreation.
Yet, despite these changes, the delicate equilibrium of the Closed Basin is meticulously cared for. The Rio Grande Water Conservation District stands as its guardian, watching and managing its intricate hydrology, ensuring that the natural beauty and the whimsical interplay of water and earth continue to thrive, much to the delight of those who venture to explore it. A legacy of human intervention coexisting with nature’s whims, the San Luis Closed Basin remains a testament to the complex dance between mankind and the earth.
The San Luis Valley is also an intricate tapestry of life and landscape. Characterized by vast expanses sprinkled with greasewood patches, often affectionately referred to by locals as “chico” or “chico brush,” this terrain offers a harsh yet stunning beauty. But nature weaves a delicate story of survival and harmony within this seemingly inhospitable environment. Here, amidst the sprawling greasewood, resides a precious jewel of American fauna: the southwestern willow flycatcher. A United States endangered subspecies, this delicate bird finds refuge in the basin, transforming the dry land into a vital breeding ground. This rare bird adds an extra layer of mystique to the area, making the San Luis Valley a living symbol of nature’s resilience and adaptability, even in the face of adversity.
Halfway down the highway, our curiosity was piqued by the kitschy UFO Watchtower, a quirky roadside attraction seemingly calling out from the barren desert. A fanciful monument to the enigmas of the universe, the tower was decorated with an eccentric collection of oddities and relics, all in homage to unidentified flying objects and the unexplored. It was a fleeting but delightful pit stop, adding a pinch of wonder and a dash of whimsy to our ongoing adventure.
From there, in the vast emptiness of the Valley, we picked up Lane 6 N and headed east. The lone dusty road was framed by wild snow-capped peaks and gentle forested mountains, each curve, and undulation an echoing call to the unknown. The stark terrain, a marriage of mountains and sky, served as a prelude to an awe-inspiring destination, where the sand seemed to breathe with life, moaning under the weight of eons, as it slowly swayed in the ageless winds. We were journeying through time and space, capturing a glimpse at the natural grandeur, each mile a step deeper into a world that refused to be anything but extraordinary.
Great Sand Dunes National Park
The Great Sand Dunes of North America, rising to a staggering height of over 700 feet, are a marvel in the San Luis Valley. Tucked against the Sangre de Cristo Mountain Range, the park encompasses about 30 square miles and holds a breathtaking 1.2 cubic miles of sand. That’s enough sand to fill 50,000 of college football’s largest stadiums—a truly significant geographical phenomenon.
The park, officially designated as a national monument in 1932 by President Herbert Hoover and later as a national park in 2004, holds a rich history. The Great Sand Dunes’ ancient names are whispers of oral tradition, ancient rumors of a forgotten time. To the Ute, they were Saa waap maa nache, or “sand that moves,” a restless spirit wandering the desert. The Jicarilla Apaches, settlers of northern New Mexico, knew them as Sei-anyedi, “it goes up and down,” a landscape alive with motion. Blanca Peak, a stoic guardian southeast of the Dunes, held a sacred spot in Navajo hearts, named “Sisnaajini.”
For the Tewa/Tiwa-speaking pueblos along the Rio Grande, the dunes were not just geological wonders but spiritual touchstones. They harbored memories of Sip’ophe, the “Sandy Place Lake,” the lake through which their people first emerged. It was thought to be the spring or lake just west of the dune field, a door between realms.
The tribes that walked these sands found more than mere beauty; they discovered sustenance and healing in the inner bark of ponderosa pine trees. Ancient Utes sustainably harvested the pines. Many used hundreds of years ago still survive today. Carefully carving sections out of the trees to provide materials for construction, pitch, and sap. Its uses ranged from plateware and bowls, to food and medicine in the form of drinks and poultices. It wasn’t simply a land of shifting sand; it was a sanctuary, a pharmacy, a kitchen. It provided.
Beyond the Native Americans that hold these lands sacred, modern conservationists and geologists have also spearheaded its preservation efforts, with key figures such as Zebulon Pike and John Wesley Powell contributing to our understanding of this extraordinary place. And though the park is now preserved for future generations, its story is far older than any human inhabitants.
The genesis of the valley began with the uplifting of the Sangre de Cristo Range around 5 million years ago, and the volcanic creation of the San Juan Mountains a billion years prior, framing an area roughly the size of Connecticut. Glaciers melted, rains poured, and sediment from both ranges filled the valley, interspersed with larger rocks, hinting at flash floods.
In 2002, the discovery of ancient lakebed deposits gave credence to the theory of Lake Alamosa, a colossal body that once sprawled across the valley floor. It vanished suddenly, breaking through volcanic deposits, forming the Rio Grande Gorge, and leaving behind smaller lakes, sand, and sabkha wetlands.
Wind patterns played a symphony over time, funneled through three mountain passes—Mosca, Medano, and Music—and accumulated the sand into dunes. The combination of opposing winds, a sand-rich valley floor, and the sand-recycling action of creeks like Medano and Sand made these dunes the tallest in North America.
With a stable dune system, facilitated by balanced wind directions and underlying moist sand that anchors the formation, small migrating dunes slowly contribute to the main field. Grasses and shrubs capture some, halting their movement. But much of the drifting sand across the valley ultimately finds its way here.
Scientists pin the disappearance of Lake Alamosa at about 440,000 years ago. The dunes, originating from later deposits, are still being studied through methods like optically stimulated luminescence (OSL), attempting to date the age of these incredible formations. These OSL studies indicate sand deposits ranging from several thousand to tens of thousands of years old, marking them as late Pleistocene epoch creations.
Among the fine grains of sand, there’s also a magnetic touch. Deposits of magnetite, eroded from the Sangre de Cristo Range, create dark patches within the dune field. This, the most magnetic of minerals, adds another layer of wonder to a landscape filled with extraordinary geological history.
Exploring the massive dunes, we felt humbled by the scale of nature’s artistry. The Medano Creek, also known as the braided creek, is created by mountain runoff, and hugs the dunes, weaving a silvery earthen path from the peaks to the desert prairie beyond, an ecosystem supporting a diverse array of life from insects to birds, and even large herbivores.
This place, sculpted by nature’s hand, where winds and sands dance to create a wonder of the natural world, made me pause and reflect. We were standing amidst a history painted by time, wind, and water—a remarkable testament to the ever-changing and ancient beauty of the Earth. As I stood, feet wet from the braided creek that flows past, staring up at the massive dunes, it felt like we were in a fantasy novel. Where every grain of sand tells a story of the eons gone by, it was an astonishingly beautiful and dynamic part of the world. We were merely transient observers, a particle of the moment, caught in the winds of time.
Our exploration was cut short by a storm lashing up over the mountains, its sudden violence turning the already sand-swept air into a stinging barrage. The intensity of the elements was a stark reminder of the raw power of this landscape. The girls’ complaints pulled us back, and we retreated, acknowledging the dominance of nature. As we reached the van, rain began to fall, a soft benediction to our day. Washing away the sands and leaving us with the indelible impression of a place where Earth meets sky, and nature tells its ancient story.
A quaint little farmhouse, Somewhere, Colorado.
We headed to our Airbnb, a little farmhouse near Alamosa, our temporary home amid the wonders of Colorado. Nestled between vast landscapes, this rustic dwelling offered a respite from the day’s explorations. Energized by the day’s events, Diem and I went to a local Safeway to gather supplies for a culinary feast.
Day 6 of our journey was drawing to a close, yet the excitement lingered. The glow of the day still fresh on our faces, the aromas of the surrounding land still playing on our senses, the sounds of nature’s music still resonating in our ears. I felt part of a living, breathing masterpiece, painted by the very hand of the cosmos.
Our first rental with a full kitchen of the trip, and it was the perfect stage to throw down a delicious dinner. It was an inviting kitchen, the heart of this quaint little farmhouse, with worn wooden counters that had seen many a meal prepared. Every pot, pan, and utensil seemed to whisper of feasts enjoyed by former travelers.
I found myself lost in my culinary convictions, the confit bubbling away, the sizzle of the grill, the rich flavors mingling with the sound of laughter from our children. Diem transformed a few simple ingredients into a traditional Bun bo Hue. The art of our cooking reflected the diversity of our journey, where simple components came together to create something extraordinary.
Through the back door, the massive dunes beset before the Sangre de Cristo mountains seemed like ancient guardians, keeping watch over the land. I stood at the grill, listening to the wind chimes, their gentle clinking like a serenade to the wild. The dunes, the focus of our awe earlier, now served as a backdrop to our familial warmth.
As we sat down to relish our meal, the glow of the setting sun added to the ambiance. It felt like the essence of Colorado had seeped into our very being. Even the grill’s incredible view seemed to nod in approval, silently testifying to the wonders it had witnessed.
In the cool evening, with the stars beginning to stake their claim, I pondered the significance of our little feast. It was not merely a meal but a fitting end to a day of thrills, sights, and the boundless beauty of a land that refused to be tamed. The food, laughter, and comfort of the little farmhouse became part of our story, woven into the fabric of our journey. We had tasted the wild, explored the wilderness, and now, we were part of it. It felt like we had entered the heart of our trip. Tomorrow would be day seven, a quarter of our journey almost behind us. It had been another incredible day of adventure and exploration, as we continued our improbable journey across the expanses of America, beneath an endless sky.
To explore some of the Parks and Monuments we’ve explored and more, click here for the National Park Services.
