days 84-91—etchings in time

The road ahead blurs into the sunset, the wind tugging at the van like it has somewhere in mind, even if we don’t. With every mile, I wonder: Are we capturing these landscapes only in memory while time and humanity chip away at them?

We head south, tracing the lifelines of the Navajo Nation. First stop: Monument Valley, where colossal red buttes and towering mesas rise from the desert floor, whispering timeless stories of wind, stone, and the people who deem it sacred.

Though we were only passing through, its presence lingered—the valley’s beauty stuck with us like sand on skin. A bittersweet reminder of what has endured for centuries, and what could so easily be lost.

Two hours west, we arrived at Antelope Canyon. Tickets in hand, we were met with the landmark’s reality: a crowded parking lot full of people chasing the same curiosity. It was hard not to feel like just another tourist in line, funneled in and out of nature’s masterpiece on a schedule. We all wanted to experience something profound, yet in our numbers, we seemed to erode the very thing we came to admire.

But we knew better than to trust its surface. Beneath it, the canyon’s promise awaited.

As we descended the metal staircases, we breathed in the dry, sun-warmed scent—earthy, ancient, with whispers of sandstone dust caught in the breeze. Despite the crowd, we were entranced by its narrow walls twisted in waves of red and orange, sunlight spilling through crevices like a blank canvas.

“Can you believe this?” I whispered to Trent, eyes wide and fixed upward at a point in the rock that mirrored a couple caught in a kiss.

“It’s unreal,” he murmured back, his voice full of awe.

And it was. Yet wonder and unease tangled within me. These places, once sacred, now felt curated—packaged for mass consumption. I couldn’t shake the thought: even preservation comes at a cost. What does it mean to protect something if, in doing so, we strip it of its wildness?

Not far from the canyon, we found another marvel carved by time, where desert and water meet in a soft embrace. Lone Rock Beach—an apt name for its solitude—stretches along the edge of Lake Powell, its form, once submerged, now exposed, a monument to the transience of land and memory.

Despite the brisk temperature, we swam in the vibrant turquoise waters, tempting time to stand still. The lake, calm and inviting, felt like both an escape and a reminder of the unseen forces beneath its surface—the currents that shape everything we see, and everything we fail to understand.

We were content to stay there longer than planned—the beachfront camping hard to beat. While we ventured to explore other tourist hotspots like Horseshoe Bend, we found ourselves more drawn to the quieter, lesser-known White Pocket, where we once again immersed ourselves in otherworldly rock formations, similar to the Bentonite Hills near Capitol Reef.

The days passed, and the places we visited became more than just deposits into our memory bank. We shared quiet moments by the water, reflecting on the vastness of what we were seeing and how giddy we were for what was still in store. While lost in thought, Trent’s hand would find mine, and I’d be reminded that worrying can only steal the joy of the present.

We couldn’t pass through this area without heading a little further south to visit the Grand Canyon. Standing at its edge, we were swallowed by its vastness—and, well, by hundreds of others who, too, had found themselves on the south rim trail at the end of March.

The canyon’s layered rock formations, carved over millions of years by the Colorado River, stretched before us. The light shifted across the landscape, turning the colors from muted browns to fiery hues, contrasted against the clear blue sky.

But beneath the grandeur, a thought lingered—we wondered if the crowds weren’t just a result of yet another spring break, but a sign that others, too, felt the weight of the threats to these iconic landscapes. Maybe, like us, they came seeking something fleeting, something that may not exist in the same way decades from now.

With camera in hand, we wandered the rugged landscape, tracing cracks that led to hidden corners of beauty—not just to preserve them, but to capture emotions as ephemeral as they were.

In these places, I feel both small and vast. We came as wanderers, passing through, but maybe we left as something more.

Yet, I wonder: Is witnessing them enough? Does admiring something mean we are absolved of our impact on it?

In this impermanence lies our responsibility—not as exploiters of the land, but as its stewards. What will we leave behind? What will these places remember when we’re gone?

For their sake, I hope they remember nothing but their beauty that never belonged to us.

“This—this is what I want to hold onto,” Trent shared as we sat by the lake, the last rays of sunlight casting long shadows over the water.

I smiled, squeezing his hand. “Me too.”