Withstanding Dune-harshness: What matters
Sand dunes took the lives of a family. Would we do what they did if we were faced with something similar?
Friends-
What happens when we’re thrown into a situation so sudden, so unexpected, and so unforgiving—and nothing else mattered?
It’s easy to think we will never be in these situations. But threat isn’t really so far away. Even in modern America. When I think about America, dunes are *not* the first thing that comes to mind.
So when I learned about the White Sands national park, it was mind-bending. Especially when I learned about a French family who went there for a vacation.
A mother, a father, and a son went into the White Sands.
The mother and father died.
The son survived.
What happened?
I first heard about this story when I was working in the desert of New Mexico, about a few hours drive from the dunes. For all the non-US readers out there: New Mexico is a state in the US. And it’s just north of Mexico (but it isn’t Mexico).
I remember the first time I ever set foot there, within 48 hours of arriving—I noticed something strange happening with my hands.
They were bone dry.
The areas around my nails were all cracked. And every twenty minutes, I find myself desperately looking around for water. But something else was odd. My clothes were dry. I was not sweating.
Locals always say that it’s so hot and dry there, that your sweat evaporates immediately. So you wouldn’t notice how much water you’re losing. Which could be fatal when you are losing a lot of water.
It also doesn’t help that some parts of the region are located in high elevations. At up to 7,000 feet above sea level. So not only are you shrinking and losing all the water in your body. You’re also now trying to breathe where there’s much less oxygen.
A few weeks ago, I talked about this in depth with an Everest climber. Who explained about how people who gets sick in high elevations—simply never recover. And why exactly that’s the case.
So imagine all this happening. And yet in front of you: sand as white as snow.
It’s hard to describe how it looks. Before White Sands, I’ve only ever known sand in the context of sea water. So to see a vast body of sand for miles and miles—and yet seeing no water around—was like seeing the ground you’re standing in, then looking up, and seeing absolutely no blue sky above.
It’s the most disturbing feeling.
Almost like being in a perpetual free-fall. Without the actual fall. Just in its awe. And its twin: terror.
But then there’s the infatuation of what’s in front of you.
The thing is, when people talk about “white sandy beaches,” I usually know by now that the sand is still for the most part … quite beige. Sometimes even brown.
So to see sand that it actually was off-white—was blinding.
I was there at close to noon. So the sun was strong. Even with hats, layers of sunblock, sunglasses, gallons of water and umbrellas—I could only bear it for ten minutes at a time. Before rushing back into the car. And seek refuge.
Still, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
That’s the thing about places.
The ones with otherworldly beauty—are usually hard to get to. Sometimes to the point that it can kill. Especially when you’re not ready.
Even the animals and plants who survive there, had to learn to adapt. The animals come out at night, when the sands don’t burn their feet. They even change colors. Plants grow fast, tall, and furious. To maximize their chances.
So when I heard about the French pair and son who got lost, I immediately understood.
Our sense of scale is so much commanded by perception.
Having traveled through Europe, I noticed how seamless it was to go places. A few hours on the train can easily get you to a different country.
Part of me wondered if the family heard that the “park”—a word that already creates an illusion of ease—is only a few hours wide in certain places. And from there, there’s an immediate false sense of security. Let’s not mention how easily our minds relax when we hear the word “sand.”
And in my opinion, the park service’s recommendation—to have just one gallon of water per person, *per* day—would not be enough at all. According to reports, the family only brought two small water bottles to share between the three of them.
Definitely not enough.
There is very little known about the French family. And out of respect for the surviving son, it is better that way.
But here’s what was said about them:
“Park rangers discovered the three French nationals while patrolling an area about 1.5 miles from the Alkali Flat trail head on a day in which the temperature reached 101 degrees, according to the AP. The child was found alongside his father and rushed to a hospital, where he spent the night and was treated for heat exposure. The boy’s mother, who was eventually located by herself 1 1/2 miles from the Alkali Flat trail head, had complained of feeling ill before she collapsed, authorities said.
“So she made the decision that you guys go ahead and go on, I’m going to go back to the vehicle,” House told the AP. “She made it about 100 yards before she went down.”
The father and son continued on the trail unaware that Steiner [the mother] had succumbed to the heat. He said the father traveled another 2,000 feet before he also collapsed.”
Authorities believe the couple died of heat-related causes,”
-Sherif Benny House, Otero County. Associated Press.
My heart aches for the boy. Who had to watch his father go. Who didn’t even know that his mother was already gone. Who probably was thinking about what to do next. As he stood there, watching the body of his father. With miles of white around him. With nothing, and no one around.
My heart aches for anyone who ever had to face sudden harshness. No matter how mundane. A rude stranger. A morning that doesn’t go our way. A night that won’t let us rest. A reality that crowds out our dreams.
I hope somehow, this reminds us to be kinder to ourselves. Before (and after) we face sudden harshness. It reminded me that preparation is a form of kindness.
As is forethought.
“No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.” - Aesop
And this applies even to ourselves. And everyone, and everything, immediately around us.
-Thalia
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My heart goes out to the poor child…
This story reminds me of the signs all around Joshua Tree. They say in big bold white letters “PEOPLE DIE HERE BRING MORE WATER” or something to that effect. I understand why the messaging was so aggressive… on a hot, beautiful day, and if you’ve never been to a place like that before, things can go south quick.
My mother is German, so I spend a lot of time there.
I live in Colorado at 7,200 feet.
The contrast between nature in Germany (with tremendous shelter options) and nature in rural Colorado is amazing.
Europeans just aren't trained to be self sufficient in weather/climate adversity. Help is rarely far away.
Here, when I go for a hike, I have to prepare for unexpected weather and the (small) possibility of being out in it a lot longer than expected. (Extra water, rain gear, a space blanket, fire starter, and most importantly, a skill set.)
I understand and feel for that family.