As with all of this part of the Divide country, most of the water comes from melted snow. Some of it is laid down directly on the sand dunes, but quite a bit comes pouring out of the mountains, from maybe as much as two thousand feet higher than the dunes themselves. But when most of those small creeks reach the sands, even those which are now stabilized with vegetation, the water disappears.

Seeping in between the white grains, following the ridges and draws that are buried under the wind-deposited dunes. Eventually, though, the sands begin to end. Pressed up against the hard bedrock at the edge of the basin. And the water comes back to the surface. Flowing as a gentle little stream between soft, white hills.

Scattered, small chokecherry and hawthorn trees grow where the water first oozes from the sand, but here it is lined only with a narrow strip of green. In the damper areas you can find yellow violets blooming.

But these are all bleeding.

A colour variation that may be common elsewhere, but I haven't noticed it.

We stopped in the dunes last Wednesday, on our return trip from the second breeding bird survey, retracing the route for 24.5 miles back to the highway. It is a short hike over a couple white dunes to the creek, where we found we weren't the only ones attracted by the cool and green.

Here the gentle stream reaches a rocky ridge, buried by the sand, and tumbles over the top.

Not quite a true water"fall", but more than just steep rapids.

The little maskless heeler raced to the water as soon as we rounded the last dune, in a hurry for a drink of the cool, burbling water. We wandered a bit, enjoying this little flowing oasis in the middle of hot sagebrush-covered dunes. Despite the steady supply of hungry mosquitoes.

But the day was passing, and I had a meeting at the federal office after lunch.

Time to go.