Huacachina Sunrise: Chasing the Light Above the Sand and Fog

A drone selfie on the dunes above Huacachina

If you’re serious about photography, you know the best light shows up while most people are still sound asleep, wrapped in blankets and just starting to dream about breakfast. I’m used to early wake-ups, so I didn't think it would be too hard to get up early and climb one of the nearby dunes and catch a Huacachina sunrise from above.

But when my alarm went off on my first morning in Huacachina, and I saw it was 4:45, my brain immediately launched into a highly persuasive campaign: Go back to sleep!

We’d be in Huacachina for another night. I didn’t need to get up this morning. I could just try again tomorrow. Surely there were sand wolves roaming the dunes right now, hunting foolish photographers. But they’d be gone by tomorrow. Safer. Smarter. Tomorrow was better.

It was a compelling argument. My body agreed.

So I don’t know what part of me actually had control—the irrational optimist, perhaps—but somehow I rolled out of bed, laced up my shoes, grabbed my carefully prepared camera gear, and tiptoed out of the room, down the hall, and into the streets of Huacachina.

Fog.

There was fog everywhere. I couldn’t see more than 25 meters in any direction, and even that was just a halo around the streetlights.

“Ha!” said my brain. “Told you! Terrible conditions! Let’s go back to bed.”

And I was just about to agree—until I remembered: I hadn’t brought the hotel’s front door key. It wasn’t even 5 a.m., no one was at the desk, and the only way back inside was to wake my wife. Texting her to let me in because I was too dumb to bring a key? I decided I’d rather wrestle the a sand wolf.

So… we’re doing this.

I walked towards the spot I had scouted the day before. Soon the pavement gave way to sand. And then it started to rise.

I started climbing.

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If you’ve never climbed a sand dune, you may not realize how futile it feels. Sand is a terrible thing to walk on—and worse when it tilts steeply upward. Imagine climbing a snow slope, but directly into a slow-motion avalanche that keeps swallowing your feet and pushing you back downhill.

It’s like the phrase “two steps forward, one step back” went on a Red Bull bender and started laughing at you. One step forward, 1.9 steps back.

After twenty minutes, I was still nowhere near the top. But I had climbed—because Huacachina had vanished behind me, swallowed into the fog except for the hazy glow of misty streetlights. Then, even the glow disappeared. I was sealed inside the fog, cut off from everything but the sliding sand underfoot.

And this fog—it wasn’t ordinary fog. It was sand fog. Dry. Grainy. It left my mouth tasting like the inside of an old canvas tent. I couldn’t see more than a few feet. Anything could have been hiding in that mist: dinosaurs, desert bandits, the ghosts of ancient camel caravans. My brain was not helping.

“Shut up,” I told it. “Focus on climbing.”

And so I climbed.

And then—just like that—stars appeared overhead. The dark shape of the dune summit loomed above me, outlined against a sky that had somehow cleared.

I had climbed out of the fog.

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Below me, a sea of clouds filled the sand basin of Huacachina. Not even the faintest glow of town lights pierced the mist. But rising from that sea were the dunes—sharp, curved, monumental. I wasn’t far from town in real distance, but suddenly the scene felt expeditionary. Remote. Sacred.

And I began to realize that this morning was going to be an epic sunrise.

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I pushed hard for the summit, my feet sliding but my excitement carrying me forward. I reached the ridge just as the horizon started glowing orange.

I paused. Sat down on the knife-edge of the dune. Just being for a few moments.

This was a quick shot I made with my phone just before I launched the drone

Then I launched my drone.

For half an hour, I flew it over this unreal landscape—filming the ridge I sat on, the light on the sand, the peaks rising through fog like desert islands. I shot abstracts, I shot silhouettes, I shot self-portraits. I captured mist and shadow and golden light and curve.

When the battery was spent, I landed the drone and picked up my Canon. I kept chasing the abstract—the lines and shapes sculpted by sunlight and sand.

And then, I put my gear away and sat down on the dune.

I just watched. No camera. No goal. Just watching, and feeling, and existing in a moment that felt utterly, improbably perfect.

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As I sat there, it struck me: had I stayed in bed, I wouldn’t have regretted it. Because I never would have known what I had missed. I’d have been blissfully unaware that while I slept, the sky and sand were conspiring to put on one of the most remarkable shows of my life.

So to whatever part of me that got me up and out the door—even if it had to trick me by forgetting the hotel key—I owe you. Because that morning gave me one of the greatest sunrises I’ve ever seen. Something I will always remember.

And I didn’t share it with crowds. Just one other group on a distant dune. Otherwise, it was just me, the mist, and the miracle.

The only other people sharing the sunrise with me (this shot was taken with a 300mm lens)

When I finally began the descent, I used the extremely technical “plunge step” method (which is exactly what it sounds like). I practically ran downhill, half-skiing, half-falling, following the sounds of the water birds around the lagoon to navigate, until I was back in town.

Then I waited around for an hour until my wife woke up and saw my messages asking to be let in. I was bored, I was sand-covered… and I was happy.

Happy, because I had a memory I’d carry forever. And a new lesson.

Because travel taught me that some of the greatest accomplishments of life don't require smarts, or strength, or skill. You just have to be the kind of person who will keep going. Someone who’s willing to walk up a sandy slope for an hour in the fog—just stubborn enough not to quit.