Thunk. Ping. Krsshh. Crunch. Gravel compressed under our tires and ricocheted off the undercarriage as we inched our way farther down the remote road. Before us, endless speckled grey and brown dirt stretched to the horizon, but flanking it, jagged windblown desert peaks rose into the hanging clouds, enveloping us with their protection and trapping us in their valley. Periwinkle, primrose, mauve – the colors surrounded us in a pastel ocean, the sandy floor sweeping out in every direction, cacti climbing up like coral. Yet we were left driving through dry, still air, instead of water.
We pulled to the side to ease our bodies from the rhythmic bump and grind of the road and take in the vast landscape. Stretching, we scrunched our toes into the crumbly crimson dirt, cool and uneven. Next to us, tiny cholla and chin cacti reached toward the cloud covered sky, dusty spines arching up to catch any stray drop of rain. A moment of admiration more, then we rejoined the cozy interior of the car and carried on.
The car continued it’s rat-a-tat ramble to descend into another valley, opaque fog floating within to obscure the distance from view. We trundled to our next turn, passing our first fellow backroad rider, who waved, smiled, and drove on. Into the unknown, as they say, and we turned toward the fog bank and our hidden destination.
What felt like days, but was only an hour as we slowly traversed the washboard road, quickly turned to forgotten history as we approached the steep golden dunes. Almost like a mirage, the pyramids of sand arched and curved, fine edges at their peaks disappearing and reappearing through the shifting mist. And then, it began to rain.
Rain! In the desert! Only miles away from the hottest and lowest points in North America, yet here nonetheless. Fat drops bathed us as we donned raincoats and emerged from our four-wheeled shelter, quickly soaking our sun-dried skin and unwashed hair. We were swimming through water and air, slipping and sliding as we scrambled up the uneven slopes of the desert dunes. Wind kicked at us, pushing us side to side, and up, up, up, until we stood, half sunk in sand, at the precipice, peering beyond the first dune into a forest of similarly ferocious sand-made mountains.
These sculptures of sand, steep formations of the wind’s power to mold the desert to its will, stood solid, stoic, despite the howling, whirlpool of rain. Our raincoats snapped at us, begging to fly away with the temptatious wind, while we, tears and rain mingling on our cheeks, raw excitement and nibbling anxiety in our hearts, planted our feet firmly in the sand. Without the weather, we might have stayed there all day, blending in with the desert plants who recognized the value and beauty of this landscape long ago and had instructed their roots to reach deep and take a more permanent hold on this ground than we could ever dream of. With one final look at the collective of dunes snaking away toward the horizon, we yanked our hoods back down once more and slipped and slid our way back to the car.
Inside, we stripped layers, tossing soaking shirts and sand-filled socks onto floor mats, pressing numb fingers and legs against hot air vents, giggling and gasping at what we had just experienced. The windshield remained opaque with water, but we knew what lay beyond its surface – steeples of sand, blanketed with a desert rain like nothing we could have ever imagined.
This was not an experience that could ever be remade or manufactured to a tourist’s taste. This was nature, in its most raw, powerful, and unpredictable form, revealing its character in what some would call a temper or anger, but what we perceived as cathartic release. Only in these remote, wild, desolate landscapes could nature be herself – free and untamed. She was a fierce reminder for ourselves, as our wet hair dripped down our necks, cheeks glowed pink with newfound warmth, and laugh lines cemented themselves at the corners of our eyes. She was wild, and as were we. She existed everywhere, and so could we.
We carried that wildness, that windswept, powerful fierceness with us as we began our slow crawl back along washboarded roads. Hands stuck out of car windows to feel the wind tug at us, tempt us, as we rejoined highways. Sand leaving breadcrumb reminders as we stepped into showers and soft sheets at home. And the hum of the earth and vibrations of the road taking us to dreams of the wild beyond.
While this may be a reflection of my time adventuring to Eureka Dunes in Death Valley National Park, it is also a greater tale of the worth in taking that extra detour, venturing out just a little bit farther, and in general, taking the roads less travelled.
The road less travelled may take hours. It may mean crawling at slow speed, your foot twitching to flatten the accelerator just an inch more. It might be washboarded roads and swerving to avoid an abundance of potholes and roads that don’t even look like roads. It could even be engine lights and flat tires and enough stress to question whether it’s all worth it. But if it can lead to unimaginable landscapes, unforgettable experiences, once-in-a-lifetime moments that you will never forget, then it will always be worth it.
A road will always lead you somewhere as long as you’re willing to take it.
Looking for more? Check out A (Road) Trip Down Memory Lane, a podcast episode by Women on the Road. Women on the Road is a collective of stories of life on the road from the women who’ve lived them firsthand.