Killpecker Sand Dunes

Between Lander and Rock Springs, nestled in the west half of the Great Divide Basin, lay the Killpecker Sand Dunes. While not large and imposing like those in the Sahara, Killpecker (yes, named for what the water in the area did to a man thirsty enough to drink it) are still daunting and more than a little intense. As we ascended the ones nearest our camps, we watched in silent awe as our footprints disappeared all too quickly behind us. The dunes were changing as we watched, slipping and sliding and eroding away into nothingness, the sand stinging out legs and arms and eyes as it whizzed and whirred past us, only to be reassembled as a new and mighty anthill in another part of the small valley. The constantly rolling sand keeps the top layer from roasting in the sun, and the sand was cool and refreshing on our bare soles.

We feel as if the wind will blow us over, whittling away minuscule pieces of us as if we were merely dry earth, recreating us as part of another dune. As we stand, snuggling our toes into the dunes, our toes, our feet, our ankles disappear into the shifting sand. The world is moving, changing right in front of us, and all we can so is blink against the bitter bite of a mini-sand storm. Swirling hair, tugging clothes, the sound of tiny rocks working their way into camera parts and clothing.

By the time we returned to the tent, it had begun to create its own little sand dune. The wind had picked up infinitesimal bits of rock and crystal and salt from one end, whittling away at the poles’ edges and ends, and deposited the sand into small, scooped piles, mini dunes huddling against the wind. I wondered if this was how each of these ephemeral dunes was made… a small plant or a piece of wood or the remnants of an ill-placed oil well provided the foundations for what would become one of the most powerful forces in nature. Sand dunes are always changing and drifting and reshaping against the will of the landscape and of the people eking out a living in these harsh conditions. They tear down rocks and fill in creeks and stop wildfires and demolish homes and farms and wells. They can change so entirely overnight that unwary backpackers can all at once find themselves in virgin territory, without footprints or familiar breadcrumbs with which to tramp their way home. The BLM has on several occasions been called upon to rescue a wayward hiker who, despite executing a sophisticated plan by which to remember the way back to the car, woke up at first light only to realize he had no idea where he was.

Despite the emptiness of the desert, Killpecker is home to one of the few herds of desert elk, who take comfort in the fact that the unwelcoming dunes often discourage even the most seasoned of hunters. Desert mice visited us in the night, curious about our camp stove and searching in vain for any leftovers from our evening meal. Coyotes, too, individuals and in packs, yipped and yodeled and frolicked a peaceful cacophony of melodies, working themselves into a frenzy and quickly becoming exhausted of their rousing choruses, only to begin anew in the next hour. Even the stars seemed to celebrate the night in Killpecker, shining in a bright harmony of twinkles, each one in a sky of billions chasing the undaunted moon across the horizon.