What's It Like to Experience a Haboob in the Chiricahua Mountains
By Sean Benesh
I’d lived in Arizona for over a decade, and somehow, I had never seen a haboob.
I’d heard the word plenty. Seen the photos. Watched the dramatic time-lapse videos online where the desert disappears under a towering wall of dust. But I’d never stood there. Never felt it, breathed it, been swallowed by it.
Until one afternoon in the Chiricahua Mountains.
The day started normal enough. I was headed north from Douglas, winding along Highway 80 toward Portal. The plan? Birdwatching, exploring old pictograph sites, and maybe squeezing in a side trip to Chiricahua National Monument. The skies were clear when I left. Just another hot, sunny day in mid-August. But off to the east, I could already see the monsoon clouds rising and stacking like mountains, stretching higher with every mile.
After a few hours spent trying to chase down the elusive Elegant Trogon and scrambling through washes to scan for ancient rock art, it was time to climb. The goal was to drive over the mountains and drop down the west side, looping back toward Douglas. It was getting late, and the monsoon buildup was hard to ignore. But with plenty of daylight left, we made the call to detour and check out Chiricahua National Monument.
We didn’t linger at the visitor center. Just enough time to stretch our legs, refill water bottles, and make our way straight to the top. Massai Point. Sitting just shy of 7,000 feet in elevation, the view from up there is nothing short of otherworldly. Columns of hoodoos stretch toward the horizon, their shapes shifting depending on the angle of the light. You can see all the way to the Dragoons. And on a clear day, the distance feels like it folds into itself.
I had my camera out, scanning the ridgelines and trying to beat the approaching monsoon. We were in that window with just enough time to explore, but not so much that we’d be stranded when the storm rolled in.
I was focused on the west. The sun was still punching through. The desert was glowing.
Then I turned around.
And there it was.
A wall of dust, pushing over the eastern ridge like a wave. A haboob. The real thing. Not in a video. Not a photo. But right in front of me. Rolling fast, swallowing everything in its path.
It didn’t look real. The light turned amber. The ridgeline blurred. The wind began to rise, whispering at first, then suddenly roaring. The wall of dust hit us head-on.
I took one last photo, then threw the camera in the car.
There’s a particular kind of silence when a dust storm surrounds you. Not the quiet of peace, but the kind that feels charged. Every sound is muffled. Every sense heightened. Visibility dropped instantly. The air thickened. It felt like being marooned on Mars.
Then came the rain.
Heavy at first, then blinding. And then the hail. Massive, pounding the car with deafening cracks. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, squinting through the windshield as we inched our way down the narrow mountain road. Debris started piling up in places. Flash flooding kicked up rocks and branches. The hairpin turns didn’t seem quite as fun anymore.
By the time we reached the visitor center again, we had somehow leapfrogged the storm. For a moment, the sky ahead looked calm.
But the drive back to Douglas was like playing hopscotch between chaos and calm. Walls of dust would appear out of nowhere. Some far off, others right on top of us. Sometimes we were ahead of them. Other times, we were inside, wrapped in wind, headlights cutting through nothing.
It was one of the most intense and beautiful drives I’ve ever done.
I knew haboobs were real. I just never thought I’d watch one roll over a mountain ridge like a tidal wave and then be inside of it. The kind of moment you don’t forget. Not because it was dangerous, but because it reminded me, yet again, of how alive this landscape is.
If you spend enough time in southern Arizona, eventually the desert will show you something you’ve never seen before. And if you’re lucky, it’ll do it at 7,000 feet, under a sky that’s always moving.
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Sean Benesh is a storyteller and social media strategist based in Portland, Oregon. He works with rural communities, trail organizations, and race organizers to help them tell their stories, grow their online reach, and build momentum through photography, writing, and social media. He is the founder and editor-in-chief of Trail Builder Magazine and serves as the communications director for the NW Trail Alliance.
