The snow is expected, but the sand is not.

In the recent post — That was Unexpected! — I shared how snow along the edges of an agave, a sight recently but rarely seen in South Texas, reminded me of snow along the edges of sand seen on a recent trip to Colorado.

This post is a follow up — leaving the wonders of the Lost Madrone Ranch and sharing a travel to an amazing national park.

When I think about sand dunes, I recall childhood memories of turning flips in the air down the steep slopes of dunes along the seashore of Cape Cod.

I recall the many summers when my family camped on the sea oat covered sand dunes of Cape Hatteras and trudged up and jumped (or hang glided) down the dunes of Jockey’s Ridge — the tallest dunes on the East Coast.

I recall the time I (Jim passed up the “opportunity” to sleep on the sand) took our kids camping on the dunes of Mustang Island, and a violent storm came out of nowhere. Frantic, we scrambled to tie our tent to the wheels of the car and huddled inside, hoping the tent would not blow away.

I recall the time Jimmy and I camped at North Padre Island and the car got stuck in deep sand between the dunes — it was mid-week, during the off season, with no people in sight; we were out of cell service range; and we were 10 miles past the 4wd only warning sign that read “beyond this point no help is available.”

My sand dune stories are many.

But, my sand dune memories are all associated with the shore, and smells of salt in the air, and views of the ocean nearby.

I never knew sand dunes were in Colorado until a few years ago when Alexandra took a weekend trip to Great Sand Dunes National Park & Preserve.

As soon as she shared her experience, I put the park on my list to see.

How had I never heard of this place?

Not only is this 30 square mile dunefield in land-locked Colorado, within it are the tallest sand dunes in North America.

Jaw-dropping!

Even though I was expecting to see a remarkable place, it was remarkably unexpected once I saw it.

Located in south-central Colorado, near not much of anything but beauty, the first sight of the dunes is surreal.

The drive to the dunes is long and flat through the San Luis Valley.

And then, out of nowhere, the dunes begin.

They climb in height, stretching along a backdrop of the Sangre de Cristo Range.

It seems the dunes are competing with the majesty of the mountains but uncertain whether to mimic the mountain form

or outnumber the mountain peaks.

Wind-sculpted ridges and curves cast shadows in organic shapes where patches of snow hide from the sun, marking the dunes with streaks of white.

My visual vocabulary to describe the dunes is a collection of contrasts — sharp and soft; powerful and pleasing; inviting and intimidating — the emotion of each pair somehow experienced at the same time.

The scale of the dunes was repeated trickery that I fell for over and over again.

For example, in the photo below, can you find three people? Hint, they appear eensy.

Twenty steps from the parking lot, the edge of the fast flowing Medano Creek spans like a natural wall.

At most national parks, trailheads, warning signs, guard rails, and boundaries set a course toward famous highlights and keep visitors from straying into off-limit areas.

But here, once on the dunefield, zero trails and zero signs tell you where to go or not go.

I paused. No bridge, no safety railing, no designated crossing point, no rocks to hop across to get to the dunes on the opposite side?

Stepping through the creek was the start to several hours of freedom to walk whichever path we wanted to reach the summit of High Dune, a nearly 700 foot elevation gain.

And yet, we were prisoners to the conditions on which our steps would land.

Crossing through the freezing creek water was unavoidable, as was walking along one particular snow packed ridge, but at least in those instances we could predict how the ground under our feet would perform.

For most of the walk, we could not guess whether the sand would hold our weight until our feet landed.

Recent snow moistened the sand, so in some areas it was like walking that fine line at the beach where at just the right spot where the surf recedes, the hard-packed sand is as firm as solid ground. But, take a step where the sand is too wet, and you sink. Take steps where the sand surface is dry, and you sink deeper.

Take steps where the dunes are steep, and you sink so far backwards that the only way to move forward is to speed up your steps. It’s like being on an elliptical trainer set at zero resistance, where your feet are racing faster and faster, your heart rate is increasing, and your legs are burning — and you are going nowhere.

With the freedom to walk anywhere, knowing which way to walk was a challenge.

Footprint trails, looking like zippers in the sand, were impossible to trace to the top. The trails would zig and zag and start and stop, breaking each time they disappeared over the edge of a dune. From below, there was no way to tell which trails connected and no way to tell what was on the other side of each ridge — either a flat expanse of more sand

or a deep crater.

Plus, how did we know if the people who left those trails had any more knowledge than we did about the easiest way to reach the summit?

We made our best guesses and continued up.

To my golf fanatic friends, I can only imagine the sand trap shots you could practice here. There are pot bunkers four times deeper than “Hell Bunker” of The Old Course at St Andrews and traps more numerous than the 1,000 bunkers at Whistling Straits.

In spots where the sun dried the sand, the color was a soft tan — a seductive tease we quickly learned to bypass because it was twice as hard to navigate.

Walking in the shadows was easier. Our footing was more assured in the wet compressed sand, but it was an eerie darkness in the daylight.

The final ascent to the top of High Dune was the hardest part of the climb. Add darkness and chill to the elliptical trainer description above and that is a clear picture of the challenge.

We forgot the leg burn as soon as we looked over the ridge and saw the expansive dunefield.

Seeing sand dunes swept up against the mountains was breathtaking.

But the look also revealed we were still not at the top.

Can you find the tiny person on the dune in the far left of the above photo? That is the top of High Dune.

For another 20 feet, we had to walk on the side of the ridge with icy snow because the other side of the ridge dropped straight down. I admit it was a little scary for that short stretch, but it was easier under foot walking on the snow than the previous hour walking on the sand.

Jim waited to make sure I made it safely,

and then he walked ahead along the ridge.

The dune widens and a narrow path follows the ridge, leading to the summit.

The contrasting pairs of emotions I felt when I first saw the dunes — sharp and soft; powerful and pleasing; inviting and intimidating — were felt ten times stronger along this ridge.

The scene was stunning.

As I approached the tip of High Dune,

a pair of dogs showed up, wagging their tails in a friendly greeting,

then running along the ridgeline,

and without a pause, shot over the point of the summit.

It was startling.

I gasped — at first in worry, then in awe at their sure-footedness, and finally in envy of their uninhibited plunge.

Minutes later, they returned with their two owners who one at a time hurled themselves (I’m not exaggerating) over the edge and down the steep face of High Dune. (This is was the edge I had just walked with extreme caution, experiencing successive moments of losing my breath, imagining what a wrong step might mean.)

Their full out run turned into somersaulting and out of control stumbling, all while shouting “whaaaaaaaa” at the top of their lungs. Upon reaching the bottom, one of them stood up in exhilaration, faced the dunefield, and yelled as loud as he could in a long drawn out cry, “I… love… where… I… live…”

Not sure where that is, but I’m thinking Colorado… and that might have something to do with it.

The dogs had nothing on their owners lack of inhibition.

In the photo below, can you see Jim on the summit of High Dune and the steep, steep, very long drop? Yep, that is the edge they hurled themselves over. Lots and lots of somersaults!

We turned around to a different mountain view.

Again, walking along the ridge, we headed back.

Jim and I knew we would not match the exuberant descent we just witnessed, but it inspired us to find a slope a little less steep, a little further down the dunes, where we headed over the edge of a dune face — no somersaulting, but our fast sliding lunges were pretty fun.

Easier and less strategic, the walk down lent a different view and a different experience.

I took time to play my own “look closer” game by writing two foot tall letters in the sand.

Can you see them in the below photo? They are there, but hard to find. (After the next few photos you can reference back to this one for scale.)

Now do you see them in the photo below?

What about now?

Yep, another “beach” for writing my kids names in the sand, a sentimental tradition Jim and I started on a beach in Zihuatanejo.

The setting sun cast an amber color across the dunes.

I had stopped so many times to take pictures that Jim was far ahead of me, so I was alone on the dunes as they darkened.

From afar, someone was striking a gong every few minutes, and the sound resonated in a mysterious and melodious way.

The sky performed.

I took the next three photos only 4 seconds apart, a testimony that the colors were dancing.

7:04:44

7:04:48

7:04:53

When I reached the creek, the sun had fallen below the horizon and soft blues and pinks filled the sky, the last light reflections of the day.

The person playing the gong was walking along the shore, and I stood on a sand bar in the middle of the creek, listening.

Between the strikes, the sound of the Medano creek was musical — water swiftly and rhythmically moving over constantly shifting sand. I later learned it is one of the few places in the world to experience this phenomenon called surge flow.

Beautiful.

I stayed there, in the middle of the creek, until almost complete darkness.

More than just the sand was unexpected.

Remarkable.

I hope to return and camp on the dunes. Imagine experiencing the stars from Star Dune, the tallest sand dune in North America.