There are some exceptional camping spots in southern Utah. The sky is clear and dark, and they’re conveniently located—Bryce Canyon was fifteen minutes away. The bitter autumn wind tugged at my cheeks as I popped into the visitor center. Too early to hike. I took the scenic drive instead, which was rather commonplace. All I saw were golden aspens, lush pines, and thirty-mile views with the stately Aquarius Plateau standing guard on the horizon. Such a drive is normal here.

I returned to the canyon itself and was instantly rewarded. Bryce Canyon is home to the world’s largest collection of hoodoos—tall rock spires anywhere from 6 to 100 feet tall. The park’s hoodoos are part of the Pink Cliffs and are brilliant red, orange, and white. While the Grand Canyon is simply too grand for human comprehension, this formation is an exquisite blend of size and detail. I spent a full half hour looking and investigating, caught up in the strangeness and mystery of the hoodoos.

I’ll enter the canyon tomorrow; the afternoon today was for chores and phone calls. One of my primary goals for this trip is to improve at being present in the moment, so I try to arrange my “home time” on Mondays. That way, I can spend six days a week fully immersed in my trip, and the seventh with friends and family. It was a perfect day to sit and talk, sitting in the mid-60s with only the slightest breeze. Cold mornings make for lovely days.

I started today by retracing my steps back up into Utah, stopping in Kanab for breakfast. When I was out to dinner with Grandma and Jeff, our waitress had recommended a small breakfast shack that we never could find. I lucked into it today and was rewarded with a fairly good sandwich. My plan after was to hike Peekaboo Canyon, but it turns out that I had mixed up the location of the trailhead. Expect that sometime later this week.

Instead, I took my time driving to Panguitch, just northwest of Bryce Canyon. As I moved northward—and upward—the Grand Staircase moved toward brilliant salmon pinks, rendered beautifully far in the background. I thought it just as inspiring as the Grand Canyon. 

Panguitch is a pleasant little town of under 2,000 people, with perfect autumn weather and genuinely friendly people. Unfortunately, something must not be working for them. Multiple downtown lots sat empty or boarded up. I’m sure they do well with the nearly two million tourists that visit Bryce Canyon every year; hopefully the town is on the upswing. I didn’t do much exploring today, and instead focused on mundane things. I bought groceries and tidied my car. I walked around the town and the forests nearby. Just like Panguitch, my day was pleasant.

After a delightfully large buffet breakfast, I said my goodbyes to Grandma and Jeff. They’re off to New Mexico—safe travels! I checked out of the motel with the manager‘s oldest son, who couldn’t be older than twelve but was very professional. Grandma and I had a pleasant talk with the manager on Thursday; I hope he can visit his grandparents in Mexico soon. 

It took about two minutes to drive into Arizona. US-89A meandered through the Kaibab Forest; our tour guide Robert told us yesterday that Kaibab was a Paiute term meaning “mountain lying down” or “mountain giving up”. The Plateau didn’t care what it was called—it rose up and up, and so did I. Robert gave me a couple recommendations yesterday, the first of which was to stop at Le Fevre Overlook to see the Grand Staircase from afar. A million sagebrush bushes turn the cliffs into a pointillist masterpiece.

Robert’s other suggestion was a stop at Jacob Lake to pick up some cookies. I munched. Pretty good. The sugar rush carried me the last hour until I arrived at the north rim of the Grand Canyon. Before today, my opinion on the canyon was this: very impressive, but one-dimensional. After today, I am happy to report that, for once in my life, I was right. 

The geology is, admittedly, quite cool. The layers of sandstone shine with color, even on a hazy day like today. The scope of the Canyon is also undeniably majestic. But my eyes never popped, as they did at several previous stops. And the details of the canyon are lost at such distance. Without change or transformation, it becomes, somehow, simply background. I’m sure if I hiked into the canyon, my attitude would change quickly and dramatically. As a visual attraction, I prefer what I’ve seen in Utah so far.

I found a secluded spot, worked on more song lyrics, and dug into some word puzzles. My brain needed sharpening. I was hoping for a spectacular sunset, but clouds moved in and the light simply dimmed. Back to my car, then, to camp in Kaibab. I enjoyed having a bed for the past two nights (thanks again, Grandma and Jeff!), but it’s comforting to restart the routine. 

Quick post today, as I am quite tired. Grandma, Jeff and I spent the day on a fulfilling tour of Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. The area is filled with eclectic rock formations, slot canyons, and tremendous views. Most of it is locked behind poorly maintained, high-clearance roads; luckily, our righteously headbanded tour guide Robert drove a monstrous GMC. No road could stop us.

The Grand Staircase is a giant geologic formation that extends far beyond the park. You can think of it as five giant steps, starting in the south and ascending north, each at least 1,000 feet tall. From lowest to highest, the steps are named for their color: the Chocolate Cliffs, the Vermilion Cliffs, the White Cliffs, the Gray Cliffs, and the Pink Cliffs. It’s much, much messier than that in actuality, but that’s the gist of it.

After the tour and dinner, I crashed back down to earth in the motel room. I think having a bed makes me feel more tired. I will therefore blame the brevity of this post on an overabundance of comfort.

And so the boy returned, bleary but resolute, to the Virgin River and Zion Canyon. He rode the shuttle-bus to the very last stop, then disembarked and marveled at the towering court of standing rocks known as the Temple of Sinawava. He walked along the river, following its course upstream. Mule deer foraged nearby and the stream lapped and eddied. The canyon slowly grew closer on each side, until the path ended and sloped into the river. The boy pulled his traveling pack tight and stepped in.

The Narrows has no path. It is only stream and sandbar. Many other travelers set forth with the boy; some foolishly removed their shoes and waded, bare of foot; others wore sandals or flip-flops; others complained of the coldness of the river; and others complained that they might get wet at all. Such travelers turned away quickly, and as the boy began the second mile of The Narrows, the crowds had disappeared. For long moments he found himself alone, and he reveled in the serene majesty of canyon.

Good Lord. I would like to deeply apologize for the intrusive self-indulgence. I have had a stern conversation with myself, and there will be no more storybook mumbo-jumbo. You can’t stop me. I left Zion in the highest of spirits, and took Highway 89 through tunnels and past the canyon outskirts to the east. I arrived in Kanab, Utah, where Grandma and Jeff were coincidentally spending a couple of nights at the beginning of their own vacation. Naturally, as a dutiful grandson, the boy I had to say hello.

Finding a restaurant was a struggle, but at the plum hour of 9pm, we sat down for dinner. I was glad that I could still hold a conversation after so long away from society. Now we rest, as we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow touring Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. Live long and prosper Goodnight!

It was the gentle hour of seven in the morning, when the sun has not yet risen and its soft light goes out into the land as a fine coat. The boy sat, waiting for the shuttle-bus that would bring him into Zion Canyon. He was willfully ignorant of what may lie ahead; he had heard rumors of the land’s splendor, and desired an honest impression. At last the coach arrived, and soon pulled through the gates of the park.

The view from inside the shuttle-bus was wanting. Canyon walls quickly rose above the window-frames. The boy somewhat cherished this feeling, standing at the edge of such knowledge. His original destination, the trail Observation Point, was shuttered to the public, for fear of falling rocks. He chose instead to step out at The Grotto and travel to Angel’s Landing.

The boy had taken but two dozen steps, enough to carry him across the road and toward the gentle river that breathed through the canyon, when his legs halted beneath him. He was struck motionless and dumb at the vastness of the red sandstone walls, and the lush garden of cottonwoods and grasses that grew about the river. He carried that wonder with him for the duration of his hike. For well over an hour the lad climbed switchbacks on the canyon wall, with eyes all the while fixed upon the sublime beauty of the canyon below.

The multitude of passers-by took pictures of the journey, as did he. But many of the others placed their faces within the frame, making odd faces and strange poses. The boy was puzzled. Why would they come all this way only to photograph themselves? Surely they already knew what they looked like.

As the switchbacks ended, the boy looked ahead at the final leg of the trail: a steep, daring ascent, with holding-ropes to keep travelers from falling one hundred stories into the red and green abyss. He looked on wistfully, for he had neither permit nor writ of passage to attempt this challenge. So he sat and watched a while, then, feeling the bite of envy, made his way down the trail.

He returned to the spot where he first held still and spent much time reading and writing and humming newborn melodies. Finally, his creativity sated, the boy rode the shuttle-bus to the Lodge, and quickly ate his fill at the restaurant. The rest of the day he spent reflecting upon his good fortune and the treasures of the canyon.

Sorry, everyone. Not sure what came over me. That was weird. Next up is the Narrows, the quintessential Zion experience. In the meantime, enjoy these pictures, which in absolutely no way capture the size and spirit of this place.

Springdale, Utah, is a draconian parking lot disguised as a small town. Every business lot has stern signs enforcing time limits; every street curb is lined with spots; even the gravel pulloffs at the outskirts of town have parking meters. All these spots are filled. Zion’s interior lots fill up by nine in the morning, so countless Zion-goers pull in, pay for parking, and ride a shuttle bus into the park. Such was the scene when I arrived in Springdale, and since I enjoy paying for parking about as much as I enjoy someone else pumping my gas, I decided to wait it out.

I spent most of my time at the ultimate free parking location: the library. The Utah library system has impressed me so far. Some of the places I’ve been have neglected these community cornerstones, and I’ve even seen a few trailer libraries. Springdale’s was small but well-constructed, and I felt at home between the shelves, reading and writing and passing the time. William Least Heat-Moon wrote that in order for a town to be a true community, it must have a post office, a bar, and a stop light; I think it requires a library.

After lunch, I went outside to the park across the street. I kept at my books while a pair of blond ragamuffins shrieked and tumbled on the playground. The red cliffs of Utah stood proudly in the background. All in all, a pleasant afternoon.

Finally, at 5:30 pm, the park started letting cars in. I drove through the gates and past the visitor center—and found that the main chunk of the park is only accessible via shuttle bus. And the last one had left the visitor center at 5. Crikey. I stubbornly drove through as much of the park as I was legally allowed to experience, then returned to town to drown my frustration in hamburger.

I’m camped close to the entrance. The first shuttle leaves at 7 tomorrow morning. I will be up with the sun, get that free parking, and have a great day. I am speaking it into existence.

I feel better about beaching my car. On the road back to the highway, I encountered a new type of roadblock: a semi-truck had somehow jammed itself sideways into a sand dune. I carefully off-roaded around it, not sure what help, if any, I could offer. To my surprise, there was no driver. A Mojave mystery! I figured it may have a dangerous answer, so I kept on trucking.

The Great Basin to my left and the Mojave to my right, I took I-15 out of necessity and left Vegas in the dust. The road took me through Arizona for about half an hour; this is where the red cliffs started. I’m talking Mars-level, Minecraft-canyon-biome red. They are shockingly scarlet. I-15 bridged for miles through these canyons, and I felt better about taking the interstate.

I would have taken a picture of the cliffs in St. George, Utah, which was my destination for today. The weather had other ideas. As soon as I arrived, the skies lost color and the wind kicked up. I don’t know if it was a dust storm or a sandstorm, but it sucked the life out of the landscape and drove me back into the driver’s seat. Tomorrow I’ll make up for it.

It’s another beautiful night in the desert; I felt inspired enough to keep working on lyric sketches. I think I’ll come out of this trip with some pretty decent songs. The next two weeks or so should be equally stirring. I’ve wanted to go to Utah for years now, so my pace will likely slow to a crawl as I take in as much natural wonder as I can.

Death Valley is the hottest place on the planet. Its air temperature has been registered at 134°F. Even in October, it’ll creep into triple digits, so my plan for today was a quick in-and-out trip, Ocean’s 11-style.

Badwater Basin is the lowest place in North America (282 feet below sea level); salt lines the basin and there is a strong smell of cured meat. I feel like I’m missing a link to connect those two observations. I viewed the basin up close and from afar, at the top of Dante’s View. Way out in the distance, almost imperceptible, is Mt. Whitney, the tallest point in the contiguous United States.

My favorite view of the badlands was at Zabriskie Point, named after Christian Zabriskie of the Pacific Coast Borax Company, and not Jo-Ellen and Dave Zabriskie of comment section fame. The jagged formations stretched out like a thousand fingers, and clouds overhead cast shadows that added even more varieties of browns, yellows, and deep oranges.

I successfully left without melting and drove east through Death Valley Junction, a particularly unphotogenic ghost town. I fueled up and waited out the heat in Pahrump, Nevada, and considered finding a place to camp. Thankfully, Dad reminded me that the Vegas Strip would be more impressive at night, so I pressed on.

I spent about twenty minutes walking Las Vegas Boulevard, which I found plenty as a solo traveler. I think I would enjoy the glamour and brashness more with friends. Right now, I’m in Philosopher-Errant mode, so I can’t be bothered with such base activities as the Strip provides. I also think casinos smell bad. I was considering a buffet until I pictured myself, alone in the line for crab legs. I cannot let myself fall to such depths. I shot out of Vegas and parked for the night. More philosophy tomorrow.

I didn’t have enough room in my car to bring all the gear on my prep list. The last thing I left behind was a shovel. I figured that my route, plus watching the forecasts, would keep me away from serious snow. I didn’t think that it would be useful for sand as well. Smash cut to this morning, when I tried to surmount an eighteen-inch hump of sand to get back on the road and found my Corolla unceremoniously beached upon it. 

I tried digging out the front tires with an ice brush. No dice. There was some vegetation snagged in the undercarriage that I hacked away with a knife. Not enough. After about forty-five minutes, an extremely kind family of French tourists stopped with a spade and some tire ramps. They went above and beyond, even taking me in their RV to flag down pickups on the main road. The younger child was hacking away at the sand with a toy shovel the size of a wallet—absolutely adorable. Eventually, an equally friendly pair of men hooked my car up to the winch on their SUV and tugged me out.

(This is the point where my wonderful, cherished family members will start privately telling me that I need to call AAA next time. I will. Probably.)

I drove back into town to convalesce. The people of Ridgecrest are—no surprise—extremely welcoming. This was a great place to have a rough morning. I had wonderful interactions with everyone, from the waitress at the local diner with a voice like radio static, to the customer at the local game store who invited me to play Magic with his friends (unfortunately, I left my cards at home), to the elderly cashier at the hot dog shack who grandmothered me into drinking more water. This town isn’t as quaint as the Upper Peninsula or as homey as northern Idaho, but it’s another off-the-grid jewel.

Finally, it was time to head back out. The main road to Death Valley was washed out, so I took a bumpy side road amidst a caravan of like-minded folks. The flooding has closed off many of the park’s more distant attractions, so I should be able to experience a good chunk of what’s available during tomorrow’s coolest hours. Tonight, I’m camping for free in the park, the hottest place in the world.

PS: The family that helped me out is chronicling their journey on Facebook and Instagram at Nous 5 En Ameríque. Check them out!