LV Weekly

[The Outdoor Issue]

Sledding the Kelso Dunes

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Erin Ryan sleds down a sand dune at the Kelso Dunes at the Mojave National Preserve on March 25, 2016.
Photo: Mikayla Whitmore

Kelso Dunes

Nature’s performance had already begun when we arrived after noon. But with no discernible beginning and no specific end to our time in the Mojave National Preserve, the day still promised a narrative on the 45 square miles of dunes spun from Mojave River sink and the dried-up Soda and Silver lakes.

Mikayla turned onto a road so slight off the highway that we’d missed it on first passing. Erin read aloud from the book we bought at the Kelso Depot Visitor Center, a 101 course. “What is the angle of repose of sand?” she asked on the drive, quoting from the book, and, “Do sand dunes really sing?”

We listened for acoustics on our trek. We studied the angles of repose. We spoke of the summit, knowing our legs wouldn’t take us there this day, reaching instead for a plateau below that offered enough gravity to launch our sleds downward—a welcomed reward after climbing steep sand avalanches that swallowed our feet.

For as annoying as sand can be, we came to meet it head-on, with Erin leading as if she were on a leisurely Sunday walk. “She’s a maniac,” Mikayla would say every time she caught up and rested with her camera gear, watching Erin disappear in the hills and valleys before us. True. But she brought us this far, out here alone with the lizards gliding across the fields, leaving trails as they whipped around the Joshua trees and desert primroses and across the ripples of migrating sand.

Falling in love with the Mojave is easy—you can see for miles and still not comprehend the distance. It’s calming and powerful. Sloping to a crest, then crossing over the peaks, the grains rely on wind velocity to create their hilly sculptures, placid from afar and containing layers going back 25,000 years. The otherworldly terrain draws visitors from around the world. This ground is hallowed. We’re certain of it. We’re grateful for it.

Erin’s 11-year-old lab watches us on the sandy slope, accompanies us on our march, waits for us if we lag. We wonder where we left the car, losing the visual of the power-line tower that would guide us on our return.

Finally, it’s there. We empty our shoes, like tipping hourglasses. We sit on the dusty bumper and drink cold beers, reflecting on the day while the sun drops, wishing we were camping overnight, and that tomorrow we’d be doing it again.

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