Fire, Goblins, and a Dog Who Owns Canyons

Some trips stay with you. Not because everything went perfectly. Because the light was never quite right, the air smelled like cold stone, and your dog refused to come down from a rock shaped like a goblin.

This was our second New Year's road trip through the American Southwest. Same plan as the year before — rent an RV, point it toward Utah and Arizona, see what happens.

Valley of Fire, Nevada

We woke before sunrise.

The desert was silent. That deep silence you only get when there are no trees to catch the wind. Then the sun cracked the horizon and everything turned red. Not orange-red. Fire-red. The kind that made us forget we were going somewhere.

The rocks here are Aztec sandstone — 150 million years old, pushed up and carved by wind until they look like something a child drew. Waves frozen mid-curl. Fins. Arches. One formation locals call Piano Rock. We saw why immediately.

Alex climbed everything. That's just what he does.

One hollow in the rock face looked like something lived there once. Big. With wings. We called it the dragon's den and moved on quickly.

Jack — our schipperke — stood at the edge and stared into the distance like he owned the whole canyon. He probably thought he did.

Zion National Park, Utah

Zion is different in winter. No crowds. Snow on the canyon walls. The Virgin River running dark and fast below the trail.

We hiked Angels Landing.

The trail starts gently at the Grotto Trailhead, then pulls you into Refrigerator Canyon — a narrow, shady slot that earns its name. Then come Walter's Wiggles: 21 tight switchbacks blasted into the cliff in 1926 by Zion's first superintendent. Each turn a little steeper than the last.

We made it to Scout Lookout. And then we saw the chains and steps leading to the Hogsback — glazed in ice, every one of them. Between us, we had one pair of crampons. So we did the logical thing: I put one on my right leg, Alex put one on his left, and we looked at each other.

That was as far as we went.

We rested at the lookout, walked around, took in the view, and turned back. Some mountains win. That's fine too.

Coral Pink Sand Dunes, Utah

We weren't expecting pink. Not like this. Not slightly pinkish. Pink. Like someone spilled rose quartz across the desert floor. Jack was the only dark thing for miles.

The dunes are quiet — they absorb sound the way fresh snow does. We sank a little with each step. The sand is fine and warm even in December, and it gets into everything: shoes, camera bag, dog fur.

Jack made his feelings known.

Goblin Valley, Utah

Nothing prepared us for Goblin Valley.

We parked. Walked to the overlook. And below us — thousands of them. Squat mushroom-shaped sandstone figures, clustered together, each one slightly different, covering the entire valley floor. The light made them glow amber in the afternoon. The shadows made them look like they were moving.

We walked among them and felt small in the most wonderful way. Like we had stumbled into someone else's world.

Jack approved.

There was snow that day. Just enough to dust the orange rock white. The contrast was almost too much — like a painting that doesn't quite believe in itself.

Arches National Park, Utah

We overslept and missed the sunrise. The arch didn't seem to mind.

It's the longest natural arch in the world. 88 meters of sandstone suspended in the air, so thin in the middle it looks like it shouldn't exist. We stood under it and looked up and tried to understand what we were seeing.

We stopped for a rest on the rocks, then pushed on to Delicate Arch as the light started to go.

There's no warning. The trail curves, the rock falls away, and suddenly you're standing at the edge of a curved sandstone bowl.

We didn't say anything. Just stood there in the cold air, feeling like we got lucky to be exactly here, exactly now.

House on Fire Ruins, Mule Canyon, Arizona

We hiked into a side canyon with no signs, no crowds, no gift shop. Snow patched the trail in and out — enough to blur it, not enough to stop us. We followed the canyon, not the path. No footprints ahead of us. Just cold air, red walls, and silence. And then — there it is.

A thousand-year-old Ancestral Puebloan dwelling, built into the cliff face. The rock above it catches the midday light and ripples — orange, gold, red — so it looks like the whole thing is on fire. It lasts about twenty minutes, the right light. Then it's gone.

We sat there quietly. Some places earn that.

Lake Havasu, Arizona

And then, because the American Southwest contains multitudes — London Bridge.

The actual London Bridge. Sold by the City of London in 1967 and reassembled here, stone by stone, in the Arizona desert. It spans a channel of the Colorado River. It's completely absurd. We loved it.

Jack was unimpressed. He'd seen better arches.

Three thousand miles. Two people. One dog. One RV that smelled faintly of instant coffee.

The Southwest in winter is a different country from the Southwest in summer. Empty. Cold at night. The kind of quiet that makes you hear your own thoughts. Some mornings we were there for the light. Some mornings the light found us anyway.

We'll be back. We always are.

Route: Valley of Fire, NV → Zion NP, UT → Coral Pink Sand Dunes, UT → Goblin Valley, UT → Arches NP, UT → House on Fire Ruins, AZ → Lake Havasu, AZ