Namibia's Skeleton Coast: Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Gonna Walk Around...

What lies behind the beauty in desolation, in forbidding landscapes back-dropped by moods of unforgiving peril? I ponder this at one of the most appropriately named pieces of real estate in the world, the Skeleton Coast.

Odds are thin for travel to Mars. A suitable substitute is this otherworldly historic terror for sailors, many of whom mingled their bones among whale ribs and shipwrecks.

There was no margin for error after rounding the horn of Africa and plying the rough seas along this vast expanse, bordering the vast expanse of the Namib, the world's oldest desert. Before the despair of their plight soaked in, did whalers and other hapless sailors, making it ashore triumphantly after Cuisinart reefs munched their ships in frigid waters, find a moment to appreciate landscapes that would have challenged the surreal sensibility of Dali?

Since our sunrise departure from camp, absorbing the cold ocean air in anticipation of noon-day sun, balanced on old airplane chairs strapped on the roof of a well-beaten Land Rover, I feel I'm on an exploratory mechanical bug from NASA. Along the coastline are immense flat plains, broken in places by lines of small cones of abandoned diamond digs of decades past that have yet to blow away in this harsh yet fragile land.

The plains yield to giant, orange-yellow, free-standing dunes. The wind etches geometric patterns on the long curves and slopes that are stunning sculptures as they interplay with shifting shadows and blue sky. Walking across the flat plain from our vehicle, my companions and I step in the footprints in front of us to minimize our impact on the flat land's tiny vegetation that suck moisture from the ocean fog which blinded marine navigators.

After hiking up a dune's long backside, we slide down its steep interior slope. Suddenly, from all directions, the wind is overtaken by the eerie monotone crescendo of a giant bass fiddle. But there are no fiddlers in sight. We are the musicians, disturbing uniquely shaped sand grains that emit a deep roar as air escapes beneath our grinding steps. Delighted, some of us make long leaps down the slope, adding staccato notes.

Struggling back up the huge half-bowl slope, the solitude of the coast, even within this two-million-hectare national park, again hits home. Despite a huge concession set aside for safari, the Skeleton Coast Camp is limited to 12 visitors, with access only by air.

I keep imagining the challenge of survival if I'd been a sailor centuries ago, wondering if I would have had the courage to flee the coast or at least start a long march up the shore, giving my own skeleton a run for its money.

Fishing gear, a gun for seven-foot Cape Fur seals, a desert survival manual, a map leading to dry riverbeds one could excavate for water left from flash floods, an awareness that the most forbidding plants in the riverbeds are the ones from which to draw moisture, (the friendly looking ones are lethal) - all that would have been handy. But all that was nonexistent for those dragging themselves ashore centuries ago, paralyzed by a lack of options, hopeful for sea rescues that were impossible.

Years ago, a dozen skeletons were found in a hole dug in the beach. They were in a circle, with their arms around each other, heads missing. The skulls, which help preserve the brains, were likely taken by hyenas for box lunches.

And yet, there are survivors. The wildlife is minimalist, but fascinating in its adaptations. Up on a ridge facing the ocean breeze are several gemsbok, or oryx, nearly 500 pounds each. A type of antelope, they hyperventilate the ocean air to cool their body temperature and keep the blood in their heads from boiling. Their horns are like scimitars. And lions - there are desert-adapted lions that relish the seals - think twice. Fresh lion tracks in a river bed make me think thrice when, separated from the only other vehicle, I rapidly collect flat rocks to jam under tires bogged down in dry sand. No guns are allowed in the park.