A Snapshot and The Scoop: Sand Sculptures

Wind and water can sculpt some amazing formations, even if they might be small, delicate things that blow away with a breath. Gypsum especially seems to form an array of fragile flakes, built by water and torn by wind. Even in the middle of the dune field at White Sands National Monument, if you pay attention you can find little sculptures left in tribute to the wild, which will vanish with the next storm.

The Other Shoe Drops: The Aftermath

Stunned. Hiking in a brewing sandstorm is not the smartest thing I've ever done, but it was either make a break for the car or try to wait out the storm while injured with a jumpy cat who freaked out every time something brushed his fur. The car was less than a mile away, and though I could see the gusts of wind curling around the glittering, airborne sand, see it whipping even more off the tops of the dunes, I braced myself and forced us to go. Hoodoo found his feet and walked next to me, so close he nearly tripped me up, trying to use my legs as protection against the wind and stinging sand. It was not a good situation. I could hardly see the trail markers, and some of them even appeared to be blown over and broken off, so I had to search for a glimpse of orange among the frenzy of white before I could continue. Sure, I thought I knew the general direction of the parking lot and the park road, but I was not stupid or desperate enough to strike out cross country on a "shortcut" to try to get back faster. Not in a sandstorm, not in a desert.

It was while searching for one of these markers that I saw a dark figure on the top of the next dune, pulling a sled while trying to shield herself from the flying sand. I guessed it was Erika and shouted at her, waving my arms. I saw a trail marker next to her as she shifted to wave back, and made my way over. Once within talking distance I explained what had happened, that I was leaving, and strongly suggested she return to her car and wait out the storm before hiking to the campsite she'd be occupying by herself that night. She agreed and we turned to the trail, moving as quickly as we could across the dunes toward safety. Hoodoo began to stall again, panting hard as the wind became more intense. Erika offered to let him ride on her sled if he'd stay put, and once I'd lifted him on he lay still, trying to use her gear to hide from the wind. It was with no small amount of relief that we finally spotted the parking lot, and nearly ran for our cars. I all but threw Hoodoo into the backseat and slammed the door closed, needing him to begin calming down before I could drive. I was able to breathe again once we were safe, though I had already bled through the bandages on my hand and wrist, not to mention the mess that was my leg. Erika helped me clean up and reapply bandages, and we chatted a bit about the wisdom of camping while the storm was going, worrying about the other couples still out among the dunes, weathering the storm in their tents. She intended to wait out the storm in her car, maybe drive the dune road and sight-see that way.

I was sorely disappointed to cut my weekend short, though I knew beyond a doubt that it was the right thing, the only thing, to do. Once I hit town I called Jared and my family, letting them know I was heading home and explaining what had happened. Hoodoo had bitten my left hand, two puncture wounds on my palm and one on top of my thumb. He'd also bitten my right wrist, with a deep tear on the top of it and a small puncture on the inside. His claws, though I had trimmed them short the day before we left, had done a number on my arms and legs and it was those I had to thank for the long gashes on my leg that left it coated in blood. Less than an hour after the ordeal my right wrist began to swell, becoming progressively more painful until I couldn't use it at all, and I began to suspect an injury beyond the cat bite. The panic and shock were beginning to wear off, adrenaline had run its course, and it was well within the realm of possibilities that I'd sprained or even broken it in the frantic moments when I had been flying through the air. Cat bites can be nasty, more often than not leading to infection, and I already knew I needed antibiotics just to be safe. I've been bitten by cats before, I've had the pain and swelling associated with them, but whatever was going on in my wrist went beyond my experience.

It was with no small amount of relief that I pulled into my own driveway around 1:30 am, cradling my right wrist against my chest. It had not been a fun drive home, with Hoodoo still jumpy and myself in more pain than a couple of ibuprofen could control. I couldn't let him on my lap, though it broke my heart to deny him when he tried to climb onto me for comfort. He jerked around every time something touched him, and I couldn't trust him not to cause a wreck while I was driving. The bites on my hand and wrist didn't stop bleeding for hours, and I had to stop several times to reapply bandages, with one hand barely functional, and I was still flecked and spotted with blood, though I'd cleaned up the best I could. I left everything but my cat in the car and after dropping him just inside the front door headed straight to the bathroom. A thorough one-handed shower got me cleaned up, and I fell into bed, upset and disappointed, ready to forget the whole weekend. I had set out trying to run away from everything, and only ended up with more problems to show for it.

**Notes: I found out the next day they had evacuated the park due to the severity of the sandstorm, so we wouldn't have been able to stay even if we'd wanted to.
*I had my surgery (the thing that started all of this) on the Tuesday following this disaster of a trip, and spent a couple days ignoring my wrist and the fact that I couldn't use it. I finally went to see a doctor four days after the incident, had x-rays taken, and was told it was a sprain and an infected bite. I was sent home with antibiotics for the bites and a splint for the sprain. I had a follow-up  appointment with an orthopedist because I still couldn't move it without excruciating pain that also kept me from sleeping well without the use of medication two weeks after the injury. Turns out it was a little more than a sprain and a cat bite: multiple torn tendons and a possible fracture in the small wrist bones near the base of my thumb, plus the cat bite (which was still open after more than two weeks). I was put in a brace that immobilized my right wrist and thumb and told the only reason I wasn't getting a cast was because of the bite complication, and I had to remove the brace daily to clean the bite and change the bandaging. As of the date this post is published, I'm still in the brace.
*This is the first time I've been seriously injured while on a backpacking trip, in more than five years of travelling. Yes, it sucks. No, I won't stop travelling or backpacking, both with others and by myself.
*Hoodoo calmed down by the following morning and is back to his usual chatty, affectionate self. I still plan on mountain climbing with him and Torrey at the end of August.
*I still haven't pulled out my tent to assess the damage in a less panicked atmosphere (it takes two hands to set up), but I'm willing to bet patching it won't be an option. Guess I'm in the market for a new tent.

This is the final of four parts to the story. Queen of Avoidance, the whole reason I went on this trip in the first place, is here. The Calm Before the Storm is here, and The Storm is here.
Fair warning on part one, Queen of Avoidance: It is incredibly personal, and not strictly necessary to get the whole story of my time at White Sands. It's more of an explanation of why I headed to White Sands, and like I said, it gets into my head. Also, warning for talk of birth control, menstruation, and other reproductive-related topics.

The Other Shoe Drops: The Storm

Panicked. I have no idea what time it was when Hoodoo woke me. I had closed the mesh walls of my tent to keep him contained while I slept, and I woke up to him meowing softly while pressing his face to the zippered door. I tried to shush him, coaxing him into the sleeping bag with me, even grabbing my headlamp to see if there was anything on the surrounding dunes that had his attention. Finally, when none of my attempts to quite him worked and he got progressively louder, when I began to worry about him waking our neighbors, I clipped his leash on and slid out of our tent, determined to walk him away from the others before he became a nuisance. We walked a little way under the stars and the light of a half moon, gilding the dunes and scrubs with silver, strong enough to cast shadows as we picked our way across the bowl. Hoodoo did his business while we walked, and spent a few minutes chasing gently bobbing grass heads as we passed. Eventually he quieted and we returned to the tent, but I was wide awake and didn't bother trying to sleep again. I had deliberately left my watch behind and my phone was powered down, so I had no idea what time it was, but knew in the way songbirds know that sunrise was not far off.

I was really there for the sunrise. Sure, sunset is magical and generally dramatic, but sunrise is solitary. It is soft, and quiet, and the world is still mostly asleep, Earth still breathing slowly and deeply in rest. Where sunset is burnt orange, hot pink, and deep blue shadows, sunrise is lavender, and pale yellow, and maybe even a touch of muted green. Sunrise is walking lightly as shadows recede, watching insects begin to stir. I couldn't even be annoyed with Hoodoo for waking me up, not once the sky began to lighten in the east and the stars began to fade.

Once the sun was up properly, though, I didn't linger. I packed up quickly, heading out just as my site mates were stirring. I walked back to the car, Hoodoo trailing behind, in the newly minted day, stopping occasionally for more pictures as we retraced our steps from the previous day. I wanted to spend a second night out there, a second sunset and a second sunrise, which meant hustling to the visitors center and queuing up more than an hour before they opened. I wasn't even the first one there. Two other couples around my age were already waiting on the benches by the front door when I arrived. Another single girl, Erika, joined us, and eventually we all began chatting as you do when you're all waiting for the same thing. Hoodoo was a nice ice breaker, and eventually we learned we'd all traveled from Texas for the long weekend, and none of us were born in the state, but just happened to end up there. Eventually the doors opened and we all got sites near each other, with Erika and I pairing up to share a site. She headed into town to grab some supplies while the rest of us headed out. We walked together, chatting, watching Hoodoo trail alongside us, stopping to get the sleds of their camping supplies up steep dunes, and we peeled off at our designated sites with friendly words about letting each other know if we needed anything throughout the day. I set up slowly at a site different from the one I'd been at the night before. Though we'd set out an hour earlier than I had the previous day it still got hot, and Hoodoo and I retreated into the tent for a nap while we waited for Erika to get back from town. I drifted off with the tent doors open, listening to the canvas doors flapping in the breeze.

I don't entirely know what happened next. I woke up in the air, the tent around me stretched like a sail, the few pieces of gear I'd brought into the tent with us flying around and Hoodoo in an absolute panic. I immediately went to grab his leash, confusion limiting my thoughts, and felt a pressure close over my left thumb. Somehow or another I ended up back on the floor of my tent, on the ground, twisted around myself, my gear, and my thrashing cat. My confusion left me as the gust of wind subsided and my tent collapsed in on us, trapping Hoodoo and I in a tangle of nylon canvas and aluminium poles. He panicked even more, clawing and biting blindly in a desperate attempt to free himself, tearing out of the tent while still wrapped up in his leash and harness and a jacket I tried to throw over him. As he freed himself a second gust caught us, whipping sand into our eyes and inflating the tent again. I was ready for it this time, grabbing my backpack with one hand, still laden with gear, flinging it onto my tent to keep it grounded while I tried to contain Hoodoo. Somehow, perhaps because of the great rents in the fabric or the tangled poles, somehow the tent didn't fully inflate again and lift off the ground, and I was able to get Hoodoo untangled as he took shelter under the frame of my pack, making himself as small as possible. Blood coated his leash and fear leapt into my throat, terrified that he'd been hurt. It took a few seconds for me to realize it was I who was bleeding profusely, droplets from my left hand and right wrist slicking anything I touched and being flung into the howling wind, a stream of it running down my left leg painting the white sand red. It took a few more numb seconds for the gravity of my situation to set it: I was badly hurt, had a ripped, collapsed, bloody tent, and a panicked cat who was in no way going to calm down while a sandstorm blew up around us. I have no idea how long the winds were blowing while I napped, just that I'd woken up to a building sandstorm, a dangerous situation in itself, and I no longer had even a slight shelter to try to ride it out. I needed to leave. Immediately.

Fortunately, one of the couples I'd met that morning were camped nearby, just a single dune separating us. I had to literally drag my poor cat, refusing to walk and panting with fear, too scared to leave him alone but unable to touch him, as I climbed to the top and shouted down for help. They too were sheltering in their tent but came out as I called for them, and when they reached me I was nearly incoherent, trying and failing to contain my own panic and shock as I explained I needed to leave, but needed help packing. I had a jacket wrapped around my hands in an attempt to stem the blood, but left my leg freely dripping, and I'm sure I was quite a sight, holding a bloodstained cloth, a bloodied leg, barely able to speak. I had to force myself to take deep breaths, though that resulted in swallowing the sand still flying through the air. They got the gist, though, and helped me stuff my torn tent and the few items I had pulled out before my nap into my pack, and helped me get it onto my shoulders. I left them with my number to give to Erika, hoping I'd meet my site mate on the way back to the car but still wanting her to be able to contact me if we missed each other. I had the camping permit and we'd agreed to share a few things for dinner, and I needed to get them to her if she planned on camping. The couple pulled out their first aid kit and helped me bandage my hands before I set off, and I thanked them and wished them safety as I headed back to the trail, back to the car, into the storm.

Read part one, Queen of Avoidance, here
Part two, The Calm Before the Storm, is here
And check back next Sunday for The Aftermath
Fair warning on part one, Queen of Avoidance: It is incredibly personal, and not strictly necessary to get the whole story of my time at White Sands. It's more of an explanation of why I headed to White Sands, and like I said, it gets into my head. Also, warning for talk of birth control, menstruation, and other reproductive-related topics.

The Other Shoe Drops: The Calm Before the Storm

Appetent. White Sands was not what I expected. Well, some of it was, like the crystalline white dunes stretching into the horizon, and the coolness of the sand kissing my bare feet as I wiggled my toes under the surface, and the excitement I felt in my bones at being back out in my element. But I was definitely not expecting the trouble I went through to get a campsite, nor the double line of people trying to get into the park. I had arrived right as the visitor center opened the Saturday of Memorial Weekend, which, apparently, was not early enough. Just as I walked in to the building to get a backpacking permit one of the employees announced they'd filled the allotted permit sites for the day, and both my face and my stomach dropped. Then the employee suggested grouping up, no more than six people in a group, if any of the permit holders were willing to share their sites so others might be able to camp. My hopes soared, and I took a chance, calling to the room at large that I was alone, just a single camper, if anyone was willing to share. I figured I had a better shot at getting someone to share with me than a group of campers, or even a pair. I was thrilled when an older couple waved me over to them. We introduced ourselves, and I let them know I had Hoodoo with me, which began a round of exclamations and questions from those in the vicinity. The next thing I knew, the three of us were headed into the park to begin our stay.

I headed out along the campsite loop before my site mates. I was practically ready to go as soon as we hit the parking lot, but took my time gathering the little things, eating a pb&j, and generally not being in a rush. I'd accomplished the goal of securing a site, now I just needed to set up before it became unbearably hot. I'm not sure what the pair were doing, it looked like packing and gathering, but I let them know I was headed out and I'd see them when they got there. The camping at White Sands is in no way developed, but it's also not exactly backpacking either. There are ten sites available, all walk-in only, anywhere from a quarter mile to a full mile away from the designated parking lot. The sites are entirely primitive, with only a couple orange marker posts in the ground letting you know you're standing where you're supposed to be.  Hoodoo and I followed the orange markers along the loop, trailing behind another group of campers hauling sleds stacked with camping supplies for their night on the dunes. I had my backpack cinched over my shoulder and around my waist, with Hoodoo attached to a leash looped around my wrist. He rode on top of my pack at first, then trotted alongside me, stopping every now and then to roll in the sand. It didn't take long to reach our allotted site, but both Hoodoo and I were panting by the time we did. I had vastly underestimated how early it got hot out on the dunes, with no shade to speak of, and hurried to set up my tent in an effort to provide a hiding place from the sun.

That afternoon was spent napping and sunbathing. When I set out for the weekend I had no intention of doing anything more strenuous than walking to my campsite, and I was making good on my promise to myself. My site mates arrived after some time had passed and set up their tent far enough away from mine that we might as well have not been sharing a site, which was absolutely fine with me. It was hot, but a slight breeze blew through the dunes, ruffling the tied-back doors of my tent as Hoodoo and I stretched out under the shade of my rain fly. I like to write when I'm camping (part of last Sunday's post was written while surrounded by white sand) and I had my notebook propped on my knees as I let my thoughts flow. I was rudely cut off, though, by my pen running out of ink. And, go figure, I'd forgotten to pack a spare. I always pack a spare pen! I resorted to reading instead, stroking a napping Hoodoo, and staring off into the limited distance I could, surrounded on all sides by high white walls of sand. When the sun finally dropped behind the closest dune, casting our site in glorious shade, I began dinner preparations and got out my camera. I've written about it before (here) but sunset on the dunes is as close to a magical experience as you're likely to get in this world, and I was anticipating it with something like butterflies in my stomach. Before long dinner was finished and I had slung Hoodoo over my shoulders to head out and find the perfect spot for watching the sun leave the sky.

Of course, everyone else camping on the dunes had the same intentions, and I watched as dark shapes emerged from the bowls of dunes all over the place as we all climbed to a vantage point. There were plenty to go around, and I wasn't bothered as I walked toward the dropping sun, keen to make sure nobody could get in front of me as I staked out a place. Eventually I settled on the western slope of a dune as it dropped into a scrubby bowl, shrugging off Hoodoo and fiddling with my camera. Hoodoo played with his leash as I turned my lens to the sun, every now and then moving to photograph my ridiculously adorable cat as well, blazing an even deeper orange as the sun died. Sunset did not disappoint, and I walked slowly back to my tent after almost an hour and a half with a memory card full of pictures and the last glow of day silhouetting the western mountains. Leaving the tent doors open, I settled back in the soft light of desert stars and drifted off to sleep.

Read the first part of this story here, and check back on Sundays for the next two parts!
Fair warning on part one, Queen of Avoidance: It is incredibly personal, and not strictly necessary to get the whole story of my time at White Sands. It's more of an explanation of why I headed to White Sands, and like I said, it gets into my head. Also, warning for talk of birth control, menstruation, and other reproductive-related topics.

Queen of Avoidance

I was running away.
I knew, in the darkest recesses of my mind, right where I shove everything else I don't want to deal with, that I was running. I had a veritable list of Things going on in my life, and plenty of reasons why I should have stayed home that particular weekend, but I'd had enough. I was sure that staying home would have been the worst course of action I could follow. Some of the Things I was running from were good - we had (still have) a baby lemur we're hand-rearing. We just acquired a new kitten (one who literally came running up to us and our four dogs right through our fenced-in backyard). I have a vegetable garden that needs attention, not to mention all my other pets. And, of course, Jared. But there are bad Things too, and it was those I fled from.

I ran from midnight feedings for both the lemur and the kitten (who was way too young to wean). I ran a little into my husband's second week of venomous snake bite recovery, where he didn't quite have full use of both hands. At the end of April, right when I was poised for a visit home and some much-needed family time, one of our cats died from a disease she should not have had. Heartbroken and in no state to drive, I stayed home. Then had to deal with the terror of the disease affecting our other cats, and I ran from that too. Mostly, though, I was running from myself. I have not been in a very good mental state for the past few months. I've been moody, anxious, high strung, and generally on-edge waiting for the other shoe (how many more can there be??) to drop.

If I'm being honest with myself, I've been feeling off since the autumn. It started with mood swings and headaches, then abdominal pain like I haven't felt since I was a teenager, before I was put on birth control. Then came the bleeding. And I, like everything else I don't want to deal with, ignored it. For weeks. Until it was to the point where I was coming home from barely getting anything done at work to crawl right into bed without dinner, trying to sleep it off. I was terrified, and kept my fears to myself until I couldn't anymore and confessed to my husband that I was scared I was sick, or maybe even pregnant or miscarrying, despite having an IUD. Pregnancy is not for me, and has never been on the table of circumstances I'd be happy with. I don't want a baby, I don't want to be responsible for someone else's life, and I never have. Thankfully, Jared is on the same page as I am, and we had a discussion regarding what we'd do if my terrors came true. But we couldn't do anything without knowing for sure. Finally, I made an appointment.

Turns out I was not pregnant or having a miscarriage, but I was having trouble with my birth control. I've had an IUD for years, and apparently after so long in rare cases some women react to them. Want to guess who one of those rare women might be? I was dealing with a hormone imbalance, which caused my mood swings, headaches, severe cramping, and near-constant bleeding. So I was given a course of hormone therapy and told to come back in three months if no change. I was back in three months. My dose was adjusted, and I was told to come back in a couple months. So I went back.

I'd like to point out it was now spring, six months after I first started having problems. While the medications stopped the cramping and the headaches, they did nothing for the mood swings or the bleeding. When I became resigned to the fact that the meds were doing nothing else, I turned to healthier eating and daily exercise to try to at least get my mood under control. And wouldn't ya know, it actually helped. I felt marginally better, and even lost some weight while I was at it, though that wasn't my main goal. But nothing helped the bleeding. So when I finally went back in to see my doctor, we discussed alternate forms of birth control. I basically wasn't a candidate for any of them, for various reasons, except perhaps permanent sterilization. And then, to my immense surprise, I was told we could do that. I've been asking my doctors for years (for real, for at least the last eight or so years) about sterilization, and have always been told I'm too young, I'll regret it, I'll change my mind, what if I meet the right guy and he wants to have kids (that last one stopped when I married Jared). I've heard it all, and switched doctors more than once because of it. Apparently it takes a medical issue and for me to bleed for six months straight before someone was willing to consider it for me, but hey, I'll take what I can get.

Another month's worth of appointments, meetings with the surgeon, and tests to make sure I was a candidate for both a tubal ligation and ablation (sterilization and a procedure to make it so I won't bleed any more), and suddenly everything fell into place. I was having surgery on the last Tuesday of May to make all my problems with birth control go away. And you know what? I was running away from that, too.

Not the surgery itself. I was dead set on that happening no matter what. No, I was running away from the anxiety of never having had surgery before, of not knowing exactly what to expect, of the surrendering of control that would be required for me to get it done. I left, the weekend before my surgery, to go to a happy place both physically and in my own head. Of course, things didn't go quite as planned while backpacking in the gypsum dunes of White Sands National Monument in New Mexico, but that's a story for another post. At the beginning of my trip, it was enough to be running away.

There are three more parts to this story, so check back every Sunday for each installment!

When Time Hangs Suspended

Pensive. I hadn't meant to rush things so much. I was on my last day of winter travelling before I had to head home, and I woke up near Tucson, AZ surrounded by saguaro cacti. I left the area around noon and made my way east, vaguely thinking I might stop at White Sands National Monument in south-central New Mexico to catch the sunset, maybe find a place to stay overnight. If I'd been thinking while I packed for the trip I would have brought my backpacking gear with me and stayed in the park, but I hadn't thought I'd need it. I can't say I'm a huge fan of winter camping anyway. I drove pretty much without stop to get to White Sands before the park closed to incoming traffic, though the gate would allow visitors to leave after sunset.

I barely made it, but I got there ten minutes before the entrance gates closed. I briefly chatted with a ranger about maybe camping on the dunes anyway, but I didn't feel like carrying most of my stuff in my arms, plus keep track of Hoodoo, at sunset through the dunes. In the end, I made my way with a crowd of other visitors along the park road, intent on getting to the end and claiming a spot to watch the sun sink beyond the distant mountains.

On a whim I stopped at a gathering place for a ranger-led sunset hike, thinking I might go with the group and watch the sun set from wherever the ranger took us. Everyone was, of course, smitten with my little orange adventure kitten, and he got plenty of pets and ear scratches as the group swelled. The ranger started the hike, with me tailing behind to keep anyone from stepping on my cat, and we began our walk up the nearest dune. It was around that time Hoodoo decided he wasn't interested in going with the group and put the brakes on, forcing me to wait for him while he sniffed around and made it pretty clear he didn't want to go in the direction of the group. It only took me a few minutes to give up and give in to him, abandoning the group hike, scooping him up, and loading him into the car.

I was still determined to see the sunset over the pure white sands of the dunes, though, so I drove to the end of the park road and parked next to the sea of white sand, slinging the cat over my shoulders (his favorite place to chill) and grabbing my camera before starting to climb. I'd forgotten how much walking on loose sand sucks! One step forward, half a step back, every single foot a fight to gain. Eventually we made it to the top of the closest dune and I was surprised and distressed to see how far the sun had already sank towards the horizon, so I flat out broke into a run, trying to get away from other visitors crowding the dunes closest to the parking lot.

Eventually I stopped, having gone far enough to satisfy myself, setting Hoodoo down on the sand while I fiddled with my camera settings, looking for photo opportunities. If you ever get the chance or desire to see the gypsum sands of White Sands National Monument, I highly recommend you do so, making sure to stick around for sunset. Even better, stay overnight in the park (backpacking only, no established campgrounds) and catch the sunrise as well. I have yet to stay overnight, but I tentatively have a plan to do so this year. The sunsets there, though, rival any I've seen. The sinking sun dyes the white sands shades of gold, and if you're lucky enough to have a few clouds in the sky their orange glow reflects onto the deep shadows cast by the dunes, bathing everything in light. And when the sun finally sets behind the mountains, when time hangs suspended in the desert air, and the light in the sky begins to dim, more shades of blue than you can possibly name play across the sand.