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Because Adam was sick and the heat was unbearable, we cut our vacation short. It wasn’t going well, and we had already seen so much. Obviously.

Our reward for listening to our guts was one last beautiful morning in Valley of Fire State Park, outside of Las Vegas, Nevada. There, we encountered a new, alien landscape. We encountered wildlife. And we ended the day encountering one last lovely sunset.

We only had time for one hike in the park, so we went with the highly rated loop that combined White Domes Loop and 7 Wonders Loop. When we got to the trailhead, we saw everyone headed for the Fire Wave in the 7 Wonders Loop, so we went the other way to experience White Domes on our own. The trail was slightly confusing to find because most people end their hike where we began. Once we found the trail markers and some semblance of a path, we headed out.

Eventually, we reached a junction that was once a movie set. We could take the trail to the right and climb up, or we could meander to the left and go through another slot canyon (our choice).

Once we reached the Fire Wave, we finally encountered many more people on the trail. The hike to the Fire Wave and back is probably the busiest part of the park.

And that’s because the rock face is so unique and picturesque.

We were hiking on Mars, or at least for this brief moment. It’s deceiving because there were people everywhere. We were patient and waited for others to move, making it look like we were alone.

The temperature continued to rise, so we filled our water, got in the van, and started the drive back home. We didn’t last long, though. Just down the road, we saw a harem of big horned sheep. I could tell they were going to cross right in front of us, so Adam turned down a side road, and I jumped out of the van with my camera.

They came closer than I expected (not as close as Monument Canyon), and I definitely took a few steps back after the male stared me down.

We left the state park to drive the eight hours to a parking spot at the Rifle rest area. We made a pit stop for some homemade mint chocolate chip ice cream and cheese curds at The Creamery in Beaver, Utah. And we listened to my beloved Iowa Hawkeyes beat our rival Nebraska to make it to the elite eight in the men’s college basketball tournament.

Then we stopped at the Thompson Welcome Center rest area to quickly make dinner. That’s when we encountered a nice sunset.

We made it to Rifle, then finished the last three hours of our drive home the next day. Good thing because halfway through the drive the next day, my throat got incredibly sore. And I ended up sick for the three days after we got back and the entire following week.

But all those views…

Cheers.

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We sat in the parking lot at Badwater Basin, looked at the national park newspaper, and figured out what we were going to do with the rest of the day. After the awful night’s sleep, we knew we couldn’t do another night in the park, despite plans to spend two more nights (and two and a half more days) in Death Valley. We picked out our “highlights” and got down to it.

We drove toward Artists Palette because it was close to Badwater Basin, it was the direction we were headed, and it didn’t involve hiking. On the drive, we watched the sun rise over the ridge and filter through the rocks. The sunlight exposed some beautiful colors we hadn’t yet seen in the park: the dark navy and pastel pinks of the rocks and the yellow wildflowers leftover from the super bloom.

Artists Palette is an area with various rock formations shaped by volcanic eruptions and hydrothermal activity approximately 5 to 23 million years ago. The area's rainbow colors result from various minerals reacting with water and oxygen over time. Iron oxidizes to create the hues of red, pink, and yellow; mica and chlorite produce the greens and blues; and manganese adds shades of purple and lavender.

From reading the newspaper, I knew we were going to see color in the rocks. Though the colors were pastel and muted because of the early morning light, they were more vibrant and striking than I expected.

The original plan was to drive the scenic loop in the evening, when the light is lower, but directly on the rocks. That will be saved for next time, especially now that I know how vibrant those colors will appear.

After stopping by our campsite to check out (and miraculously get our money back!), we stopped at Zabriskie Point, the most photographed vista in the park. This area was created when clay, mud, gravel, and ash from the nearby erupting Black Mountain volcano accumulated on a prehistoric lakebed. Long after the lake dried up, tectonic forces lifted the sediment, exposing an impermeable foundation. Because the clay minerals block water from soaking into the ground, when infrequent but torrential downpours hit the region, flash floods cascade down the slopes, carving out ravines, ridges, and the 823-foot peak of Manly Beacon.

Before fully leaving the park, we wanted to see Dante’s View. Similar to Keys View in JTNP, the area is at a higher elevation. We knew it would be cooler at the summit, so we could view Badwater Basin from above, eat lunch, and take a much needed nap without baking in 100+°F temps.

The view from above Badwater Basin was incredible. We had much more context for where we had walked this morning, where the shallow lake was located, how much salt was deposited in the valley, and the concept of a “sunken valley floor.”

It felt like we were at the edge of the world.

As we were getting ready to leave, I wanted one last glance at Badwater Basin. I looked over at Adam and saw the reflection in his sunglasses. I rotated him for the right angle, then took a snap. He may have made an annoyed sound when I took the picture, but he nodded his head once he saw the final image. Appropriate to end our day looking at the place where we had a weird, yet beautiful morning.

We then drove back to Las Vegas for cooler temperatures at our favorite dispersed camping site in Lovell Canyon.

I said back in my first newsletter in this series that this was the worst trip we’ve had in the van (so far). Ultimately, what we learned is that if it’s too hot, we just don’t go. We went to Death Valley because we are trying to visit every national park in the US, but we were both so enraptured that we’re thinking about going back again this year because there’s still more to see!

Cheers.

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We left Barstow with medicine in the van, drove to Death Valley National Park, then saw the temperature at the visitor’s center.

In MARCH?! Woof 🥵

At the time, Adam was miserable and hated everything, so the temperature did not help his mood. We got to our campsite, made a quick dinner, then sat in our camping chairs to watch the light fade and the shadows fill the grooves of the Amargosa Range. But really, we were just trying to cool off before bed.

After sunset, we got back in the van, changed into our PJs, and set the alarm for 5 am. We hoped to get some sleep so we could catch sunrise the next morning at Badwater Basin.

For the first time, since we’ve had the van, we slept with all of the doors and windows open. The air temperature wasn’t terrible, but the van soaked up the heat from the sun and wouldn’t cool off. We had a fan blowing on our faces, but it didn’t help either. The moment one of us would feel the pull of sleep, Adam started coughing, waking both of us up. We tossed and turned until we both fell asleep sometime after 11 pm.

But then, around 12:30 am, our campsite neighbor pulled into his site in a loud, lifted truck. He turned on his floodlights (conveniently shining into the back of our open van), turned up his music, unpacked, stoked a fire, and cooked some food… laughably one of the loudest people I’ve ever met in a silent campground after midnight. I was absolutely infuriated.

He finally figured out that everyone else was asleep sometime after 2 am, and Adam and I fell asleep again. But then we were awake again, not long after. That 5 am alarm? It was unnecessary. Adam said, “Do you want to get up and go?” I responded, “Why not. It’s not like we’re falling back asleep.” So we gathered the few fucks either of us had left and headed to Badwater Basin on maybe three hours of sleep.

If you’ve never been to Death Valley or heard of Badwater Basin, it’s the lowest point in North America. It was created roughly 3 million years ago when the Earth’s crust was pulled apart, and part of the land sank to form a sunken valley floor. During the last Ice Age, the sunken valley was submerged beneath a lake, and when the water eventually evaporated, it left behind minerals that formed a salt crust still present in the basin.

That’s the first thing I noticed - I wasn’t walking on sand, I was walking on salt. I admired the Panamint Range to the west as the sky shifted through a series of pastel blues, oranges, and pinks, and listened to my feet crunch the salt beneath them. As we walked farther out into the basin, the salt transitioned into a shallow pool, reflecting the mountains and the sky. It all felt surreal to be walking on water, especially after only three hours of sleep.

As the sun rose, we watched the mountains burn purple, a perfect reflection mirrored in the water below.

We later found out that there isn’t always this much water in the basin. We saw water in March 2026 because of a record-breaking, historic wet autumn in 2025. From September to November, strong storms brought 2.41 inches of rain to the area. Since Death Valley’s ground is hard and dry, the rainwater ran down into Badwater Basin, creating a shallow version of the ancient Lake Manly.

To add to the weirdness of the morning, we were obviously not alone. It was not as chaotic as jockeying for a spot for sunrise at Mesa Arch, nor was it as busy as sunrise at Delicate Arch. However, it was weird, y’all.

A fire dancer? Sure.

Half-naked models? Of course.

People milling about, also walking on water? Yep.

This dude, who walked out further than anyone else and “blocked” everyone’s shot by being in the center? You betcha.

At least I captured a beautiful shot of him.

Adam and I had a good laugh about it. All of these other people made for a more interesting sunrise experience. Or maybe we were just delirious.

When we walked back to the car, we looked up at the rock face above us. In the distance, we could see a white bar, but we had no idea what it was. From far away, it looked like a small building in the rock. It wasn’t until I edited the photo that I realized the sign marked sea level, giving us an interesting perspective on how far below sea level we were.

It was a beautifully weird morning.

We could feel tiredness creeping in, especially as the morning’s adrenaline wore off, so we took a beat in the van to make a plan for the next 12 hours of our time in Death Valley National Park. At least we had a great view while we were in the parking lot.

Cheers.

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The plan for our last day in Joshua Tree was to hike Ryan Mountain, a 3 mile round-trip hike with 1,050 feet of elevation gain. Adam was insistent, after walking the previous day, and because he hadn’t rolled his ankle while hiking, that he would be fine. I thought the elevation gain was worrisome, and I was nervous it would be a bit too hard. However, as with Wasson Peak, since we were at 4,408 feet, the hike was fine. Challenging but fun, with nice views along the trail. That’s why Adam wanted to hike Ryan Mountain anyway; he knew the views at the top would be a cool way to see the scale of JTNP.

I didn’t take many pictures on the way up. It was still a challenging hike, and I wanted a consistent pace to avoid stopping.

At the summit, there are sweeping views of the Wonderland of Rocks, Pinto Basin, Lost Horse Valley, and Queen Valley.

I’m grateful that we hiked early in the morning. We avoided most of the heat, and we were almost alone at the summit, which meant we had these views to ourselves. It was nice to see the scale of the national park. While we couldn’t see past the mountains to Cottonwood Campground, we could see the rock formation areas and how spread out they were. The park was so spread out that it felt isolating, the opposite feeling from the previous day’s very busy hike to Arch and Heart rocks.

Though tired, we were feeling well enough to go on another walk. We had passed Hall of Horrors the previous day, so we wanted to check out that area before leaving the park.

I appreciated seeing the variety of rock and Joshua tree compositions on the half-mile loop. One thing I noted throughout our hikes among the rocks at Barker Dam, Hidden Valley, and here at Hall of Horrors was the blue sky, very similar to Colorado's. JTNP and Colorado are two of the only places in the country with such blue skies due to a combination of high altitude, clean desert air, and low humidity.

Near the end of the walk, we saw a couple staring at the ground. Once we were closer to them, they pointed out this very vibrant lizard chilling in the sun. It was a colorful contrast to the stark desert surrounding it.

We also saw a couple of climbers. Similar to seeing the ice climbers at Wild Basin, it wasn’t shocking to see them there, but it was a fun surprise. Both Adam and I appreciate seeing athletes in action, especially when they do something incredible with their bodies that I would never do.

We left the national park and headed back to Barstow to pick up a package (and get more of that killer sushi from Stater Brothers grocery store). We also got Adam a sinus flush and medicine because his sore throat morphed into a sneezing, coughing, and clearing throat fit. Since I was feeling fine, we figured Adam had been exposed to someone at the F1 Experience. The poor guy made noise the entire drive to Barstow and Death Valley National Park. I could tell he just felt like shit.

Cheers.

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When we woke up the next morning, Adam rolled over and said, “We cannot hike 7.5 miles today.” I had anticipated this, and after Adam showed me his swollen ankle, we knew we had to figure out a different plan. This meant that the planned hike to Lost Palms Oasis was out of the question.

Luckily, we had picked up a national park newspaper the previous day at the visitor’s center, so we looked through the list of hikes to find short ones that were doable with Adam's ankle. Even though we had to pivot, we figured out a solid plan for the day.

Have you ever seen the movie The Fifth Element? Do you remember the character Ruby Rhod? It’s one of my favorite movies, and it’s appropriate that the theme of the day was how it was so “hot, hot, HOT!” We were lucky that we started out the day at a literal oasis in the middle of the desert.

Cottonwood Spring Oasis is located in the southern part of Joshua Tree National Park, about 7 miles from the park’s south entrance, and very close to the Cottonwood Campground, where we camped the previous night. There is not much located at the southern edge of JTNP, and the sole reason we camped at Cottonwood was because of the hike to Lost Palms Oasis, that we wanted to see the park’s largest group of fan palms. Even though we didn’t get the hike in, visiting Cottonwood Spring Oasis was a nice, cool distraction early in the morning.

The oasis is here because of the nearby San Andreas Fault. When the Earth’s plates move against each other, they crush the rock into a powdery layer that blocks groundwater, pushing it up through cracks to the surface. The oasis is home to the California Fan Palm, the only palm tree native to the Western United States. These palms, which can grow up to 75 feet tall, appeared around 1920, likely from seeds dropped by birds or coyotes. These palms survive in the desert because their roots pull water from the spring, and the layer of dead fronds around their trunks helps protect them from extreme heat and cold.

Not far into the oasis, there is a bench in the shade of the fan palms. I told Adam that I could have sat there in the shade all day, enjoying the warm breeze as I read a good book. Though the air was warm, it’s like Colorado - no humidity. Unfortunately, this was the last comfortable moment of the day.

Instead, we left the oasis and drove back north through the park, taking the same route we had driven the previous evening.

Because we weren’t in a rush, we could take all of the time in the world to stop at pull-offs along Pinto Basin Road. We saw a car stopped at Ocotillo Patch, with a family standing and staring at one of the ocotillo shrubs. Our curiosity got the best of us, so we also stopped to see what they were looking at. They pointed out a hummingbird flitting around the plant. I took a couple of snaps, but when I returned with my telephoto in hand, it flew off, of course.

Not far down the road was the Cholla Cactus Garden. The interpretive trail was closed, but there was room on the side of the road to pull off and take pictures of the cacti. Unlike many of the tourists who also pulled off the road, we did NOT walk through the cacti, knowing our feet could trample the delicate ecology of the area (it helps that we’ve learned this while hiking across the tundras in Colorado).

The Cholla Cactus Garden is in the Pinto Basin, the area of JTNP where the Mojave and Colorado Deserts meet. Unlike other parts of the basin, the sloped land, loose gravel, and rocky crevices help rain soak into the ground, providing the cholla cactus with the perfect mix of moisture and soil to grow. The cholla spreads by dropping its stem segments that ultimately take root nearby. Since these cholla segments are too heavy for the wind to move, the cacti form dense clusters, creating the Cholla Cactus Garden.

The garden was just incredible. As you navigate along Pinto Basin Road, you are driving through a desert with little vegetation. Then you drive up a bit in elevation and BAM, there are thousands of “teddy bear” cholla cacti on both sides of the road. Because it was still early in the morning, they were beautifully backlit or frontlit, depending on which side of the road you were on.

We also made a quick pit stop at the entrance for Stirrup Tank Road because Adam wanted to explore the little rocky area.

Then we stopped to hike 1.7 miles to Arch and Heart Rock with hundreds of other people (turns out, it’s one of the most popular hikes in the park). It was a nice, easy hike, but also a bit miserable with the scorching sun. The moment we were on the trail, we were both dripping sweat.

This picture of Arch Rock is deceiving. We had to wait for the perfect moment when no one was getting their picture taken under the arch. It’s strange, to me, that people want their picture taken with the “thing,” to show that they were there with it. Sure, Adam and I will take a selfie, but rarely close-up and even more rarely in front of other people’s pictures. No judgment… it’s just not my vibe. For me, I want the experience there. Even though I’m sharing my photography through this newsletter, it’s not always about me. I’m there, but I’m not the center. I want to share where I went and what it was like.

The rock along the trail is monzogranite, formed by the cooling and solidification of lava underground. The monzogranite at Joshua Tree is apparently known for its extreme abrasiveness. To me, the rocks looked smooth from a distance, but up close, I could see that they were pretty rough. They were so easy to walk on, but… when you are shimmying through these tight spots, I found that my knees were ripped up after the hike. Oops.

We got back to the van, soaked through, and feeling angry that it was so damn hot in March. I had prepared for this before the trip, and my research said to drive up to Keys View, 1,500 feet higher in elevation. The 30-minute drive was much needed because the air conditioning calmed both of us down.

At the summit, we made lunch, then took an afternoon van nap. It was about ten degrees cooler at the top, plus there was a nice breeze blowing through the van. When we woke up, Adam looked at me and said, “Man, this heat is killing my throat. It’s so sore.” Spoiler alert: it wasn’t the heat. But alas, we had a new area to explore, so we got out of the van and walked to the two overlooks.

From this vantage point, we could see North Palm Springs.

And from this vantage point, you could see Indio and Coachella. Two weeks after our visit, the valley was filled with 250,000 people there to see Sabrina Carpenter and Justin Bieber. Instead, Adam and I watched the Coachella music festival for free on YouTube.

After surviving the hottest part of the day, we drove to our campsite at Jumbo Rocks with a quick pitstop at Hidden Valley. The drive back down Keys View Road was awesome - so many Joshua trees, but not many places to stop and take pictures. So I did what I always do: I rolled down the window and shot while Adam drove.

The trail at Hidden Valley is worth a quick jaunt. Similar to Barker Dam, it’s worth hiking in the late afternoon: great light and smaller crowds.

Even though this day was all about the heat, it only got hotter from here.

Cheers.

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Our second day of spring break required us to drive a few hours south to Joshua Tree National Park. We made a pit stop slightly off the beaten path in Barstow, California, to stock up on supplies and water before isolating ourselves in the desert.

If you end up in Barstow and you're looking for a hot sushi spot, make sure you stop by Stater Brothers, a local grocery store there. We've had good luck with grocery store sushi, so we took a chance. Their sushi was very, very good and was certainly a highlight of this vacation (so nice, we got it twice).

We continued our drive south to the visitor’s center to start our time in the park. We wanted to get a map and a new fridge magnet, and I saw a really cool national park coloring book, so I bought that as well.

Finally, finally, we found ourselves at the Barker Dam trailhead. All along, I had planned on hiking Barker Dam after the long day’s drive because it's not really a hike; the trail is a flat, single loop that's only 1.1 miles. I'm so glad we took time on the trail not only to stretch our legs but also to enjoy the incredible late afternoon light.

Because it was late in the day, most people had already left the park. We appreciated that because the trail wasn’t busy. We had space to move around, slowing down our pace to match the still, heavy air. We took in our first sights of the park: the towering Joshua trees, the crisp blue skies, the yellowing granite boulders, and small desert flowers budding everywhere.

Halfway through the trail, we reached Barker Dam. It was originally built around 1900 to create a reliable water source for local livestock. We read about its history and how difficult it was to build the stone and cement dam; it took sixteen wagon trips to haul supplies from a nearby town. While the dam is no longer used for ranching, it is listed on the National Register of Historic Places and serves as a little oasis for wildlife.

I had so many questions about why there were so many Joshua trees compared to anywhere else, and where all of the boulders came from.

As we continued along the trail, we learned that Joshua trees are exclusive to the Mojave Desert because there’s only one pollinator: the yucca moth. And because both the Joshua tree and the moth have adapted to this area, neither can survive or reproduce outside of the Mojave Desert.

Then we learned that the massive boulders formed over 100 million years ago beneath the Earth’s surface, and that groundwater seeped into the Earth’s cracks, weathering the stone. Eventually, as the land uplifted and the overlying soil eroded, these boulder piles were exposed.

That’s insane, by the way.

Near the end of the loop, we saw a sign pointing out some American Indian petroglyphs. The history teacher in me was in awe of the rock art, but I questioned whether or not it was real. I read more later, learning that a 1950s Disney film crew painted over the petroglyphs to enhance them for the big screen. It’s not surprising that the rock art was vandalized. At the time, Joshua Tree was not a national park, and most people in the 1950s weren't concerned about preserving history. Disappointing, but not unexpected.

We finished the loop, got back in the van, and then drove through the heart of the park to our campsite. It’s hard to beat the memories of photographing this delightful sunset while listening to a live college basketball game on SiriusXM. At the time, my beloved Iowa Hawkeyes were playing Florida, a #1 seed in the annual college basketball tournament.

It was thrilling to shoot out the passenger window while the Hawkeyes TOOK DOWN a #1 seed. I don't often believe in my teams (glass half empty), and typically expect the worst, so it’s nice to have a fond memory that still brings a smile to my face.

It was a great day… until it wasn’t. We got to the campsite, made dinner, and cleaned the dishes. As Adam climbed out of the van to dump the dishwater, he misstepped and twisted his ankle. It was serious enough that we had to change plans the next day.

Cheers.

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For the next few weeks, you're going to travel along with us on our spring break 2026 trip. The plan was to spend 10 days on the road, starting in Las Vegas, Nevada, traveling through Joshua Tree National Park and Death Valley National Park, both in California, and then swinging back through Las Vegas on our way home. About a week before we left, the news reported on an incoming, unprecedented spring heat wave while we were about to visit the hottest place in North America. Because I typically walk through life with my glass half-empty, I hoped for the best on this trip. Adam, however, could not stop talking about his ominous feelings.

While you travel with us and look at the beautiful places we visited, keep in the back of your mind that this was the worst van trip we’ve had so far.

When we planned this trip, we knew it would be too far to get to Joshua Tree in those first couple of days. So we took a beat to find a location worthy of a visit that was also a little past the halfway point. That location turned out to be Las Vegas. As I've said before, Las Vegas is not a high-priority location for us to visit. After our three years in Kingman, Arizona, plus a number of visits since then, we really aren't interested in the city itself. But when we realized that Vegas was where we were going to end up, I told Adam I would gladly visit Red Rock Canyon again and do a couple of the hikes I had done back in February 2025.

Because the drive through the park is one-way, we followed the same route I had taken before. I knew I wanted to capture the Las Vegas strip with my telephoto lens, plus I really enjoyed the hike itself, so we started the morning at sunrise at the Calico Tanks trailhead. Unlike visiting on a Saturday in February, the parking lot was pretty full for a Saturday in March. I could already tell we would encounter far more people on the trail.

While it's not fun to pass people on the trail, I appreciated the opportunity to photograph them and show the scale of Red Rock Canyon.

I was excited to hike Calico Tanks again because I had such fond memories of the trail. It's fun to hike over slick rock from trail post to trail post, knowing there’s a nice payoff at the end. I did not take as many pictures as last time, but I didn't need more photographic evidence of the trail. I enjoyed the sights and sounds through my own senses, not through my camera lens.

We were lucky that a large chunk of the trail was in the shade. However, once the sun crested the canyon walls, it got hot very quickly.

I was eager to shoot the strip again, especially with my telephoto lens. However, as we stood looking at the view, I realized I hadn’t grabbed my Canon body, so poor Adam carried my heavy telephoto lens with no payoff. He just groaned, rolled his eyes, put the telephoto lens back, and grabbed a snack instead. We did talk about coming back the next morning, even earlier, to try to capture the strip at sunrise, but the heat absolutely destroyed me, and I chose to sleep in the next day.

When we arrived at the overlook, we were not the only ones there. A family was enjoying a little hiking brunch when one of the daughters headed for the rocks to our left. She was hoping to get a more elevated view of the strip. Once she yelled at her mom to join her, and I saw where she hiked to, I knew I had to snap some context.

While we climbed back down, there were so many people hiking in the opposite direction. We did run into a gaggle of young adults in their 20s, with one of the girls looking like she was struggling. When she saw me, she asked if it was worth it. I told her, “Yes, absolutely.” When she asked for advice, I really wanted to tell her she needed better hiking shoes. But instead, I told her to make sure she always had two points of contact on the rocks, and not to be afraid to sit down if needed.

We then drove the van to Icebox Canyon trailhead. The small parking lot was completely full, but we were lucky that someone had just finished their hike, got into their car, and hustled out of their spot. That allowed us to park and make breakfast before the hike.

My mistake, unfortunately. Eating eggs for breakfast before an extremely hot hike was a poor choice. They sat heavily in my stomach, constricting my diaphragm, breathing, and making me nauseous. I was absolutely miserable because I was hot and felt like shit, so we did not make it to the end. I was hoping that Adam could scramble and investigate the end of the trail, which I was unable to do by myself the last time I visited.

Little did I know that being frustrated at not making it to the end of the trail would be the least of my concerns on this trip.

Once we got back to the van, we needed to decide what to do for the rest of the day. I was quite overheated at this point, so I wanted to go to our campsite to rest and relax. Adam, however, wanted to do something else with the remainder of the day. We talked about going to Meow Wolf, but I really didn't feel like walking around too much, even if there would be air-conditioning. But ultimately, I was too hot to make any decisions. So Adam decided we would drive to the Strip and go to the F1 Experience instead. Did we have fun at the F1 experience? Yes. We got to see the paddock used by the F1 teams, some exhibits and F1 cars, and Adam got to race go-karts. However, as you will read in a later newsletter, it was not a good decision.

What went extremely well was finding dispersed camping in Lovell Canyon; it turned out to be one of the best decisions of the entire trip. The canyon is 30 minutes outside Las Vegas and is 2,000 feet higher in elevation than the city. Instead of 90°F, we made dinner and relaxed as the sun set at 80°F. When we woke up the next morning to leave, the van was 50°. And that was the last time we would see those temperatures until the very end of the trip.

Cheers.

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Just like when I visited the Art Institute of Chicago, I spent my 72 hours in New York City watching people go about their lives. As I photographed them, I kept noticing the same thing: we share more similarities than differences. I tried to use my camera to capture those shared moments.

When we’re alone in public, it feels like a special kind of gravity takes over. I noticed people seemed to disappear into themselves when they thought no one was watching. At the Met, I saw a woman moving around a painting with a careful rhythm, her whole body shifting as she studied the art. She was completely absorbed, taking in every detail. That’s how life often is; we get so caught up in what’s right in front of us that everything else fades away.

Just a few rooms away, I saw a man leaning against an overlook meant for a grand view, but he was totally focused on his phone instead. The contrast was funny, but the impulse was relatable. We all have this ability to tune everything out and create our own little bubble, even when the world is moving right next to us.

Even though each person’s focus was their own, the urge behind it felt universal. We often think our inner worlds are private, but the way we lean into a phone or tilt our heads to see a painting is something we all do. We’re all just trying to find something to focus on, making a small space for ourselves. Because they were so caught up in their own worlds, they didn’t notice me taking a quick photo of their lives.

When we’re not alone, our attention usually shifts to whoever is with us. I started to notice pairs of people, each acting as a buffer for the other.

I saw myself and Adam in almost every pair I noticed. It’s natural to want to connect with someone else. When you’re with your person, it’s easy to tune out the crowds because you’ve made a small world just for the two of you. You walk together and see things the same way.

After a while, I noticed that larger groups seemed to get lost in their surroundings.

This made everyone’s individual stories blend together, and our differences seemed to fade. In the end, we’re all just trying to make our way through a world that will be here long after us.

When you look at things this way, it’s easy to see how much we have in common. We walk the same streets, feel the same pressures, and look for small comforts along the way.

People really fascinate me. I loved photographing them as they lived their lives in New York City, because they’re what give the city its true meaning. Watching them reminds me that the most interesting part of any scene is the person trying to find their place in it. We’re all just moving through life alongside others doing the same thing.

Cheers.

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Sometimes, you just want to enjoy the view.

Cheers.

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Adam and I recently returned from a spring break trip out west, one you’ll get to see in a few weeks. While at home, I went back through these March 2026 New York City images and realized that I shoot architecture the same way that I shoot landscapes. I’m not documenting buildings as much as I’m looking for grand vistas, repeated patterns, and details hiding within. My eye has the same instinct, though sometimes on a different scale.

I found my first “vista” in Grand Central Station. I’d never been inside before, and it truly is a transportation hub with gorgeous architecture. When I took this picture, I looked over at Amber and said, “Well, I just learned that the clock at the beginning of SNL is modeled after Grand Central Station.” She just laughed, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen the actual clock to have that context. I also skipped on the opportunity to shoot the Pisces (my astrological sun sign) constellation on the ceiling because I said, “Ugh, there’s a stupid fucking balloon on the Pisces constellation.” I guess that was a bigger deal than I knew at the time.

One of the locations that Amber picked to visit was the New York City Public Library. My immediate family is a group of voracious readers (us three sisters regularly read at least 30 books a year), so Amber and I dragged Adam along with us to the most beautiful and extensive library that I’ve ever visited.

We walked inside a side entrance and met an employee at the door. She asked where we were headed, then mentioned that the Rose Room was open for visitors. If we were interested, we should go there before anywhere else. None of us had heard of the Rose Room, so we walked up the stairs to the third floor.

The Rose Main Reading Room is like any other library’s reading room. It’s a quiet place for patrons to research or study. What makes it different is the gilded, ornate architecture. If I were a resident, I’d spend one day a week in that room with a computer or a notebook because its beauty is so inspirational. The scale of the room is prodigious. I looked to its horizon, with the line of tables and lamps in a row, leading my eyes to the background, where the many windows produced a delicate, subdued light. I appreciated that it is a working library. While the tourists walked around them, the locals didn’t look up.

I’m still, STILL envious that I don’t have access to a building quite like this in Colorado Springs…

Even though I’d visited the Oculus Hub with Amber on our previous trip, I wanted to photograph it again with my “new” Sony. This time, when we visited, we took the subway to the Oculus stop. It was cool to come out underneath, rather than through one of the doors at the top. Coming up from underneath felt like emerging from a dark cave into soft, bright light. The morning light bounced off each of the white ribs, forcing my eyes to the ceiling, to the repeated, rhythmic line I often look for in nature, and to the scale and vastness of the place.

The Oculus Hub has been photographed far too much, but I wanted to see what I could do with my photographs now. With the Sony and a better understanding of how to edit light, I wanted a record of how I saw the space, just in case I never make it back to the city.

Adam wanted to see Trinity Church because of its history with Wall Street and, let’s be honest, because of National Treasure. Sometimes you want to visit a historic church because it’s there and you saw it in a movie.

Once inside, we sat down in a pew, and I slowly spent my time looking around, astonished. At times, I lifted my camera.

We left the hushed interior of Trinity Church and headed to the High Line. Moving from the inside of a church to the urban outside didn’t change the scale, as everything was still impressive. The High Line is a unique path through historical brick and ultra-modern glass architecture. When I’m on any trail, my eyes ping pong to everything around me. It was a nice change of pace to see buildings in the distance as though they were the mountains I was hiking toward.

One thing that caught me off guard was finding out that the Vessel was located at one end of the High Line. I remember hearing about it after visiting in 2018, plus I saw it on an episode of Project Runway. I wanted to see the Vessel, though it was not a priority. So it was a fun surprise to see a destination, a payoff at the end of the trail.

In that moment, I said, “Oh, the Vessel! There it is!”

Amber and Adam hadn’t heard of it, so we walked around it, appreciating its large size. I also liked the contrast between its orange color and the blue buildings surrounding it. Their complementary colors brought out the best in each other; both shiny and catching the light in different ways.

It’s so interesting to me that I didn’t realize until very recently that I shoot architecture the same way I shoot landscapes. Does it change anything that I now know this about myself? No. But I’m pleased that my eye is adaptable and consistent, and that awe doesn’t care if it’s looking at a 14,000-foot peak or a gilded library ceiling.

Cheers.

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It’s hard not to create a newsletter about art when we spent a large chunk of one day at The Met, which contains over two million objects. Similar to the Art Institute of Chicago, I tried to capture what stopped me: the art, the architecture, and the people (the latter two “coming soon”). I wanted to find a way to hold on to what mattered.

I liked how the bust was lit and framed with the art. The painting was much larger in person and was one of the first pieces I noticed.

The three of us stood in front of this painting for a bit. The woman in the painting reminded me of Jane from Pride and Prejudice. Amber pointed out the broken window pane, and I realized I could line up my camera with the woman’s eyeline. It’s a soft-focus shot, but it felt like we were catching her mid-thought.

Amber saw this painting and said, “We know who this is.” I hadn’t realized there was a Grant Wood (from Iowa) painting in The Met. That feels “big time” for a small Iowa artist.

It was ironic that I captured both Hamilton’s official portrait and his grave without knowing that either was located in the city. This image was in the American History textbook that I used in my classroom.

I framed this statue with these images because they looked great together. However, I mostly wanted to capture Frederic Edwin Church's paintings because they were very large and just absolutely gorgeous. They’re my kind of landscapes.

Adam read the placard for this image and noted that it shows people picnicking on Vermont’s largest mountain, that the man is holding a watch to imply the late hour, and that they had to return to the base. I, however, imagined that both women looked incredibly bored with the man “man-splaining” something to them.

I’ve always loved Van Gogh’s work, and I liked the symmetry of the three paintings together. I ended up buying a teacup with his Irises painting on it from The Met gift shop.

Like Hamilton’s portrait, this portrait of Columbus was also in our American History textbook. We were walking quickly through some galleries on our way out when Amber glimpsed it and said, “Look, Columbus.” I stopped and went back because I couldn’t believe that the original painting was here in The Met, that I got to see it with my own eyes.

The Met has a musical instrument gallery with over 5,000 instruments. It was a gallery we purposefully visited because both Amber and I both played piano and french horn, while Adam played trombone.

This glass exhibit was at the entrance to the musical instrument gallery. I really liked the composition and thought that removing the color stripped the image of distraction. It’s all about the light, shadow, and shine of the instruments.

Amber saw this symmetry at the same time as I - I lifted my camera while she lifted her phone, then we had a laugh about how we often have the same photographic eye.

It wasn’t until I researched the chairs that I found out the wall was art as well. The curve of the doorway and the wallpaper were interesting to look at, especially when composed with the 18th century chairs in the center.

The large windows in this gallery were beautiful. The sculpture lighting paired nicely with the dull morning light from the drizzle outside.

One of the most famous pieces of art in The Met.

I felt the same way about this gallery area, that the large windows created beautiful light for the statues. The gold of Diana gleamed above all of the other statues, so I framed it with the windows and the stained glass window from Tiffany Studios.

On a separate day, we headed to the High Line. It’s an elevated “rail to trail” park, and it felt like the city’s version of a gallery. There, the enormous murals compete with the architecture for your attention.

Every one of these pieces stopped me for a different reason. I’m curious... did any of the art stop you and make you take notice?

Cheers.

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If you have followed my newsletter for a while, you'll know that, though I love cities, I don’t feel compelled to seek them out. When I travel, I prefer to immerse myself in nature. However, my sister mentioned that Tom Felton, the original Draco Malfoy from the Harry Potter films, was going to be on Broadway in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. Amber and I had spent an arm and a leg to see the original cast on Broadway in 2018, and I truly thought in that moment that I would never visit New York City again. It just wasn't for me. But then Amber and I traveled back to New York City in March 2026 to see Cursed Child again. This time, Adam came with us. We were only in the city for 72 hours, so we wanted to make the most of it. The three of us each picked different activities beyond the play, which led to an eclectic and genuinely fun trip.

I was a classroom teacher for 17 years, and for eight of those years, I taught history. Looking back at my images, I realized I had connected with historical locations across the city. New York City is such a modern, metropolitan city in the United States, but it's also one of the oldest. This trip was the “big city” field trip I never got as a kid growing up in Iowa.

Adam thought that we should try to see a couple of museums while in town and mentioned checking out The Met. In all of the times Amber had been to NYC, she hadn’t been to this museum. The Met was one of our first stops, and we walked in knowing almost nothing about it. The only museum I could compare it to, with my own personal context, was the Art Institute of Chicago. And now that I’ve visited, the comparison no longer holds. The Met is the largest museum in the United States, and it’s a repository of history. This museum was made for me - full of absolute “whoa” moments.

Medieval armor so rare that most historians only read about it. The collection was in a two-story room with glass exhibits and a centerpiece of four knights and horses in medieval armor.

An actual Egyptian temple completed before the birth of Christ. The scale of the temple area was improbable, with its high ceilings, massive windows, and beautiful light.

A fifty-two foot tall choir screen from a Spanish cathedral. The windows and light bounced off the gilded screen. It was excess and spectacle in equal measure.

A French room frozen in 1720. The Met rebuilt several French hotel rooms in their entirety. Theatrical and strange, they dropped us directly in the 18th century.

I saw what I taught for many years.

Adam wanted to visit the 9/11 Memorial to see it once. We did not visit the museum (not enough time), but we did walk around it. 9/11 is our “Millennial Pearl Harbor.” All three of us remember exactly where we were when we heard. Last time we visited, I did not see any flowers. On this trip, I did see a rose next to Claude Daniel Richards’ name. I always thought families could leave roses in remembrance. I looked it up later and discovered the roses are placed there to mark each person’s birthday.

We stopped by the “Survivor Tree,” a pear tree that crews found badly damaged amid the Twin Towers rubble. The NYC Parks and Rec Department moved the tree and nursed it back to health. It is often the first tree to bloom each spring, and when we were there, it was just starting to bud.

We ended up at St. Paul’s Chapel by accident. As we walked towards Trinity Church, I saw a gorgeous, historical building from the street. Once we realized it was open and that we could do a quick tour, we made our way inside and heard an organist practicing scales. That forced us to take a longer beat inside than expected because we wanted to hear a song, to hear the full power of the organ music in the chapel. The chapel is intimate, so the deep organ notes reverberated off the walls and through your body.

With that extra time, we walked around, and that’s where I learned the history of this building. This was George Washington’s church when he was the first president of the United States. The church was also used as a staging area on 9/11. I felt a weight on my chest, one that took a second to understand. When I stand in a historical place, I’m reminded that I’m alive, I matter, and I am a witness to something larger than myself.

We then walked around the graveyard to look at the historical gravestones. To our complete surprise, Alexander Hamilton is buried here. To Hamilton’s left sits an extended stay hotel. To his right, One World Trade. History is concealed among modern convenience.

We visited Stone Street because Adam had heard about it online. It is one of the first streets in the United States, founded in 1685. I was surprised that it was deserted that Wednesday afternoon. The empty street gave us room to peek into the shop windows and admire the skyscrapers, though we mostly stared at our feet as we tripped across the uneven cobblestones.

We also visited the Museum of Natural History because one, Amber was a biology major, so natural history is very much her jam. Second, I'm always down to see dinosaur bones, especially after visiting Dinosaur National Monument last summer. Plus, you know, I love history. We had a very short window at the museum.

I spent seventeen years trying to make history feel real for students. In 72 hours, New York handed me a physical version of my curriculum. I'm still processing it, and there's stil lmuch more to show you.

Cheers.

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After the morning in Estes Park and the hike to Hidden Falls, we went to spend the evening in Fort Collins. The next morning, the in-laws went to church, and Adam went on a bike ride, so I had to figure out what to do. I wasn't looking for anything too crazy or challenging - I just wanted time to myself. I scoured Google Maps and selected the trail around the Riverbend Ponds area and the historical Strauss house.

When I got to the trailhead, I noticed the clouds in the sky cast a soft, pastel light. I chose to walk slowly. I wanted to see what caught my eye and to embrace the creativity of finding beauty in the ordinary.

The first thing that caught my eye was the ombre effect between the dark roots and the light stems of the sagebrush along the trail. I kept trying to create compositions of the plants, but I didn't exactly like what I was seeing. Then I noticed a lenticular cloud stacked like a slow wave. Lining them up together finally gave me my shot.

No one was pushing me to a different pace. There was no summit, no destination, no payoff.

Further along the trail, I noticed a gaggle of geese on the ponds. Fort Collins is known for its large population of Canadian geese. Some might say that it's the official city bird. One thing I love about geese, which I also love about ducks, is how they dive down to pick up snacks from the bottom of ponds. It always makes me laugh to see their wagging butts hanging out of the water.

Another section of the ponds was marshy, with a lot of dry grass around. I noticed a side trail went through the grass, so I followed it to see where it led. The grass was significantly taller than I expected, so it almost felt like a scene from the movie Gladiator, where I could brush my hands along the wheat.

A family had been walking behind me, and as I turned to look back, I realized how completely the grass had swallowed them. Only their heads were visible above the stalks. I had just walked that same path and hadn't felt small at all. Yet from the outside, apparently, we all disappear into it.

This Sunday morning was very quiet and still, warm enough to surprise me with the lack of wind. I stood there looking at the geometry of the winter trees, the varying shades of the blue sky, and the mirror-like reflections.

Once I finished the short two mile loop, I drove to a separate trailhead to see the historical Strauss cabin. When I got to the ruins, I looked to the west. From Strauss’s front porch, Mount Meeker and Longs Peak rose on the western horizon, the same peaks we'd stood beneath the day before in Estes Park. In that moment, I thought about the pioneers seeing this same view 150 years ago.

I read the placard about George Strauss, the owner of this frontier cabin (the second oldest building in Fort Collins), who died in a flash flood of the Cache la Poudre River. The cabin survived the flood and was renovated in 1997. However, in 1999, three teenage boys set fire to the historic cabin, leaving only the stone addition. The cabin had lasted over a hundred years, but what got me was that it was destroyed by humans in a moment of stupidity.

Though I was alone, I wasn't lonely. It turns out, spending time with a pond, trees, and some geese was exactly enough.

Cheers.

I relished the contrast between light and dark, the deep shadows cast by the afternoon winter sun. I listened to the wind, gusting, roaring through the tops of the trees. It shook the previous night’s snowfall from the needles, blowing the snow onto us like glitter from the sky. I knew I couldn’t capture it on camera, so I stopped a couple of times and let my eyes commit the view to memory. The wind shook the base of the trees. The weakest lodgepole pines swayed and creaked dangerously. I felt the bite of the cold on my cheeks, though they thawed when kissed by the high elevation sun.

Colorado is in a severe drought at the moment. We have record-low snowpack, so despite there being snow on the ground in February, there wasn’t nearly as much as there should be. Down in Colorado Springs, the temperature has been hovering in the 50s and 60s, the ground is extremely bare, and the top of Pikes Peak is missing its toupée.

The in-laws mentioned that the trail's turnaround point is a waterfall that freezes in the winter, and that ice climbers sometimes take advantage of the freeze. We heard their voices before we saw them as we approached the end of the trail. I put on my spikes once I spotted a climber through the trees.

I’d never seen ice climbing in real life. The movement was methodical. One hand driving a pick into the ice, then the corresponding foot, then the other side, slowly working their way up the wall like Spider-Man on a building.

The ice caught the afternoon light in two colors: orange where it bounced off the nearby rock, blue where it sat in shadow. Their voices were quiet, mostly. The occasional word of encouragement, a piece of advice, then silence again, punctuated only by the sharp crack of metal finding ice.

I sometimes feel challenged to express meaning in my newsletters and photographs. But on this particular hike, I didn’t feel anything more than a walk through the trees.

Cheers.

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A few weeks ago, Adam and I had an open weekend and decided to take a quick van getaway. We drove north, camped completely alone on some BLM land, then woke up the next day ready for a hike. The plan was to meet up with the in-laws later that afternoon, so we found ourselves with a few hours to wander in Estes Park, Colorado. That Saturday was a bluebird day - cool winter air with a warm sun, just nice enough that Chacos were somehow appropriate despite the light snow on the ground.

We drove north on Colorado State Road 7 until arriving at Saint Catherine’s Chapel on the Rock. There, in the shadow of Mount Meeker (13,911 feet), is a historic chapel built in 1935. William McPhee, a member of the Cathedral parish in Denver, often let the parish take children hiking and camping on his land. On one of these trips, some campers saw a shooting star that seemed to hit the ground. When they went to look for it, they found the rock that would later become the foundation of the chapel.

I’m not religious, but I cannot pass up photographing a church. I’ve wanted to stop here since the first time I saw it, and this morning was the perfect opportunity. I first wanted to capture the view of the church from the highway because the light was great, and Mount Meeker was snow-dusted (sadly not snow-covered). As I stood there, though, I couldn’t quite believe how beautiful the view was. It’s always inspiring to be around historic structures, but in this case, the chapel was built because someone felt something so overwhelming that they marked it with stone. Someone else felt what I was feeling in this moment: awe.

That became the theme of the day.

Both inside and out, the building’s stone was intriguing and eye-catching. I could see the intricate detail and the time and care necessary to build a church in the early 1900s. Inside, Adam and I sat in a pew and spent a few more moments taking it in: the strong Catholic incense, gilded tabernacle, dark wood, and damp-smelling stone.

We left the chapel and drove into Estes Park to the Stanley Hotel. Neither of us had been, so we wanted to see what the fuss was about. The hotel was completed in 1909, built to compete with the “fancy” hotels in the eastern United States, featuring electric lights, telephones, private bathrooms, and uniformed staff. You might have heard of the Stanley because Stephen King wrote The Shining after spending just one night in the hotel.

The hotel interior felt luxurious in that heavy, Gilded Age way: velvet, gold, and a piano tuned by John Philip Sousa. We wandered through the gift shop, read the wall signs about the hotel’s history, and found a coffee stand with delicious cookies. We passed a parlor, closed off with a sign noting it had originally been the women’s parlor. I stood there for a moment thinking about those women living separate lives that were luxurious and lonely in equal measure. The Stanley sits on the edge of Estes Park in a way that feels deliberately isolating. And for those women, it literally was.

We left the hotel, and there were the mountains. On this day, the sun lit up the facade, the shadows filled in the grooves, and the clouds dipped gracefully over the peaks. And then I thought how those 20th century women saw this view too. Whoever she was, whatever her name was, whatever constraints defined her life, she stood somewhere on this property and looked up at these peaks and felt awe. Just like me.

Awe is what happens when you (have the privilege to) feel something bigger than yourself, and you let it in. That’s the key. You have to be willing to set aside a piece of yourself, to make room for the emotion, the beauty, the understanding. I think growing up in the flat, green landscape of Iowa made me particularly vulnerable to it. The person looking up at those peaks is not quite the same person who drove away from the Midwest.

It was really nice to feel present for a moment. I think it’s because I felt like I chose the morning right. We weren’t in a hurry, nor was there anything urgent.

The whole point of being alive is to experience what it has to offer. On that morning, I let myself just be and enjoy the ride.

Cheers.

I appreciate that my parents still live in my childhood home, so I still have a physical anchor to a different time. Every year, I return to this space, and every year, the perspective shifts. I enjoy the visit, but the pull to stay has somewhat faded.

These images, however, are glimpses of that anchor. It will always be home.

This specific area is still, today, owned and managed by the Amana Society, a community rooted in a 19th-century communal German heritage. Despite the commune's dissolution in the 1930s, the ethics remain among the seven villages. The horizon is flat, but the landscape is stoic. It reflects the philosophy of the people in the Amanas, which is also representative of the entire area I grew up in.

Iowa winters are stark, cold, and biting. It’s not easy living, part of why I don’t want to live here anymore. But I’m still fascinated by the serenity of it. These aren’t my typical “pretty” pictures. I wanted a record of something I used to know, a landscape that feels old, worn, and maybe a bit forgotten.

Visiting has recently become a way to recalibrate. It’s the baseline I use to measure how much I’ve changed since I left. It’s a lovely place to visit, but it’s no longer the place I belong.

For those of you who moved away, have you hit that threshold yet? Does the anchor feel different once the math flips?

Cheers.

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Though I very much enjoyed the first hike we did in Colorado National Monument, it wasn't quite what I was looking for. Viewing the canyon from the rim was wonderful and extraordinary, but I wanted a lower elevation profile where I was walking among giants rather than looking down at them.

For the second hike of the van trip, Jen wanted to hike Mount Garfield (near Palisade). Though I was intrigued and knew it would be a short distance, I was not in shape for the massive elevation at that moment. Jen was willing to ride bikes with the guys, but then I mentioned I found a different hike in the monument, and it looked like this one was in the canyon itself. When I mentioned the name of the hike to Jen, she hadn't hiked the trail either, which cemented our plan to check it out.

At the trailhead, you can start the loop in either direction. Many AllTrails reviews suggested going counterclockwise to ascend the right side of the loop rather than descending it. At the fork, I noticed that the path to the right, through Wedding Canyon, was primitive. I better understood why it was primitive once I learned about the trail’s history. John Otto (of Otto’s Tub fame), the first superintendent of Colorado National Monument, built the section that winds through Wedding Canyon (where he got married) in the early 1900s. Walking the loop meant hiking the same paths Otto blasted with dynamite, evidenced by the single track that hugs the edges, has uncut stone steps, and unflinchingly puts you smack dab in nature.

Though Jen and I hadn't hiked together alone before, we fell into a steady rhythm, full of chatter, laughter, and tears. It's amazing to spend time with someone you don't know extremely well and build rapport so quickly. The further we got into the canyon, the deeper the conversation went. There’s something about the grind of a steep climb that breaks down your guard. We talked about everything on that hike, our families, our friends, our passions - we truly had a therapy session. With everything happening in the world around us, it was nice to touch grass and let go of some of those deep, uncomfortable emotions that we had both been feeling.

I often mention silence when talking about hikes, and this trail was no exception. Not everyone makes the loop; instead, they choose to stay on Monument Canyon Trail (the left side of the loop) for an out-and-back hike. I would imagine the Wedding Canyon trail's primitive nature scares a few people away. It was glorious to hike the narrow trail alone in the shade of the canyon walls (I was dripping with sweat from the steep sections). With such perfect light, we made many stops to take it all in. The quiet, when not chatting, was punctuated with many a “wow.”

As we hiked closer to Independence Monument, voices floated around us. We looked up towards the high western rim, likely near Otto’s Trail, and saw tiny specks. They were the overlook people, and we were now the “ghostly voices” they heard from below. To get their attention, Jen (lover of vagus nerve screaming) let out a loud “kaw kaw!” It didn't take long for them to respond in kind, which led to our laughter, followed by the echoes of their laughter. Jen let out one more “kaw kaw,” to which they responded, and once again, we all fell into a fit of giggles. It was a nice moment shared with strangers whose faces we never saw.

We reached the southernmost point of the trail, where Wedding Canyon meets Monument Canyon. There we were in the full blast of the sun, but we also saw a different perspective of the red rock we’d been circling.

Monument Canyon is well known for its local residents. We had spotted a herd of big horned sheep early in the hike, but they were far out in the distance. We were later surprised by a ram, much closer than that first herd.

As we continued on the trail, we realized there was a smaller herd less than 100 feet away. We watched the alpha chase away a younger ram from his harem, preventing us from hearing the crack of ram horns. Once the alpha made eye contact and slowly walked toward us without breaking eye contact (and breaking the “thumb rule”), we got a little nervous and continued our hike.

We were in a great mood after spotting the fauna. Even though we encountered far more people as we hiked down, we told everyone we saw that there were big horned sheep up ahead. Every person was so excited to hear that, and their enthusiasm was infectious. On a day centered around gratitude, finding that instant community with strangers felt like the best way to celebrate (American) Thanksgiving.

I really enjoyed the previous trail that we had hiked in the monument, but felt like this one was a winner. I will hike this trail again and encourage any of you who are visiting Grand Junction to do so as well.

Cheers.

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Back in April 2023, the Colorado National Monument played a trick on Adam and me. As I was framing a shot from the Ute Canyon overlook, we heard clear, distinct voices around us, yet we were alone. We soon realized the voices were drifting up from the canyon floor, hundreds of feet below. At that time, I wasn’t doing much hiking, so the interior of the canyon felt like a different, beautiful, inaccessible world.

In November 2025, after driving out of the fog, we ended up at the Liberty Cap trailhead in the Colorado National Monument. I’d found the route on AllTrails, promising a long, steady walk into Monument Canyon without the ridiculous elevation. I figured I’d be solo for this hike, but our travel partners, Jen and Eric, decided to tag along. Despite their ties to Grand Junction, they had never set foot on this trail.

We started the first few miles of the trail following the surface of a juniper-covered plateau while slowly going down in elevation. I noticed some of the trees had bluish juniper berries, so I picked one off and squished it between my fingers. I thought the smell was heavenly, so fresh and crisp. It gave me a flashback to the late 90s and my favorite Bath and Body Works scent, Juniper Breeze.

If we had been here on a Saturday in April, the canyon would have been humming with the background noise of high-season crowds. But on a Tuesday in November, the silence was expansive and steady because there was no one else on the trail. The only sounds heard were some birds and our own voices, with the occasional breeze blowing through the junipers. Though we were on the Liberty Cap trail, we would eventually veer off onto another trail to hike towards Otto’s Tub (or Bathtub), a viewpoint on top of the east rim of Monument Canyon made up of Entrada sandstone.

The trail led us onto the slickrock where, to our left and right, the earth fell away. We followed a narrow, exposed stone ridge. Though the drop-off felt close, you could dip down into a sandstone bowl to bypass the edge.

We paused there to take in the sheer scale of Monument Canyon, and to shed some of our outer layers. Though it was November and the air was cool, the sun was way too warm. I wouldn’t say that I was dripping sweat, but I was pretty close, surprising considering we were hiking downhill.

This was also the moment where the quiet ended. Jen, ever the free spirit, suggested we shout to “calm our vagus nerves.” Before I could even process the thought, she let out a feral, guttural scream that hit the opposite canyon walls. We stood in awe as we heard her voice echo, echo, echo, echo, bouncing off the red rock before finally fading into the depths.

Two years ago, I was the one listening to other hikers from above, but this time, we were the ones filling the canyon with voices.

It was absolutely gorgeous, these scenic views of Monument Canyon.

It was such a lovely hike, long enough to leave our legs tired, but thrilling enough that the conversation about it didn’t stop until after lunch.

Cheers.

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Back in November 2025, Adam and I needed to decide on our next vancation for Thanksgiving break. It had been four weeks since the trip out east, and we were still feeling exhausted from that drive. We kept waffling between various locations because getting to any of them felt like a chore. Then Adam mentioned driving to the western side of Colorado, to the Fruita/Grand Junction area. Adam could get in some rides in familiar territory, I had an excuse to visit the Colorado National Monument again, and it wasn’t that far from home, so it felt like an easy trip.

We camped for a few days at an area state park, waking up one morning to thick fog. Because it was November, there were very few people camping with us, so the fog was quiet and a bit eerie. Think “The Mist” - I half-expected something to jump out at me from nowhere. Instead, I braved the potential horror film ending. I grabbed my camera, put my winter jacket over my PJs, and walked a 100-foot radius around the van.

As I walked around, different parts of the park materialized from the gray. There was no wind, no birds, and no people, so it almost felt like time stopped. The world was frozen, with only me to witness it.

This mini-adventure was heightened by my senses. The quiet dampened my ears, and I realized I could only hear my heartbeat and my breath. I could smell the cold earth, first frozen, then slowly thawing. My eyes caught the flora, dripping as the frost melted, and I moved hesitantly to avoid disturbing the elements.