day 3—behind the rocks

We woke up the next morning, buzzing with even more energy, thrilled by our first true van camping experience.

No evenly spaced setups. No comfort in paved roads. No luxury of a real toilet seat. Just pure, authentic living.

Even Charlie could feel the difference in this spot. There’s something about the grandeur of the desert, mingling with its endless emptiness, that makes you feel limitless. Her boundless energy mirrored that feeling perfectly.

The sun lingered behind the rock face, its early light casting shadows across the valley like freshly scattered glitter.

I could never get sick of waking up to this view!

Several friends and family members had been asking for a van tour—We’ll make a reel, I kept telling myself—but we’d been putting it off, waiting for a place that truly embodied this new chapter of our lives.

What better spot than amidst the silence of these ancient rocks? Here, we could show what it really felt like to be far removed from civilization: completely, wholeheartedly, self-reliant.

I’d been mentally curating a list of shots for this moment, and it gave us a solid starting point. I straightened up our space—home, I reminded myself, a word I was still learning to embrace—and prepared for a few interior takes.

I adjusted my camera for low light, rearranged a few foreground details, and began recording while thinking, What am I doing? I’m not a videographer.

But then I reminded myself: I’ve always been a storyteller. This was just another way to tell the story.

Keeping the camera steady and at eye level, I began documenting the heart of our 25-foot sanctuary—where we ate, slept, and relaxed.

As you step in, there is our modest kitchen: a sink, a two-burner stove, and a mini-fridge. To the right, a wardrobe doubles as our pantry, alongside four small drawers for undergarments and toiletries.

On the opposite wall, another set of drawers holds pots, pans, utensils, plates, and the quintessential “junk” drawer—an unassuming name for a treasure trove of unexpected utility.

To the left is our living room: two benches hiding the necessities like our water heater and batteries. They sit parallel, with two swivel table tops in between, which can transform into a full-size bed with the help of the bench cushions.

And finally, the garage. It’s the reason people always ask, “Do you have a bathroom?”

No, we don’t. The garage was worth the trade-off. Bathrooms can be found along the way; extra storage for our gear? Irreplaceable.

The walls are lined with essentials: crampons, an avalanche backpack, camera equipment, and the rest of our clothes squeezed into three oversized totes.

Outside, Trent and Charlie ran wild, their laughter and joy blending seamlessly with the rugged desert.

“Should we go explore?” I called out.

They didn’t wait for me to ask twice—they were back at the van before the words had fully escaped my lips.

“There are a few arches up the road,” I shared. “I bet they’re not as crowded as the ones in the park.”

We took a left out of the campsite, bouncing along the washboard road. Not long after, we had some unexpected company—and an answer to a mystery from the night before.

A lone black cow blocked our journey.

As we inched closer, she sauntered to the side, clearly recognizing us as the bigger beast. It explained the mountain of dung we’d spotted near the tree line the night before, which Trent had jokingly dubbed elk scat.

With the La Sal Mountains fading in our rearview mirror, we pressed on, carefully navigating the road, choosing each tire placement carefully to soften the bumps.

Thirty minutes to cover just a few miles.

“It’s just ahead on the right,” I said, catching sight of a coyote darting across the horizon, as if sensing his solitude was about to be interrupted.

We pulled into a secluded desert cul-de-sac, greeted by a familiar scene, only far more isolated. Rising roughly 40 feet above us was Balcony Arch. As far as the eye could see, not another soul was in sight.

“Should we camp here tonight?” Trent asked.

“It’s perfect,” I replied.

We parked perpendicular to the arch, setting up for views of the valley and the mountains. Another arch—Picture Frame—was nearby, so we decided to hike the mile up the road to see it.

Charlie, untethered and eager, raced ahead with unshakable confidence, as though she already knew the way.

As we approached, the trail welcomed us with a light blanket of snow, likely remnants of a recent storm, preserved in the shadows of the arch.

Charlie trotted off, searching for the perfect stick, while Trent and I remained rooted, gazing up in awe. To think of the forces that shaped such beauty—millions of years of wind, water, and ice gently sculpting the sandstone, carving delicate arches where the earth’s shifting core had left its cracks, whispering the slow artistry of time and erosion.

A spark ignited within us, and we headed back to our van, ready to tackle our first workout. I grabbed a 25-pound kettlebell while Trent strapped on his weighted vest. We kept it simple—squats, rows, push-ups, and bicep curls—before finishing with a 1-mile run around the dusty loop in front of our campsite.

Afterward, we mustered the courage to try out our outdoor shower, despite the lingering chill in the air.

“It’ll be quick,” I reassured, sweat collecting in the small of my back. “And we’ll feel so much better afterward.” Plus, we had hot water—how bad could it be?

We switched on the water heater and stood between the back doors, creating an impromptu bathing haven.

Having braved cold showers for months in quiet preparation for moments like this, I thought I could endure a few minutes. However, I didn’t anticipate the 20 mph winds that seemed to be trapped between the doors, whipping around me in wild, icy gusts.

There I stood, shivering in nothing but goosebumps, too impatient to wait for the water to warm, quickly lathering my thick brunette hair as the wind howled around me.

I grew up in a house of six with just one bathroom, so this shower felt like the familiar sprint. After the quick, brisk wash, I wrapped myself in a soft, light green microfiber towel, twisting my hair into a turban. Seeking warmth, I found a spot bathed in sunlight, grateful for its comfort.

Trent stepped up to the challenge next. Only by this time, the water was warm.

“Hey, this isn’t so bad,” He remarked. I rolled my eyes while simultaneously smiling. If one of us was getting the hot water, I’m glad it was him.

In the sun, it felt like the temperature was in the 50s, despite the chill of the 30s that lingered in the air. Wrapped in my towel, I basked in nature’s hair dryer, absorbed in the pages of my Kindle.

There was a liberating quality to being bare in the desert—one that I could easily grow accustomed to.

“Are we going to become nudists now?” Trent teased, rounding the corner, still drying off from his shower.

I chuckled, “Yeah, just add that to our resume of living in a van down by the river. No, but there’s something about feeling so alive.”

But the chill was starting to settle in. As I pulled the sliding door closed and began dressing, the distant hum of engines grew louder. It was late afternoon, and up until then, we’d yet to encounter anyone else.

“What’s that noise?” I asked.

“Probably just some dirt bikers,” Trent replied, glancing off toward the horizon while getting dressed. “I saw a few earlier.”

But this wasn’t just dirt bikers. And they weren’t in the distance anymore. A convoy of seven Utility Task Vehicles (UTVs) appeared, packed with vacationers, heading straight for Balcony Arch.

In no time, they pulled in right next to us. I scrambled to grab a shirt, ducking into the sparse privacy the van could offer without its window covers.

One of the men stepped out, immediately realizing they had disturbed our peaceful campsite. Meanwhile, the others busily snapped photos, oblivious to the disruption. Trent went to investigate.

“Sorry for coming up on you like this,” the man said. “We won’t be long.”

The man stuck to his word, leaving almost as quickly as they’d arrived, their stop nothing more than a brief photo op.

As the hum of their engines faded into the quiet of the desert, Trent and I erupted into laughter.

"Can you imagine?" I said, still laughing. "Five minutes earlier, they'd have a completely different story to tell."

After that, there were no more interruptions—just the three of us, wrapped in the peaceful silence of the desert, as the sunset wept into the earth, casting its warm hues over the dust.