Great Sand Dunes NP & The Sangre De Cristo Mountains
From Sand to Sky: Great Sand Dunes → Taos → Raton
Leaving Gunnison and Crested Butte, Bessie rumbled through the Curecanti National Recreation Area—rolling mesas and the steel-blue shimmer of the Blue Mesa Reservoir, the largest body of water in Colorado. The highway hugs the curves of the Gunnison River before spilling us into sagebrush country. We passed the dam glinting in morning light, Alan humming something that suspiciously sounded like Born to Be Wild.
There were two more parks on my “must-see-before-we-point-Bessie-home” list: Great Sand Dunes National Park in southern Colorado, and White Sands National Park just across the New Mexico line. My original plan was an all-out sunrise shoot at the Dunes, but after a few too many pre-dawn alarms, I compromised with an 8 a.m. arrival—still early enough for that soft light that dances between shadow and gold, but civilized enough for coffee.
The Dunes: Mountains Made of Sand
The approach to Great Sand Dunes is a showstopper. Out of nowhere, a 30-square-mile Sahara rises from the valley floor, the dunes pressed against the jagged spine of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains—whose name means “Blood of Christ,” for the red glow that hits their peaks at sunset.
At the tiny general store near the entrance, a line of kids and weekend warriors snaked out the door, each clutching a bright-colored sandboard. A local in flip-flops told me, “It’s just like snowboarding, but you end up with grit everywhere you didn’t want it.” I decided to skip the exfoliation experience. “Let’s hike instead,” I told Alan, already sinking ankle-deep in powdery gold.
The Dunefield is the heart of the park—giant, ever-shifting mountains of sand that you can climb, slide, and tumble down like a human tumbleweed. At 65 degrees, the morning hike was glorious. Kodi trotted beside us, ears perked at the crunch of the sand under her paws.
If you camp here, the payoff is epic: International Dark Sky Park designation means the stars blaze so bright they look close enough to pluck. Dry air, high altitude, and zero light pollution—astronomers dream of this kind of clarity.
Zapata Falls Detour
On our way south, we detoured to Zapata Falls, tucked into a canyon below the Dunes. The trail leads straight into a stream—you literally wade through icy water to reach the hidden waterfall. Kodi and I looked at the frigid creek, looked at each other, and silently agreed: not today. We retreated to the comfort of Bessie, soggy-free but proud of the attempt.
Driving out, we passed Blanca Peak, towering at 14,350 feet—the fourth-highest summit in Colorado, anchoring the southern tip of the Sangre de Cristo Range. It stood like a sentinel guarding the border between desert and mountain.
Taos: From Serenity to Street Chaos
Taos sounded so romantic in my memory—a historic square, adobe shops, art galleries, turquoise jewelry, and chili ristras hanging like ornaments. Reality check: Taos on a sunny Saturday is bumper-to-bumper chaos. Streets under construction, parking lots overflowing, pedestrians everywhere. It was like trying to steer a van through a street fair.
After three failed restaurant attempts, we lucked into a parking spot at Martyrs Steakhouse, a serene oasis with a shaded patio. Lunch was worth the hassle—Peruvian ceviche, carne adovada tostadas, and braised beef enchiladas that tasted like the desert had learned fine dining.
Refueled and revived, we set Bessie’s GPS for Raton, New Mexico, once a major stop on the old Santa Fe Trail.
The High Road to Raton
The drive was pure soul therapy: winding through Angel Fire, where fields shimmered with yellow aspens, then over to Eagle Nest Lake, blue as a gem in a mountain bowl. We descended through Cimarron, past ranches straight out of a Western—rusted windmills, leaning barns, and horses kicking up dust.
By dusk, we rolled into Raton, a sleepy, friendly town with murals celebrating its frontier days. The overnight was calm and quiet—just crickets, stars, and the soft hum of Bessie’s fridge.
In the morning, we checked out the Raton Museum, full of frontier artifacts and Santa Fe Trail nostalgia. Then it was time to turn the compass east, bound for Florida… maybe with a Smoky Mountains detour if the weather behaved and the road called one more time.