STRATA

Stretching from Capitol Reef to Cathedral Valley, Central Utah’s red rock cliffs and winding slot canyons chronicle millions of years of erosion on the Colorado Plateau. The land holds traces of seismic shifts, rivers carving their way over epochs to leave labyrinths of sandstone in their wake. Hints of ancient seabeds from ages past still linger in the seams. Indigenous tribes carved petroglyphs into cliff faces and early settlers channeled mountain streams to coax life from the thirsty soil. Out here though, you had to zoom out from human to geologic time to measure any real movement—progress was measured in millimeters over millennia. Since moving to Colorado, I’d been drawn to the desert like a compass to true north.

Nic ducked under the garage door as it creaked closed and slung her bag into the truck bed, squashing my brand new Stetson in the process. She hopped in the passenger seat with a smile and we hit the road, passing ski resorts and mining equipment and microbreweries as I-70 snaked its way over mountain passes and through Glenwood Canyon, then flanked the Colorado River until the tall, jagged peaks of the Rockies had taken on shorter, softer silhouettes and reduced themselves to delicate fins of rock protruding from the sage-dotted desert floor. Ocherous reds and muted greens marked Jurassic and Cretaceous timetables into sedimentary strata at the roadside. This was Utah, a place where time itself slowed to match the pace of erosion.

PERIPHERY

We’d packed the basics and left with little plan, our route half-formed and flexible. Streaks of sagebrush blurred past at highway speeds while looming peaks in the distance stood still; midday mirages shimmering on the asphalt ahead. Skipping the crowded national parks, we veered off toward wide-open public lands, where the only signs of life were scattered cacti and red-tails tracing circles overhead. Leaving comforts behind was easy out here; it was just us and the desert, the worries of the week evaporating under the relentless sun.

We made a burrito stop in Green River and continued onto rougher country where names like Dead Horse Point and Goblin Valley left no room for sugarcoating. By the time we reached Wild Horse, the sky wore that old Western shade of blue, big and heavy, painted with strokes of white cloud. Rusty sandstone towers reached upward from a sea of slickrock, sage, piñon, and juniper. I pulled over at the mouth of the canyon to air down the tires and tighten the suspension, readying the truck for rock ledges and dry riverbeds to come.

Red dust caked the dashboard and clung to every corner of the truck as we swung south into the canyon, Mazzy Star echoing through the speakers to set the tone for an afternoon spent on safari through the lunar landscape. We stopped whenever something tugged at us—a slant of sunlight hitting the shale just right, the neon edge of a cliff catching the last light, a lonely yucca tree clawing out of the earth in protest. We wound our way down Cow Dung Road toward the Mars Desert Research Station, which perfectly highlighted the paradox.

THRESHOLD

We pushed on toward Swingarm City, a stretch of badlands that stood proud as one of the last bastions of a more lawless West. Dirt bikers had discovered it sometime in the ‘90s and kept the frontier spirit alive, making pilgrimages from as far as Texas and California to test the limits of gravity as sharp sandstone spires stood witness. Surely left off the map on purpose, the playground of ramps, steep ridges, and endless open space had become legend recently after truck commercials and daring stunts shoved it into the spotlight. Nic spotted the perfect campsite tucked away in a narrow drainage, and I pulled over and popped the tent.

As the sun sank lower, the desert transformed, shifting from red and rust to deep purple. I sat on the tailgate with my camera, watching sharp buttes soften into embers as the shadows grew long and stretched over the valley. Darkness climbed the canyon walls and the first stars pierced the firmament, casting the jagged horizon in sharp relief against the sky. Peppers and onions browned in the pan as we dug for a lantern that was buried in the backseat. Firm soil fought valiantly against titanium tent stakes in a battle between the past and future, and we broke the tie with heavy stones we scavenged from the fire.

Nic fumbled with her sleeping bag, swearing under her breath as the wind threw grit in her face. I zipped the tent door closed, and the wilderness roared to life outside. Years ago, a sheep herder west of Moab made international news when he stumbled upon a stainless steel monolith in a lonely slot canyon. I grabbed a few friends and headed straight for the desert that day, navigating by a rough set of coordinates that led us to the structure just in time to watch the forest service haul it away. George Clinton used to take his band midnight fishing in the Bermuda Triangle, certain it was the best shot they had at getting beamed up into space. I scanned the cliffs, wondering if any of them were marked for a landing tonight. Nic tossed a pillow across the tent in frustration, and I turned up the volume on Love Is Blind: Habibi to drown out the wind.

ETHER

I found myself on the tailgate near Sand Flats the next day, sipping on a coconut milkshake as we scoured the map and put together a photo mission for that night. We headed out Kane Creek with our sights set on a cluster of rocks we had discovered in the spring, determined to find the perfect spot for a picnic as the sun went down. We rounded each corner carefully, the day’s dust settled thick in our clothes and the fading sun casting long shadows over the dashboard.

By late afternoon, we found ourselves across the river from Canyonlands, circling the formation until we could plot a route to the top. Using our phones as flashlights, we wound our way through slot canyons so narrow we had to leave our backpacks behind. I looked back as Nic wedged her foot in a vertical crack, reaching up to hand me the bottle of syrah we had saved for sunset. We treaded carefully as we made our way up another level of slickrock, taking care not to crush beds of cryptobiotic soil underfoot.

Sitting on top, I watched the desert stretch out in every direction, the layers of time laid bare in sandstone. For a moment, it felt like we were the last people on Earth. Every thought shrank to nothing as the view took over, revealing the romantic West that Abbey and Stegner showed me long before I saw it for myself. Nic passed the syrah, and we toasted another birthday well spent.