Lush oases created by rare desert streams (155Cong.Rec.H9844)

If you have one last trip in a country, going to a destination with "oasis" in the name is a pretty good bet. Except when the destination is on the other side of a mountain pass, and the area is experiencing a severe cold snap, and the travel contingent includes quite a few non-campers (including some first-timers). The first indication that I might've chosen poorly is when, the day before the trip, I heard that the mountain pass we needed to cross had been closed because of snow and ice. About an hour before departure, I gained a little confidence when I saw on the highway's Facebook page that the road had re-opened, but since the post was 10 hours old, I was still worried, especially when I saw that it had dropped to 18 degrees overnight. 

With my fingers crossed, our caravan headed out. About an hour into the trip, TJ was dodging slick patches on the road, and I started to see snow in the distant hills of La Rumorosa, at the the top of the mountain. I paced a little as we stopped in the town to stock up on fuel and supplies, at a gas station only about a mile from the entrance to the pass. I finally relaxed when we passed through the open toll booths to the road, despite it being a series of steep, downhill hairpin turns.

After the pass, we spent a short time on the highway before we turned off onto a long, bumpy, and winding dirt road. After more than an hour of desolation, my travel companions began to lose faith. One even pulled up next to our car to see if we were sure we were still going the right direction. According to the GPS coordinates, we were, but I'll admit, I had my doubts, too.

But then finally, the road turned away from the ancient dry lakebed back toward the mountains, and we wound our way into one of their crevices, where I spied the distinctive peak featured on the Guadalupe Canyon Oasis logo and website (left). After everyone set up camp and settled in to the canyon, a group hiked up toward the peak, to a waterfall amid the boulders and a lookout of the Laguna Salada and the United States beyond (right).

 

After internalizing all that stress, I decompressed by viewing the peak from the comfort of one of our campsites' hot tubs (left). The water, only lightly marked with minerals, is piped in from a natural spring that emerges from one side of the canyon (right). The land belongs to the Loya family, whose patriarch left the land split between two sons. Each brother set up a campground on his side of the divide, but there is no fraternal love lost, as the one shares the spring's water with the other.

 

The hot tubs are communal, but only among those campers at a particular site. One or our sites, La Rana,  was quite intimate; the picnic table, fire pit, and tent area were just steps from the tub (left). Our other site, El Indio, was the large-group site, so its bigger pool wasn't quite as private, but it did offer some spectacular spots to pitch a tent (right) -- this one, by the way, is not ours.

 

A major concern for some fellow campers was that the temperatures in the desert would drop below zero at night. I'm not sure if it was because of insulation from all the palm trees (left), but everyone -- and all our water -- made it through the night without freezing. For some, the hot tubs helped them shake off the chill, but no one was brave enough to hibernate in the campground's mud baths.

 

For me, I had to summon the most courage when it was time to leave. Not only was I not looking forward to another ride on those jerky and curvy roads, but that morning's desert sunrise inspired a serenity that was hard to give up.