Recently, I had the opportunity to visit another place no one knows, or at least few hikers and conservationists know: the Algodones Dunes in southeastern California (called Imperial Sand Dunes by the Bureau of Land Management). I accompanied a group from the Center for Biological Diversity on a backpack crossing of one of the temporary vehicle closures in the Algodones, and what we discovered was a desert world unlike any other in southern California. At 150,000 acres, the Algodones are the largest — by far — of the sand dune systems of the Southwest. With otherworldly beauty, several endemic and rare species, and unparalleled opportunities for solitude, the dunes clearly merit protection as a national monument or wilderness area. Between two and eight miles wide and fifty miles long, they offer ample space to lose yourself for a day, a weekend, or, given enough water, even longer.

Yet, except for the 30,000-acre North Algodones Dunes Wilderness, the area has long been managed solely for off-highway vehicle use, virtually closing it to hikers, equestrians, botanists, bird-watchers and other recreationists who prefer non-motorized travel. Even the existing wilderness area is difficult to visit on foot — vandals destroyed the backcountry board long ago — and justified fear about parking vehicles overnight keeps most backpackers away. All of this means that this outstanding natural area has gone largely unsung and unvisited by those of us who should be its staunchest defenders.

Photograph © 2002 Andrew Harvey

As soon as we crested the first low dunes on the Algodones’ western edge, I knew how much I had been missing. We stood on the “sand highway” that runs along this side of the dunes and looked east into the vehicle closure, a result of the Center’s lawsuit to protect the endangered Peirson's milkvetch. From this vantage point, the dunes seemed to stretch interminably to the east, crest after crest in endless repetition, with the Cargo Muchacho Mountains giving the only clue that something lay beyond. Somewhere out there, about 11 miles as the crow flew, was the spot along the Southern Pacific rail line where we would be picked up the next day. Now we just had a lot of up-and-down walking to get there.

Sliding down the first slip-face, we reveled in the exhilaration of a rapid glissade. But with that first calf-deep plunge I realized I should have brought gaiters — most of us would have to empty our boots a dozen times before we completed the crossing, while those wearing calf-length military desert boots fared better. In contrast, the uphill sides of the dunes were surprisingly firm and the walking easy, similar to climbing on a firm-packed snow slope with crampons. Since we were crossing from west to east, we climbed the low-angled, consolidated windward faces and descended the steeper, looser lee faces. Finding the firmest sand on the ascents became a kind of game.

The sand highway had been quiet when we crossed it, but soon we began to hear the roar of engines travelling along it. The sound faded into the background the deeper we went into the dunes, but occasionally it would grow louder, whether because riders were intruding on the vehicle closure or because of echoes off the sand faces we couldn’t be sure. Finally, even these noises ceased and we were left with only the sounds of our own movement and the sand hissing across the dunes on a moderate breeze.

As we continued, I became impressed with our journey’s remarkable sense of freedom. This was cross-country travel unlike any I’ve experienced, with our footsteps directed only by the need to exit the dunes somewhere near our prearranged pick-up spot. Our leaders used a GPS unit to guide us there, but even this seemed unnecessary. And we carried no maps, since they were nearly useless in this terrain. We let the dunes themselves guide us.

Another sense of freedom: virtually every spot was comfortable for resting. No need to search for a log or rock to use as a chair, no cactus to avoid, we just chose any spot in the sand to sit or lie down. Especially on the edge of a slope, you could fashion a seat shaped to your own body, more comfortable than any reclining chair. The dunes became our living room, a series of curve-backed couches extending into the distance, with no big-screen TV to distract us — the shifting light playing on the dunes was our entertainment.

On the slopes, and especially in the bowls between them, we found a variety of plant life, most of which was new to me. Fortunately, biologist-about-San Diego Fred Sproul was along to help identify the flora. We encountered at least two kinds of buckwheat, and one of them, the sand dune buckwheat, was probably the most common plant we saw. In places these buckwheats grew so large, with the sand building up around them, that they looked like small mesquite hummocks.

The buckwheat and a smaller plant, the delicate, low-growing tiquilia, are host plants for the root parasite known as sand food. We found several “stands” of the sand food that had grown the previous year, and now looked like old dried mushrooms protruding from the sand. The new growths of these plants were eaten by the Indians, but now they are very rare.

Photograph © 2002 Andrew Harvey

Not far into our hike, we discovered another rare endemic, the Algodones Dunes sunflower. As rare as the Peirson’s milkvetch, but yet to be listed as endangered, the plant has large, gray-green leaves and bright yellow flowers. Fred pointed out how cool the leaves are, a result of the plant’s evaporative cooling strategy. That low temperature meant the sand contained more water than we might expect. This is one of the counterintuitive aspects of the dunes — what seems like a completely arid environment actually works like a giant sponge to soak up and retain moisture.

Finally, about midway into our first day’s hike, we saw the plant that is the reason we were able to hike here at all: the Peirson’s milkvetch. While off-roaders like to call it a weed (and even “Patterson’s milkweed,” after the Center’s Daniel Patterson), I thought it was quite beautiful. The one we saw had brilliant purple flowers, something like a lupine, and large, yellow, bladder-like seed pods. Those features, along with its small, aqua-green leaves, make it a colorful specimen that any true lover of the desert should find attractive. We found perhaps five or ten of this species in our eight miles of walking in the dunes themselves.

All of these species, and the 92 others that grow here, have had to adapt to the unique conditions of a constantly shifting environment, which can either expose roots to the air, or bury the entire plant. To cope with this adversity, most of the dunes plants have evolved to grow rapidly at all seasons of the year and to send out long horizontal roots, thus “moving” with the sand. This explained the long roots we sometimes observed stretching 30 or 40 feet across the sand. Whether beautiful or not, all of these plants are hardy desert survivors.

While we didn’t see a lot of animal life in the daytime, numerous tracks showed that the dunes come alive after nightfall. We tracked a lone coyote for most of our journey, and also saw fox tracks. Beetle tracks crisscrossed the dunes, looking (ironically!) like miniature tire tracks. Brendan Cummings, the Center’s lawyer, also proved an avid lizard tracker, surprising several Colorado Desert fringe-toed lizards out of the sand. They would skitter off, catching air off of the low dunelets, then bury themselves in the sand.

An hour or so before sunset, we reached the brink of a 200-foot slip-face. We planned to camp in the bowl below this wall, but wanted to stay up high for now, enjoying the sunset. To save weight and space for the two gallons of water we each needed, we had brought neither stoves nor tents. What could have seemed a hardship actually added to the journey’s sense of freedom: for now, we could just loll around up here, enjoying the shifting colors of the dunes and the rich reds of the sunset. After the sun sank, we only had to slide down the wall, roll out our sleeping bags, and camp chores were done.

Photograph © 2002 Andrew Harvey

After dinner — in my case, yet another energy bar — Fred found an Andrews dune scarab beetle, another rare endemic of the Algodones. It had a creamy color and hairy, almost furry, sides. Immobilized in our flashlight beams, it clung to Fred’s hand, while Fred wondered if it had mouth parts for biting. Brendan told us this beetle represented the road not taken for the Algodones Dunes. In the mid-1970s, the beetle was proposed for listing as an endangered species, and if that had happened, the majority of the dunes might never have been given over to motorized recreation. After Fred set it down, the beetle promptly buried itself in the sand -- seemingly the preferred defense mechanism of critters here, but not very effective against thousands of grinding tires. We christened the sand face above our camp “Scarab Wall.”

We did see some evidence that this interior valley had been visited before us — a few old beer cans (one filled with a hundred or so dead “stink bug” beetles), a broken brake handle, a clutch pedal pad — but mostly the area seemed pristine. The only tracks were those we had left on Scarab Wall, and they would soon blow over. It was easy to pretend this was the way it always had been, and always would be, though the knowledge that the closures are only temporary kept nagging at me.

I tried to keep these thoughts in the background and focus on the feeling of the place. I was tempted to say that it felt like we were in the middle of nowhere. But of course, we were in the middle of somewhere — if you could ask the coyote or the scarab beetle, it would probably tell you that this was the center of the universe. Yet how else to put it? The feeling seemed to grow from the repetition of the dune patterns extending apparently forever in all directions. You might have a similar experience riding the ocean’s waves far from shore, or in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada, or out on the Arctic ice sheets. There aren’t many places in southern California where you can get this feeling.

In the morning, after an appropriate interlude of sunrise viewing — the dunes above and beyond Scarab Wall becoming studies in contrast, coffee-with-cream on their east faces, black, no sugar, on the west — we set off again. Approaching the eastern edge of this sand system, we encountered the highest crests, some 300 feet above the desert floor. In this central section, the dunes are both higher and wider in extent than those in the North Algodones Dunes Wilderness, a feature that adds to the feeling of vastness.

Photograph © 2002 Larry Hogue

As we strung out in a long line along the sand crests, we began to feel like Himalayan climbers ascending a corniced ridge. Now we could see the desert floor both before us and behind us: the agricultural lands of the Imperial Valley to the west and the creosote scrubland and microphyll woodlands to the east. The dunes no longer seemed quite so extensive in these directions, but looking north or south we could still see no end to them. Our high point achieved, we slipped and slid down another steep face to the low dunes below.

These low dunes extend for about a mile east of the high crests, and seem to be advancing and drowning out the creosote bushes and other vegetation not adapted to the dune environment. In one place, the forking root crown of a palo verde tree had been swept clean, and now looked like a sculpture of bleached bone. Leaving even this bit of sand behind, we emerged into a gravelly microphyll woodland dominated by palo verdes and ironwoods. Now it was just another couple of miles across this flat to the railroad’s “Cactus” siding, where the DPC’s Larry Hendrickson was waiting to meet us and shuttle us back to our cars.

As we looked back, the high dunes seemed remote, unscalable, with no hint of the beauties hidden within. But now each of us knew this place better; it remains to be seen whether that knowledge will translate into ultimate protection.

Sources for dunes information:

Gaston, Lyle K. “The Algodones Dunes.” DPC Educational Bulletin 88-1.

MacMahon, James. Audubon Society Nature Guides: Deserts. New York: Knopf, 1985.

Ross, Roland. “Sand Dune Community of Life.” DPC Educational Bulletin 81-1.