A Different Kind of Mountains

Growing up in the Pacific Northwest, I always expected mountain ranges to be dominated by jagged peaks or dormant volcanoes. Arizona’s White Mountains overturned those expectations. Instead of alpine spires, I found a broad volcanic plateau of forests, lakes, rivers, meadows, and open space. The White Mountains occupy the eastern end of the Mogollon Rim, the great escarpment marking the southern edge of the Colorado Plateau.

Having trouble viewing this email? Read it in your browser here.

The White Mountains are nothing like the San Francisco Peaks of Northern Arizona, yet they are equally magnificent. Their beauty is quieter, but no less remarkable. Rather than dramatic summits, the White Mountains offer sweeping vistas, expansive grasslands, crystal-clear lakes, winding rivers, and some of the largest ponderosa pine forests in North America.

One of my biggest surprises was water. Lakes, rivers, and wetlands seemed to be everywhere. I couldn't understand why the White Mountains felt so much greener than the forests surrounding the San Francisco Peaks in northern Arizona. After all, both are mountainous landscapes that receive winter snow and summer monsoon rains.

Then I had one of those “aha” moments.

The difference is one of topography and scale. Rather than concentrating their high elevations into a handful of mountain peaks, the White Mountains spread high country across more than 5,000 square miles of broad volcanic uplands. Winter snow blankets this vast landscape, and as it slowly melts, the water feeds springs, wetlands, lakes, streams, and rivers that flow far beyond the mountains themselves. Summer monsoon rains replenish the system, creating one of Arizona's most important mountain watersheds, supplying rivers that sustain ecosystems, agriculture, and communities far beyond the mountains themselves.

I was thrilled to see the Little Colorado River near Greer for the first time. It was difficult to imagine that such a modest stream would eventually join other small rivers and creeks to become one of the great river systems of the American West.

Water shapes nearly every aspect of life in the White Mountains. It sustains forests, meadows, wildflowers, and the remarkable diversity of wildlife that calls this landscape home.

High elevation meadows stretched between forests of ponderosa pine. Lakes filled shallow basins. Wildflowers carpeted open hillsides. Everywhere I looked there was evidence of a thriving mountain ecosystem.

One morning north of Greer I rounded a bend and saw a family of Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep calmly grazing beneath towering ponderosa pines. I had always associated bighorn sheep with desert cliffs or high alpine meadows. Seeing them feeding peacefully in a mountain forest completely changed that perception.

Near Alpine, in Apache County, the headwaters of the San Francisco River begin their long journey east into New Mexico before bending south and returning to Arizona, where the river eventually joins the Gila River near Clifton. The grassy meadows along the river are a perfect feeding ground for Rocky Mountain Elk.

Hannagan Meadow – Arizona’s Quiet Corner

My journey eventually carried me east to Hannagan Meadow in Greenlee County, Arizona’s least populous county where the wildlife might outnumber the people.

The remoteness was immediately apparent.

The only sounds were the wind moving through the grasses, distant thunder from building monsoon clouds, and the occasional call of a raven.

There were no towns nearby, no dependable cell service, and very little reminder of the modern world. Each morning began beneath brilliant blue skies before afternoon monsoon clouds gathered above the surrounding hillsides. Tall grasses waved across the meadow while aspens reached upward to compete with mature ponderosa pines. Mule deer emerged each evening to graze, and butterflies drifted among the summer wildflowers.

Somewhere along the way, the White Mountains taught me to slow down and simply observe.

A Forest in Transition

Then the landscape changed.

South of Hannagan Meadow, along the Coronado Trail, blackened trunks stood across entire hillsides, silent reminders of past wildfires. At first the damage seemed overwhelming.

But the longer I looked, the more I realized I wasn’t witnessing the end of a forest.

I was witnessing its transformation.

Standing among the fire-killed ponderosa pines, I expected to see a forest defined by loss. Instead, I found one in transition, a quiet reminder that nature is never static. Thousands of young aspens had already reclaimed the hillside, their underground root systems surviving the fire and sending up thousands of new shoots while many conifers must begin again from seed.

Every forest responds differently to fire. Climate, soils, elevation, and the severity of a fire all influence what comes next. In the White Mountains, I found a landscape where renewal was already well underway.

Reflections

The White Mountains surprised me in almost every way.

I came expecting rugged alpine scenery. Instead, I discovered a high-elevation volcanic landscape shaped by water, broad meadows, abundant wildlife, and forests continually changing.

The scars of wildfire remain visible, but they are only one chapter of the story. Meadows glow with summer wildflowers, butterflies drift from blossom to blossom, elk graze along quiet streams, and young aspens continue to spread, sending up new shoots across the mountainsides.

The White Mountains reminded me that while fire changes a landscape forever, it rarely has the final word. Every photograph captures a single moment in time, but nature is never finished. Forests continue changing, rivers keep flowing, wildflowers bloom, and wildlife return, each becoming part of the next chapter in a story that is still being written.

See Jeff’s previous articles at the Substack Archive.

See more of Jeff’s work at Jeff Goulden Photography.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

The Grand Idea

My friend and hiking partner Art had this grand idea. “Why don’t we hike across the Grand Canyon?”. This was in 1974. I had never been to the Grand Canyon. Or even to Arizona for that matter. All I knew about the Grand Canyon was what I had read in Sunset Magazine and seen in Sierra Club calendars. It looked beautiful but I knew nothing about hiking in the desert of the American Southwest. Art and I had done a lot of hiking, backpacking and mountain climbing together in the Pacific Northwest including a 1972 ascent of Mount Rainier and a traverse of the Olympic Mountain Range. We were pretty confident in our abilities. I readily agreed to Art’s plan. “Sure, why not?” I responded. How hard could a walk across the Grand Canyon be? At the time, I don’t think that either of us quite grasped the significance of what we were about to do. As it turned out, it was hard. Very hard!

Having trouble viewing this email? Read it in your browser here.

Today, the hike from one rim of the Grand Canyon to the other is commonly known as “Rim to Rim” or simply “R2R.” The route covers roughly 24 miles one way, depending on the trails used, and involves nearly 10,000 feet of elevation loss and gain. Art and I planned to do “Rim to Rim to Rim” — hiking from the South Rim to the North Rim and then turning around and hiking all the way back. Naively, we had made no transportation arrangements to take us back from the North Rim.

It seemed reasonable at the time.

Backpacking technology in 1974 was a long way from the lightweight gear of today. Art and I carried heavy external-frame packs with a loaded weight close to fifty pounds. Our boots were sturdy leather climbing boots designed more for support than comfort. We carried bulky sleeping bags, metal cooking gear, heavy climbing headlamps powered by large batteries, and enough food to survive in the Canyon for several days. Being from Washington State, where it can rain any day of the year, we also carried a tent and rain gear.

First Impressions of Arizona

On May 4, 1974, Art and I boarded a Hughes Airwest flight to Las Vegas. After arriving at McCarran Field, we transferred to a Douglas DC-9 bound for the small Grand Canyon Airport. As the plane circled before landing, the runway looked impossibly short. Somehow, we survived the landing and then located the shuttle bus bound for the canyon. In those days there was a 50-cent entrance fee to get into the park. Our driver announced that international visitors were “guests of the United States” and didn’t have to pay the entrance fee. The bus took us to the South Rim campground where we spent the night before beginning our hike.

The next morning, I stepped out of the tent and found frost on the ground.

“Art,” I remember saying, “I thought Arizona was supposed to be hot.”

What I did not yet understand was that the South Rim sits at nearly 7,000 feet above sea level. Spring mornings there can feel more like the mountains of Colorado than the deserts of Arizona. The temperature would climb toward one hundred degrees deep inside the Canyon, but at sunrise on the South Rim the air was cold enough to numb our hands.

After breakfast, we picked up our backcountry permit and caught a taxi to the South Kaibab Trailhead near Yaki Point. A cool breeze swept across the rim as we shouldered our oversized packs and began walking downhill into the Canyon.

Into the Canyon

At first the descent seemed deceptively easy. Gravity was on our side and the trail dropped steadily toward the Colorado River far below. Douglas fir trees clung to the upper slopes, reminding us briefly of home in the Pacific Northwest. Art later wrote that it felt strange seeing lizards darting among trees that looked like they belonged in Washington State.

As we descended farther, the scale of the Canyon slowly revealed itself. Layer upon layer of red and orange cliffs stretched into the distance beneath an impossibly blue sky. Art was reminded of Dvorak’s New World Symphony, writing later that the music’s sweeping final movement seemed to match the immensity surrounding us.

The farther down we went, the hotter it became.

Our knees began to ache from the endless downhill pounding and our oversized packs suddenly felt much heavier. Somewhere along the trail we stepped aside to rest in the shade while staring down at the Colorado River, glowing green far below us.

That was when Art’s hat took flight.

A gust of wind lifted his red felt hat off his head and sent it tumbling down a scree slope. To my annoyance, Art immediately scrambled off in pursuit of it while I stood above watching him disappear among the rocks in the growing heat. I was slightly annoyed. At the time, I guess I didn’t realize how attached Art was to that hat.

Fortunately for Art, he eventually recovered his distinctive red felt hat. Any hat is essential protection from the Arizona sun.

By midafternoon we finally reached the bottom of the Canyon and crossed the Colorado River on the narrow suspension bridge now known as Black Bridge. After seven long downhill miles, we arrived at Bright Angel Campground exhausted, dusty, and overheated. We pulled off our boots and soaked our aching feet in Bright Angel Creek while the canyon walls radiated heat around us.

Art noted the temperature that afternoon: 96 degrees.

It was our first day in the Grand Canyon, and already we understood that this place played by its own rules.

The Box

Art had ambitious plans for the next morning. He wanted to be on the trail by 6:00 A.M. to avoid the worst of the Canyon heat.

We finally staggered out of camp around 8:00.

That delay turned out to be a mistake.

The hike from Bright Angel Campground to Cottonwood Camp is only about seven miles, but in the Grand Canyon mileage can be deceptive. The trail follows Bright Angel Creek northward through a narrowing gorge known as “The Box,” where dark canyon walls trap the rising heat like an enormous stone furnace.

By midmorning the temperature was climbing rapidly.

Coming from the cool, damp climate of western Washington, Art and I were completely unprepared for hiking in desert conditions. Water disappeared from our bodies almost as quickly as we could drink it. Our heavy packs rubbed against sweat-soaked shirts while heat radiated upward from the trail beneath our boots.

Yet despite the discomfort, the Canyon had moments of astonishing beauty.

Years later, one passage from Art’s journal still captures that morning better than anything I could write myself:

“There is an odd sensation at such times, of being lost within a world that has never known time, of feeling each moment as it meanders through space.”

As we moved farther up Bright Angel Creek, the landscape slowly changed. The harsh rock walls opened into a broader desert valley dotted with cottonwoods and patches of green vegetation nourished by water flowing down from the North Rim. The contrast between life along the creek and the dry canyon slopes beyond was remarkable.

By the time we finally reached Cottonwood Camp at 2:30 that afternoon, we were overheated, exhausted, and thoroughly humbled by the Canyon.

We cooled ourselves in the creek and rested in the shade while Art entertained himself with a recorder he had carried all the way from Washington. Backpackers today carefully count every ounce of gear, but in 1974 we apparently considered musical instruments essential wilderness equipment.

That afternoon dark clouds drifted over the Canyon and rain began falling in the distance.

“Art,” I remember saying, “I thought it never rained in Arizona.”

But this was not the cold soaking rain I knew from Washington State. Out in the desert heat, I watched streaks of rain evaporate before they ever reached the ground. It seemed impossible at the time, almost like a mirage.

Ironically, we carried a tent for the entire trip but never once bothered to set it up. The Canyon nights remained warm and dry enough that we simply rolled out our sleeping bags under the open sky. Our unused tent became little more than extra weight in our already overloaded packs.

Roaring Springs

The next morning, having learned at least a few lessons about desert travel, Art and I finally managed to leave camp at 6:00 A.M. as originally planned. Our destination was Roaring Springs, located near the base of the North Rim.

The trail became steeper as it climbed through layers of limestone and red sandstone toward the upper Canyon walls. Unlike the endless downhill pounding of the South Kaibab Trail, this was sustained uphill hiking under increasingly warm conditions while carrying heavy packs.

We reached Roaring Springs later that morning and collapsed gratefully into the shade near the trail.

Roaring Springs is one of the hidden wonders of the Grand Canyon. Water emerging from the Kaibab Plateau bursts directly from a cliff face with such force that it creates a constant roaring sound audible from the trail below. The spring provides much of the water supply for Grand Canyon National Park and remains the lifeblood of the inner canyon.

To two exhausted hikers from Washington State, however, it simply looked miraculous.

Art later described the view near Roaring Springs as “beautiful beyond comprehension,” though he admitted the experience was somewhat diminished by the thousands of flies swarming the area.

The flies were relentless. There seemed to be no escaping them.

Final Assault on the North Rim

At Roaring Springs, Art and I finally did something smart for a change.

Before beginning the final climb to the North Rim, we cached most of our heavy gear near the springs and carried only the essentials for the ascent. Even so, the remaining climb was no small undertaking. Nearly five miles of trail still separated us from the North Rim with more than 3,000 feet of elevation gain ahead.

By then, however, we were beginning to understand the Canyon a little better.

We learned to start early before the heat settled into the rock walls. We learned to drink water whenever it was available, whether we felt thirsty or not. Most importantly, we learned that distances in the Grand Canyon could be dangerously deceptive. Looking across the Canyon, the North Rim never appeared especially far away. Hiking to it was another matter entirely.

Art later wrote that as dawn broke over the upper canyon, “The walls gleamed with colors more intense than I had ever seen before.” That morning the rising sunlight transformed the cliffs into layers of orange, gold, and deep crimson. In places the trail seemed suspended above empty space while the Canyon unfolded endlessly beneath us.

Even the mule trains descending from the North Rim failed to disturb the quiet rhythm of the morning.

For long stretches, neither of us spoke very much. We simply climbed.

For two climbers raised in the mountains of Washington, uphill hiking itself was nothing new. But the dry desert air added an entirely different dimension to physical exhaustion. Sweat evaporated almost instantly. Our lips cracked. Dust settled into our boots and clothing. Every switchback revealed another wall rising above us.

Still, there was something strangely compelling about the climb.

The farther upward we traveled, the more the Canyon revealed its changing ecosystems. Deep below us lay the blistering inner gorge where temperatures approached one hundred degrees. Above us, the North Rim slowly transformed into something almost alpine. Trees reappeared. The air cooled slightly. Patches of shade returned to the trail.

Snow at the Top

Then, to our complete surprise, we encountered snow.

A lot of snow.

“Hey Art,” I remember saying, “What’s with all the snow. I thought we were in Arizona.”

At nearly 8,000 feet elevation, the North Rim experiences real winters, something I had never remotely associated with Arizona before this trip. Just a day earlier we had been baking beside the Colorado River in near triple-digit heat. Now we were walking past lingering snowbanks beneath tall ponderosa pines.

The contrast felt almost surreal.

Eventually we reached the North Kaibab Trailhead and found a park employee preparing facilities for the upcoming tourist season. The North Rim was about to reopen after the winter closure, and we were grateful for the luxury of cold drinking water from the fountain near the visitor facility.

After days of heat, dust, and endless climbing, simply sitting in the shade with cold water felt like an enormous victory.

I remember feeling a genuine sense of accomplishment standing on the North Rim. Art and I had successfully traversed across one of the seven natural wonders of the world, carrying heavy packs and very little understanding of what we were getting ourselves into.

Then reality quietly reasserted itself. We still had to hike all the way back.

Descent to Roaring Springs

After resting and eating lunch near the rim, we began descending once again toward Roaring Springs where we planned to spend the night. As the afternoon heat intensified, the Canyon seemed determined to remind us who was really in charge.

When we finally reached Roaring Springs, the flies were once again waiting.

Not just a few flies. Thousands of flies.

Art later wrote that the swarms “drove us buggy,” which may have been the understatement of the entire trip. The insects covered our packs, our clothing, and any exposed skin the moment we stopped moving. At one point we discovered that the only effective escape was to stand directly in the blazing afternoon sun where the flies seemed unwilling to follow. It was an absurd solution, but surprisingly effective.

The Canyon was becoming an increasingly strange place — a landscape where even the insects had adapted better than we had.

Cottonwood Camp Again

Eventually the flies convinced us to abandon Roaring Springs altogether and continue hiking downhill toward Cottonwood Camp. Exhausted once again, we reached camp late in the day and rolled out our sleeping bags beneath the stars.

Sometime during the night, strong winds swept through camp and rattled everything around us. Despite our exhaustion, neither of us slept well.

The Canyon, it seemed, was determined to test us yet again.

The next morning, we woke to strong winds again. However, we were delighted to see a small herd of mule deer moving quietly along the hillside above us. I had never seen mule deer before and was immediately struck by their big mule-like ears, perfectly suited to their name.

Today, living in Flagstaff, I see mule deer all the time. Occasionally they wander through my backyard and help themselves to whatever flowers I had hoped might survive the summer. Back then, however, everything about the Canyon still felt new and unfamiliar.

The morning went slowly. Our bodies were beginning to feel the cumulative effects of several hard days on the trail and once again we failed to achieve our ambitious alpine-style departure time. By the time we finally packed up and left camp, it was already around 9:00 A.M. At least we would be going downhill. For a while anyway.

Ribbon Falls

Before continuing south, we decided to take a short side trip to Ribbon Falls on the recommendation of a park ranger.

That detour proved to be one of the highlights of the trip.

Ribbon Falls lies hidden within a shaded alcove just off the North Kaibab Trail. A narrow stream of water spills more than one hundred feet over a massive moss-covered travertine dome built slowly over thousands of years by mineral-rich spring water. Surrounded by ferns, cottonwoods, and cool shade, the falls felt completely out of place within the harsh desert landscape surrounding it.

After days of dust, heat, and rock, Ribbon Falls seemed almost magical.

Art described the falls simply in his journal:

“The falls streamed down over a canopy of moss-covered rock.”

At the time, neither of us knew that Ribbon Falls also held deep spiritual significance for the Zuni people, who consider it a sacred place connected to their ancestral emergence into the upper world. We only knew that neither of us wanted to leave.

Reluctantly, we shouldered our packs once again and headed back toward the main trail.

Returning to the trail proved slightly more complicated than expected. Bright Angel Creek offered no obvious crossing, and we spent some time wandering up and down the banks searching for a route before finally rock-hopping our way across with only moderately wet boots.

Not long afterward, I noticed something odd about Art’s right boot.

The sole was beginning to separate.

In modern backpacking culture, gear failures are usually minor inconveniences solved with lightweight repair kits and high-tech materials. In 1974, you improvised with whatever happened to be in your pack.

We stopped in the shade while Art wrapped some tent-line around the boot in an effort to hold the sole together long enough to finish the trip. Fortunately, the repair worked — at least temporarily — and we continued south toward Phantom Ranch.

By the time we arrived, we were hot, dusty, exhausted, and more than a little battered by the Canyon.

Phantom Ranch

Phantom Ranch felt almost surreal after days in the wilderness. Nestled beside Bright Angel Creek near the bottom of the Canyon, it was the closest thing to civilization we had seen since leaving the South Rim. The small canteen offered one luxury we had been dreaming about for miles: Cold Beer!

That evening, sitting at Phantom Ranch with sandwiches and beer in hand, Art and I discussed our strategy for the final climb out of the Canyon. The hike back to the South Rim via the Bright Angel Trail would cover nearly ten miles and gain roughly 4,400 feet in elevation.

More importantly, most of that climb would occur in brutal daytime heat if we started too late.

We decided to leave in the middle of the night.

It sounded like a smart plan while we sat there drinking cold beer in the shade.

Actually, getting out of a sleeping bag at midnight — or what eventually became 3:00 A.M. — would prove considerably more challenging.

The heat and strong winds made sleep difficult that night. Somewhere around 11:00 P.M., Art finally drifted off.

A few hours later, I began shouting at him in the darkness.

It was time to climb out of the Grand Canyon.

Up the Bright Angel Trail

Sometime around 3:00 A.M., after considerable effort to get him going, Art finally emerged from his sleeping bag and began packing in the darkness. Neither of us exactly sprang to life with youthful enthusiasm. We moved slowly and quietly beneath the stars, still half asleep as we shouldered our packs and switched on our climbing headlamps.

A few minutes later we crossed the Colorado River on the suspension bridge and began climbing the Bright Angel Trail toward the South Rim.

At that hour the Canyon felt entirely different.

The oppressive daytime heat had faded, and the inner gorge was wrapped in darkness and silence. Far below us, the Colorado River moved almost invisibly through the Canyon, its presence sensed more than seen. Art later wrote that the river appeared “still, its movement barely perceptible in sight or sound.”

For long stretches neither of us spoke. The only sounds were our boots scraping against the trail and the occasional clink of gear against our packs.

Then suddenly the silence exploded.

“Snake!”

Art stopped instantly while I stared at a coiled shape lying directly on the trail between us. In the beam of my headlamp, it looked enormous, though in reality it was probably no more than a couple of feet long. My immediate thought was rattlesnake.

Having never encountered a rattlesnake before, I reacted with all the calm rationality of a sleep-deprived backpacker at three o’clock in the morning.

Art later recalled me throwing rocks and stomping around in an effort to encourage the snake to vacate the trail. Fortunately, the reptile eventually decided we were not worth the trouble and disappeared into the darkness.

It would be our only snake encounter of the trip.

The rest of the climb unfolded beneath moonlight and gradually brightening skies as we worked our way upward through towering cliffs and shadowed side canyons. Around 4:30 A.M., we stopped along a ridge and watched dawn slowly reveal the Canyon around us.

Art described it beautifully in his journal:

“The contrast between sky and rock was fuzzy at first, lending a gentleness to the Canyon I had not yet observed.”

As the first sunlight touched the upper cliffs, the Canyon seemed transformed. The harsh sunlight of midday had not yet made its appearance, instead there were soft reds, oranges, and long blue shadows stretching across the rock walls.

For a brief moment, the Canyon felt almost peaceful.

Indian Gardens

Sometime after sunrise we reached Indian Gardens, now known as Havasupai Gardens, where we collapsed onto picnic tables for some much-needed rest. I ate breakfast while Art drifted in and out of sleep beside me.

A short time later a park ranger arrived with two exhausted hikers he had rescued from the Tonto Trail after they had spent more than a day without water. One of the hikers repeatedly talked about how certain he had been that he was going to die.

The encounter left an impression on both of us.

Until then, much of our own experience in the Canyon had felt adventurous, difficult, and at times even humorous. But the ranger’s story was a sobering reminder that the Grand Canyon could become deadly with very little warning.

Art reflected on that moment in his journal years before “extreme hiking” became fashionable:

“It was this very feeling of peace which trapped many an unwary person into a false sense of security.”

That observation feels just as true today.

Final Assault on the South Rim

After resting at Indian Gardens, we shouldered our packs once again and resumed the long climb toward the South Rim. By then the sun was rising higher and the temperature was climbing rapidly. The final miles seemed endless.

As we continued upward, we began encountering day hikers descending into the Canyon wearing light clothing and carrying small water bottles. Some glanced curiously at our heavy external-frame packs while others stepped aside to let us pass. A few asked where we had come from.

Trying to explain a week-long Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim backpacking trip while gasping for breath on a steep trail was not easy.

Mostly, I remember putting one foot in front of the other.

Step after step.
Switchback after switchback.

At times the South Rim seemed no closer than it had hours earlier.

But eventually, somewhere around 4:00 P.M., Art and I climbed out of the Canyon and reached the South Rim.

Out of the Canyon at Last

We had spent five days covering nearly fifty miles through one of the harshest and most beautiful landscapes either of us had ever experienced. We were sunburned, exhausted, dehydrated, filthy, and immensely proud of ourselves.

I turned to Art and said something along the lines of:
“How about we skip camping tonight? Tomorrow we’re getting on an airplane, and I’d rather not smell like I just finished a fifty-mile hike.”

A hotel room, hot shower, and a cooked meal suddenly sounded far more appealing than another night on the ground.

But even after all the exhaustion and hardship, neither of us was quite ready to leave the Canyon behind.

That evening we walked back out to the rim to watch one final sunset.

The cliffs glowed deep red and orange beneath the fading light while shadows slowly filled the inner canyon below us. After days spent struggling through the heat and distance of the Canyon, we now stood quietly above the same immense landscape we had crossed on foot.

The Grand Canyon no longer felt like some distant scenic wonder I had once seen in photographs. It became part of the landscape of my own life — a place forever connected to friendship, youth, endurance, and discovery.

Fifty years later, Art and I still remain friends despite living far apart. Time and distance have changed many things since that spring of 1974, but the memories of those days in the Canyon have never really faded. Looking back now, I think Art may have understood something important during our climb out of the Canyon when he wrote:

“When all people are friends, then all places will be home.”

At the time, I’m not sure either of us fully understood what the Grand Canyon would come to mean in our lives. What began as an ambitious backpacking trip across an unfamiliar desert landscape eventually became something much larger for me — the beginning of a lifelong connection to Arizona and the Canyon itself.

Two young women from Boston who had walked the final stretch with us offered to take our photograph near the South Rim. Afterward they disappeared back into their own lives, and we never saw them again. Somewhere over the years, Art’s infamous red felt hat disappeared too.

But thankfully, our friendship endured.

Special thanks to my longtime friend and hiking partner Art Kiehn, whose detailed journal from our 1974 Grand Canyon adventure helped bring many of these memories back to life. I’m grateful for his permission to quote from the journal and share parts of our journey together.

See Jeff’s previous articles at the Substack Archive.

See more of Jeff’s work at Jeff Goulden Photography.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

Before May 18, 1980, Spirit Lake reflected one of the most beautiful volcanoes in North America. Mount St. Helens rose above the forests of southwestern Washington as a near-perfect snow-covered cone, glowing at sunset above dark evergreen ridges and mirrored in the still waters below. For more than a century the volcano had remained quiet in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest. Then, in a matter of minutes, the landscape changed forever.

Having trouble viewing this email? Read it in your browser here.

I never really built a relationship with Mount Saint Helens in the same deeply personal way that I did with Mount Rainier. But in those early years, I was an aspiring mountain climber, and all of the great peaks of the American West held meaning for me.

I always wanted to climb that perfect cone, but there were other mountains to pursue, and I never quite got around to climbing it. There seemed to be no urgency. Mountains like Saint Helens felt eternal, as though they would always be there waiting for me. I had no idea the clock was already ticking.

On May 18, 1980, Mount Saint Helens violently erupted, blowing away much of its upper flanks and devastating the forests, lakes, and meadows surrounding the peak. A massive ash plume drifted hundreds of miles across the West while superheated gases and debris swept across the landscape around Spirit Lake, killing 57 people and causing more than a billion dollars in damage. Millions of trees were flattened, many of them eventually forming a massive floating log jam on Spirit Lake.

I’ll never forget that morning. I was on my way to breakfast at the Black Diamond Bakery when I noticed an eerie darkness in the sky. On the radio came the news that Mount Saint Helens had finally erupted after weeks of warning. At the time, it felt as though the world itself had changed forever.

Yet when it comes to nature, nothing is forever.

Before the eruption, one of the classic backpacking trips in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest was the Mount Margaret Loop Trail. In 1973 and again in 1977, I backpacked the 28-mile route with Margie and friends. The trail wound through forests, lakes, ridges, and wildflower covered meadows with stunning views of Spirit Lake and Mount Saint Helens along the way. Those views inspired me to climb the mountain someday.

During one of those backpacking trips in 1973, I photographed Mount Saint Helens at sunset from above Spirit Lake. In the fading evening light, the volcano glowed above the dark forested ridges, its snow-covered slopes still untouched by the violence that would come seven years later. After the eruption, the photograph took on a different meaning for me. It had become a record of a vanished landscape — a reminder of the mountain as it once was. Years later the image was used for the cover of composer Alan Hovhaness’s Symphony No. 50, Mount Saint Helens, a work inspired by the volcano itself.

After the eruption, scientists and land managers debated what should become of the devastated landscape. Eventually it was decided that the area should be protected and allowed to recover naturally, creating what would become a living laboratory for scientists studying ecological recovery.

On August 26, 1982, President Ronald Reagan signed legislation creating the Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument, preserving more than 110,000 acres for scientific research, education, and recreation.

At the time, there was tremendous pressure to salvage the vast quantities of downed timber left behind by the eruption. In a region where logging has long been an important part of the economy, the fallen trees represented enormous economic value. Yet large-scale salvage operations would also have required new roads and heavy equipment across some of the most fragile parts of the blast zone, further scarring an already devastated landscape. By protecting much of the area within the newly created monument, the land was largely allowed to recover on its own while giving scientists a rare opportunity to study how nature responds after catastrophic disturbance.

By 1986 the mountain was considered safe enough for climbing once again. Access was restricted to a limited number of permits issued each day. A few of my coworkers and I were fortunate to obtain a climbing permit for one day the following summer.

We made the long drive from the Seattle area to Climbers Bivouac at 3,300 feet on the southern flank of the mountain and camped there overnight. Before dawn the next morning, we shouldered our packs, switched on our headlamps, and began climbing up the Monitor Ridge route.

At first the climb felt little more than a steep hike. Dense fog covered the mountain that morning, making route finding through the trees and lava fields difficult. I had never climbed this route before, but my coworkers trusted my map-and-compass experience to guide us upward. Once we left timberline, my instinct was simply to head due north, which fortunately proved correct.

The climb itself was never especially technical, but it was exhausting. The final 1,300 feet were steep, loose, and covered in volcanic ash and cinders that made every step feel uncertain. It often seemed like we were sliding one step back for every two steps forward.

Around noon we finally reached the 8,363-foot summit after climbing nearly 5,000 feet in five miles. By then we had climbed above the fog into brilliant sunshine. Standing on the rim of the enormous crater, I was overwhelmed by the sheer power of nature. The eruption had blown away the upper 1,300 feet of the mountain, leaving behind a crater nearly 2,000 feet deep.

.We lingered on the summit for a long time, eating lunch, taking photographs, congratulating one another, and staring out at the chain of distant volcanoes rising across the horizon. Which “dormant” volcano would erupt next, we wondered. Eventually it was time for the long five-mile descent back to camp. I remember having to stop every mile or so to empty volcanic ash and loose rock from my boots.

Almost twenty years later, after graduating from college in 2006, my daughter Molly decided that she wanted to climb Mount Saint Helens. I was thrilled when she asked me to join her.

Instead of camping at Climbers Bivouac, we stayed in the nearby town of Cougar at the Lone Fir Resort and woke before dawn for the drive to the trailhead. We began climbing Monitor Ridge around 5:00 in the morning while Margie remained behind with a two-way radio. We wanted to stay in contact and there was no cell service in the area back then.

Like my earlier climb, the morning began in fog before the sun gradually broke through. The route seemed easier this time, perhaps because years of climbing had worn a clearer path across the cinder and ash slopes. We easily reached the summit by 11:00 a.m., sat down for lunch, and spent time taking photographs along the crater rim.

For me, the experience was deeply satisfying and emotional. Climbing Mount Saint Helens with my daughter remains one of the most meaningful mountain experiences of my life. As it turned out, it would also be my final mountain climb.

In 2013 Margie and I returned once again, this time to hike one of the newer trails leading to Norway Pass on the slopes of Mount Margaret. Standing there overlooking Spirit Lake, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a powerful sense of déjà vu. The landscape felt strangely familiar.

Later, after studying an old map, I realized why. I was standing in almost the exact same place where I had stood nearly forty years earlier while backpacking around Spirit Lake before the eruption.

Forty-six years after the eruption, Mount Saint Helens remains a place of both destruction and renewal. What has always amazed me is nature’s ability to heal when given time and space to recover. After the eruption, many people believed the landscape around Mount Saint Helens had been destroyed beyond repair. Yet over the decades, life has slowly returned. Forests have begun to regenerate, wildflowers have spread across the ash-covered slopes, and wildlife has reclaimed much of the mountain’s shattered terrain. The recovery did not happen quickly, but it happened largely because the land was allowed to heal on its own.

Today the scars of the eruption still remain across the landscape — shattered trees, lava fields, ash-covered slopes, and the floating logs that continue to drift across Spirit Lake. Yet when I walk the trails above Spirit Lake or stand on the volcanic slopes, I no longer see only destruction. I also see resilience and the enduring power of the natural world to renew itself. The mountain is no longer the perfect cone I once knew, but perhaps that is why it feels even more powerful now — a place shaped by destruction, recovery, and renewal.

See Jeff’s previous articles at the Substack Archive.

See more of Jeff’s work at Jeff Goulden Photography.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

Campbell Mesa rises quietly along the eastern edge of Flagstaff in the vast expanse of Arizona’s Coconino National Forest. To many people, it is simply a network of trails winding through ponderosa pine forest and open meadows. But for me, Campbell Mesa has become something far more personal and meaningful.

Having trouble viewing this email? Read it in your browser here.

I am fortunate to live a short walk or bike ride away from the mesa. During the ten years I have lived in Flagstaff, it has been my backyard, playground, photography studio, and a kind of spiritual refuge. I have spent countless hours hiking beneath tall pines, mountain biking along narrow forest trails, photographing wildflowers after summer rains, and occasionally skiing across snow-covered meadows in winter silence. Whenever life feels noisy or crowded, I find myself drawn back to the mesa.

Like many of the forested mesas scattered across Northern Arizona, Campbell Mesa is a landscape shaped by both nature and human history. On its western side stand groves of towering ponderosa pines mixed with Gambel oak and grassy meadows brightened by seasonal wildflowers. Toward the eastern slopes, the dense forest gradually gives way to open vistas of pinyon and juniper woodland as well as scrub vegetation.

The mesa changes constantly with the seasons. Spring brings the first white daisies emerging from damp meadows. By summer, whole-leaf paintbrush and Arizona thistle begin appearing along the trails. With the arrival of the monsoon rains, Rocky Mountain bee plants and golden crownbeard spread across roadsides and meadows. Autumn carries the scent of drying grasses and cool pine-scented air along with the late blooming rabbit brush and hoary aster. In winter, snow settles gently across the forest, softening the landscape and revealing the tracks of elk, deer, coyotes, and smaller creatures moving through the trees.

Long before mountain bikers and hikers arrived, people lived in this landscape. Scattered across the mesa are fragments of pottery left behind by the ancient Sinagua people who once inhabited this region centuries ago. Archaeological evidence suggests they farmed in the nearby valley of the Rio de Flag while using surrounding forests and mesas for resources and travel routes.

More recent traces of human activity remain scattered across the mesa as well. Rusted cans lie hidden among the trees. Old, barbed wire fencing disappears into thickets of oak brush. Faint railroad grades and abandoned dirt roads cut through the forest. High tree stumps, tall by modern chainsaw standards, reveal an earlier era of logging when two-man cross-cut saws were still the standard.

Campbell Mesa once supported stands of old-growth ponderosa pine before extensive logging altered the landscape during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Over time, the old logging roads opened the area to increasing vehicle access. By the 1980s, large portions of the mesa had become heavily damaged by unauthorized motorized use.

That began to change in 1991 when the Forest Service adopted a new management plan for the mesa focused on recreation, wildlife habitat, and scenic preservation. Proposed timber sales were cancelled and the area was closed to motorized traffic. Volunteers and community organizations worked alongside the Forest Service to restore damaged areas and convert abandoned roads into recreational trails.

By the early 2000s, groups including the Flagstaff Biking Organization and Friends of Walnut Canyon helped transform the area into the trail system that exists today. Campbell Mesa now contains a series of interconnected loop trails used by hikers, mountain bikers, runners, and equestrians. A connector trail links the mesa to the long-distance Arizona National Scenic Trail, while portions of the route also connect with the greater Flagstaff Loop Trail system.

Wildlife remains one of the mesa’s greatest rewards for those willing to move quietly and pay attention.

Red-tailed hawks circle above open meadows searching for movement below. Abert’s squirrels dart among ponderosa branches. Elk, mule deer and the occasional pronghorn antelope pass through the forest and meadows at dawn and dusk. Annual springtime visitors include a nesting pair of ospreys. During winter months, bald eagles sometimes perch in the dead snags across from the nearby lakes and ponds.

One winter, I had the privilege of watching and photographing a pair of bald eagles screeching at each other while perched on the branch of a dead snag. Their sharp cries echoed through the cold air like an argument between a disagreeing couple.

Not all wildlife encounters arrive with warning.

One afternoon while mountain biking on a remote section of the mesa, I stopped to rest on a fallen log. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement in the distance. At first, I thought it was a stray dog wandering through the forest. But then I saw the pointed ears and short tail and realized I was looking at a bobcat.

The animal began slowly moving toward me.

My first instinct was to grab my camera before remembering that I never carry one while mountain biking. Instead, I fumbled for my phone and quietly waited for the bobcat to move closer. As I stood up to get a better angle, the animal vanished instantly into the forest. A moment later I spotted it running through the trees, perhaps deciding that this mountain biker was not worth investigating after all.

Another time I watched a greater roadrunner trot briskly across the trail toward a stand of junipers, an unusual sight at this high elevation. It moved with such determination that it looked as though it had somewhere important to be.

Some of my favorite places on Campbell Mesa lie far away from the established trails.

During the early days of the COVID pandemic, when people kept their distance from one another and uncertainty hung over daily life, I often wandered off-trail searching for solitude. On one of those walks I discovered a strange pile of massive boulders stacked together in a secluded section of the mesa.

The formation seemed completely out of place.

Curious about its origin, I shared photographs of the rocks online and asked several geologists for their opinions. Before I received any scientific answers, one of my daughter’s coworkers responded with an unexpected piece of local history. She told me that she and her friends used to drive their ATVs there during the 1990s and hold parties at the site. They simply called it “The Rocks.”

That explained the broken glass, shell casings, and other debris scattered around the area. It still did not explain the overturned 1960s-era Datsun pickup abandoned nearby in a meadow. If only it could speak, I bet that rusty old truck had an interesting story to tell.

Eventually, a few geologists visited the site and suggested the formation may indeed have origins tied to the ancient volcanic history of Northern Arizona. Since then, volunteers have returned to the area several times to help clean up the glass debris and other trash left behind decades ago.

Campbell Mesa takes its name from Hugh E. Campbell, an influential early resident of Flagstaff whose life reflected much of Arizona’s territorial history.

Born in Nova Scotia in 1862, Campbell left home as a teenager and eventually made his way west to Arizona during the 1880s. After working in lumber camps and sawmills, he entered the sheep business and became one of the region’s most successful sheep growers and cattlemen. Through the Campbell-Francis Company, his operations eventually managed enormous flocks grazing across Northern Arizona.

Campbell also became deeply involved in civic and political life. A prominent Democrat, he served multiple terms in the Arizona State Senate and was named interim state governor for a short time. He always supported the growth of Flagstaff and Northern Arizona institutions, including what would later become Northern Arizona University. He also served as chief of the Flagstaff Volunteer Fire Department and held leadership positions in state and national livestock organizations.

Today, most people passing through Campbell Mesa probably know little about the man whose name the landscape carries. Yet his name remains attached to a place that has continued evolving long after his time.

The longer I spend on Campbell Mesa, the more I realize it is a landscape layered with stories. The Sinagua once lived among these forests. Loggers cut timber here generations ago. Volunteers later restored damaged roads into trails used by thousands of people each year. Wildlife still moves silently through the trees as it always has.

For me, the mesa has become far more than a nearby recreation area. It is where I go to meditate, to photograph, to exercise, and to reconnect with the natural world. Over the years I have watched thunderstorms roll across the forest, followed animal tracks through fresh snow, and discovered hidden corners that still feel wild despite lying only minutes from town.

Places like Campbell Mesa remind us that public lands are more than scenery on a map. They become woven into our memories and daily lives. They shape communities and quietly anchor us to the landscapes around us.

Whenever I return to the mesa — whether walking beneath tall ponderosa pines, riding a mountain bike along winding trails, or skiing silently across fresh snow — it still feels like I am coming home.

Many thanks to historian Jane Jackson for providing

background history about Hugh E. Campbell.

See Jeff’s previous articles at the Substack Archive.

See more of Jeff’s photography at the www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

In the summer of 1980, Margie and I set out to walk the 100-mile Wonderland Trail that circles Mount Rainier. For ten days, we carried everything on our backs—food, cameras, shelter, and just enough determination to see us through. The Wonderland Trail led us through wildflower meadows, glacier basins, river crossings, and long, punishing climbs, gaining and losing more than 20,000 feet along the way. At the time, we didn’t think of it as an epic adventure. Looking back 45 years later that’s exactly what it was.

Having trouble viewing this email? Read it in your browser here.

Mount Rainier is more than a mountain. It dominates everything around it—physically and spiritually. Its glaciers spill into valleys carved over eons, and its presence is constant. No matter where you are on the trail, you feel it—watching, shaping the landscape, and quietly reminding you who is in charge.

Before we had met, both Margie and I stood on Rainier’s 14,410-foot summit. As we hiked the Wonderland Trail, I often found myself staring up at that same peak, trying to reconcile the memory. “Did I really stand on top of that?” I wasn’t sure anymore which was harder and which was more rewarding—the climb to the summit of Rainier or walking all the way around it.

A Different Era of Backpacking

It was a different world for backpackers in 1980.

Our packs weighed between 45 and 50 pounds—aluminum-frame Keltys loaded with gear that today would be considered excessive. But we got used to our packs, eventually developing a sense of oneness with them.

We dried much of our own food ahead of time—lightweight freeze-dried meals were just becoming available, but they were tasteless. Breakfast was hot cocoa and a chewy, homemade granola bar. Lunch was a Sailor Pilot Bread cracker covered with peanut butter or margarine squeezed out of a tube and some dried fruit.

We also wore heavy Danner leather boots, adding even more weight to the load. Camera gear alone added significant weight. We carried two Nikon 35mm SLRs loaded with Kodachrome slide film, along with a five-pound tripod strapped to the top of my pack. Photography was important, but it came at a cost.

One thing we didn’t carry was water or a filtration device. Having to filter your water simply wasn’t part of the conversation in those days. Clear streams flowed everywhere, straight from the mountain. We carried our tin Sierra Cups on our belts, dipping them into creeks and drinking deeply. Cold, clean, and delicious. And, on hot afternoons, we cooled ourselves by pouring that cold stream water over our heads. That gave us the shivers as it ran down our backs.

Having grown up in western Washington, I knew we had to be prepared for rain. Margie sewed each of us a set of Gore-Tex rain gear from Frostline kits. Other than using it for pillows, we never really needed the rain gear. No rain—not even a sprinkle during our entire trip—something almost unheard of in the Cascade Mountains, where rain can fall any month of the year and snow isn’t out of the question, even in June or July.

Into the Mountain’s Realm

From the beginning, the trail pulled us into another world.

On our first day, climbing above the Carbon Glacier, Margie wrote:

“The fog-enveloped surroundings disappeared into a vacuum of mystique… The trail—a soft bed of decaying pine needles.”

That sense of mystery stayed with us. Fog drifted through the trees. Waterfalls seemed to appear out of nowhere. The mountain revealed itself slowly, in fragments.

At times it didn’t feel entirely real.

“Nature welcomed us into her realm of mystery, of beauty, of forever yearning… The hiker is alone on a journey into timelessness.”

Those words captured something I felt but could never quite articulate.

The Rhythm of the Trail

Life on the Wonderland Trail settled into a rhythm—walk, climb, descend, repeat.

Each day brought new terrain. Dense forests in the lower elevations gave way to subalpine meadows bursting with wildflowers. Higher still, the landscape became stark and austere—rock, ice, and glacier.

The wildflowers, though, were unforgettable.

Meadows of lupine, paintbrush, avalanche lilies, and mountain heather stretched across the landscape. Margie described them as a “kaleidoscope of colors,” and that’s exactly what they were. They existed for only a brief window each summer, timed perfectly between snowmelt and the return of winter.

We didn’t rush through those gardens of color. You couldn’t.

The Hard Days

Not every moment was poetic.

Day three is the one I remember most clearly—and not fondly. We hiked 13.5 long miles to Summerland under a punishing hot sun, climbing relentlessly. Somewhere along the way, I developed a pinched nerve in my back. Every step hurt.

With a 50-pound pack, there’s no easy way out. You keep moving because stopping doesn’t solve anything. Margie captured the reality of it perfectly:

“You can’t stop halfway up a mountain. You must put one disciplined foot in front of the other.”

That day tested everything—strength, patience, and resolve. It was the kind of day that makes you question why you’re out there at all.

And yet, those are the days that define an experience like this.

A World of Small Wonders

Between the difficult miles were moments of quiet magic.

A marmot perched on a rock, watching us as if we had wandered into his domain uninvited. Deer grazing near camp at dusk. The distant bugle of elk echoing through the valleys.

We learned to notice everything.

“A butterfly kissing a flower… the flowers whispering in the breeze… the music of the roaring streams.”

These weren’t grand moments. They were small, fleeting, and easy to miss. But they became the fabric of the trip.

Life in Camp

Camp life was simple and, at times, uncomfortable.

Our tent, a 5-pound Swedish design with a single center pole, offered just enough shelter. Our heavy down sleeping bags were barely insulated from the hard ground by thin ensolite pads. Food was functional, not gourmet—though we managed some creativity with dried ingredients. Dinner was often ramen noodles and canned chicken or tuna cooked over our lightweight Svea Stove powered by white gas. We carried a liter of white gas, hoping that we wouldn’t run out. Fortunately, we didn’t.

And then there were the bugs.

Mosquitoes and biting flies could turn a peaceful campsite into a battlefield. At Maple Creek, we retreated into the tent just to escape them, eating dinner inside while they swarmed outside. All of it became part of the story.

A Rest Day at Summerland

We took a rest day at Summerland, surrounded by some of the most beautiful scenery on the trail.

It was a chance to recover physically from my pinched nerve, but also to slow down and absorb where we were. Margie spent the day washing clothes in cold mountain water, drying them in the sun, and simply sitting in the meadow, writing poetry and communing with Nature.

I wandered with my cameras, photographing what I could never fully capture.

The times of quiet reflection mattered as much as the miles.

A Distant Eruption

Mount St. Helens erupted on May 18, 1980, and we thought we would probably be unaffected by the eruption. Unbeknownst to us at the time, Mount St. Helens erupted again while we were on the trail.

We didn’t learn about it until days later. The prevailing winds carried most of the ash eastward, so we were largely unaffected, though the southern skies held a faint haze.

It was a reminder that the landscape we were walking through was still alive, still changing.

The Final Miles

By the last few days, fatigue had set in—but so had a quiet determination that we were committed to finishing what we had set out to do.

The final stretch out of Golden Lakes was long—over 16 miles—but we pushed through, even though we knew we were leaving an adventure that had dramatically impacted our lives. Perhaps we were driven by the anticipation of a warm shower, a home-cooked meal, and a soft bed. Those physical pleasures of life seem to greet us at the end of every backpack trip. A gentle reminder that today’s busy world calls us home—until the next adventure summons. When we finally reached Ipsut Creek, where we had started, our ten-day journey came to an abrupt finish—it just ended. Just like that, it was over.

What Remains

Shortly after the trip, we wrote an article for the Tacoma News Tribune, Margie’s writing and my photography. They paid us $200—a small fortune at the time. I’ve lost the original article over the years, but Margie’s journal remains.

In many ways, it’s better.

It holds the day-to-day emotions, the struggles, the beauty, and the quiet reflections that never would have made it into a newspaper story.

That trip started us on a different journey—writing and photography for many other magazines and newspapers.

What I remember most now isn’t the mileage or the elevation gain. It’s the feeling of being immersed in something timeless. The sense that, for a brief period, we were fully present in, and an integral part of, the natural world.

Margie wrote near the end:

“Our visual communion with Nature came to an abrupt end… All is a memory now… the communion of two people walking but a small segment of their path to eternity… together.”

Even after 45 years, that journey hasn’t really ended. It lives on—in memories, photographs, in words, and in the quiet understanding that experiences like this one become part of who you are.

Today, life has a way of getting in the way. But on the Wonderland Trail, for a little while, nothing else mattered.

Much of this story is preserved thanks to Margie’s daily journal, written along the trail in 1980—capturing moments I would have otherwise forgotten.

See Jeff’s previous articles at the Substack Archive.

See more of Jeff’s photography at his Mount Rainier National Park Website.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

Standing on the rim of Canyon de Chelly, the view feels unanchored to any single moment in time. Red sandstone cliffs plunge away, while cottonwoods trace Chinle Creek across the canyon floor. Light and shadow creep slowly along walls shaped long ago. The quiet feels ancient, formed by centuries rather than moments.

Having trouble viewing this email? Read it in your browser here.

Here, ancient dwellings share the canyon with living homes. Cliff structures, built centuries ago, remain carved into the stone, while Navajo families continue to farm, raise livestock, and maintain deep ties to the land below.

Sculpted into the sandstone of northeastern Arizona, Canyon de Chelly National Monument preserves nearly 5,000 years of human history within its walls. Wind and water shaped the canyon over millions of years, carving sheer cliffs that rise nearly 1,000 feet above the canyon floor and exposing layers of ancient rock from the Permian period. Yet geology alone cannot explain the power of this place. Human presence—continuous, adaptive, and enduring—has given the canyon its deeper meaning.

The Ancestral Puebloans built their homes into sheltered alcoves between roughly 350 and 1300 CE, leaving behind cliff dwellings that still cling improbably to the canyon walls. Later, Hopi people farmed the canyon floor before moving on. Today, the Diné (Navajo) people continue to live, farm, and raise livestock within the canyon, making Canyon de Chelly one of the few National Park Service units that is also a living homeland. Although the monument is administered by the National Park Service, it lies entirely within the Navajo Nation, and the presence of hogans, cultivated fields, and grazing animals remains an integral part of the landscape.

Margie and I spent three days exploring Canyon de Chelly last spring, dividing our time between the two rims and the inner canyon. From above, visitors can follow two scenic drives lined with overlooks that reveal different faces of the canyon depending on light, season, and weather. The North Rim offers expansive morning views toward sites such as Antelope House, Mummy Cave, and Massacre Cave, while the South Rim provides equally dramatic perspectives at Junction, White House, Sliding House, Face Rock, and Spider Rock.

We had heard that the South Rim was best viewed in the evening, and on our first day we set out in the late afternoon before the sun began its slow descent. We stopped first at Tunnel Overlook, then Tsegi Overlook, and finally Junction Overlook. As the light softened, the canyon walls took on an otherworldly glow, shifting from warm reds to deep oranges and purples. It was the kind of light that photographers wait for, but it also felt deeply still, as if the canyon itself was settling into the evening.

Catching that evening light were stands of narrowleaf yucca, their slender leaves edged with curling white fibers. For centuries, Native peoples have relied on yucca for everyday needs, using its leaves for weaving baskets, sandals, and rope, and its roots for making natural soap. Seen glowing against the darkening rock, the plants felt inseparable from the long relationship between people and this landscape.

The following morning, we stopped at the visitor center, where a traditional Navajo hogan stands as both an introduction and a reminder. Built from logs, wooden poles, and packed earth, with a doorway always facing east to greet the rising sun, the hogan is more than shelter. It is a spiritual space designed to live in balance with the land. Many Navajo families within Canyon de Chelly still live in or maintain hogans, blending traditional practices with modern influences in a landscape that has been continuously inhabited for thousands of years.

From there we drove to Antelope House Overlook, where we followed a well-marked footpath across the smooth red rock. Far below, the 14th-century cliff dwelling rests in a wide alcove along the canyon wall. Antelope House is notable for its complex architecture, including a circular plaza, a two-story tower, and a kiva that once served as a ceremonial space. Excavated in the 1970s, the site offers insight into Puebloan life shortly before the area was abandoned around 1300 CE.

For those who wish to explore beyond the North and South rims, access to the canyon floor is permitted only with a Navajo guide. We joined Olivia, who grew up at Canyon de Chelly, for an afternoon tour of the inner canyon in her jeep. As we drove along sandy tracks and crossed Chinle Creek multiple times, she shared stories of growing up here, pointing out ancient dwellings, rock art, and the remains of her late grandmother’s home and ranch.

Chinle Creek—sometimes called Chinle Wash—is the quiet lifeline of the canyon. Fed by snowmelt and seasonal rains, it meanders along the canyon floor before eventually joining the San Juan River. From above, it appears as a thin green ribbon of trees cutting through red sandstone. On the ground, it is shallow in places but capable of sudden outbursts after a storm. The fertile soils along its banks support cottonwoods, crops, and grazing land that Navajo families continue to depend on.

That afternoon, the creek was running high enough to make each crossing an adventure. At one point the mud was so thick that I was certain we would get stuck and need to walk out. Olivia laughed and pointed to a couple of abandoned vehicles nearby—quiet reminders that the canyon still plays by its own rules.

Wildlife encounters were rare but memorable. High on a ledge, what I first took to be a desert bighorn sheep turned out to be a domestic goat, somehow at ease in a place that seemed impossible to reach. Along the creek, a rock squirrel darted between bare shrubs and boulders, pausing just long enough to make eye contact before disappearing again. Moments like these blurred the line between wild and domestic, reinforcing the sense that life here adapts rather than dominates.

Later that day, we returned to the South Rim and made our way to Spider Rock Overlook. Rising nearly 800 feet from the canyon floor, Spider Rock is one of Canyon de Chelly’s most iconic landmarks. In Navajo tradition, it is the home of Spider Woman, a revered figure who taught the people how to weave and reminded them how to live in harmony with the world around them.

As the light shifted and the canyon grew quiet, I stood at the overlook and took photograph after photograph, each frame slightly different as shadows crept across the stone. It was one of those rare moments when scenery, light, and stillness align, creating a sense of presence that feels both personal and timeless.

Canyon de Chelly resists being reduced to scenery or history. It is not simply a place to visit, but a place that continues—shaped by water, wind, memory, and daily life. Long after we left the rim and drove back toward Chinle, I carried the feeling that the canyon had not revealed everything at once. It never does.

Some landscapes invite admiration. Canyon de Chelly invites patience, attention, and respect.

See Jeff’s previous articles at the Substack Archive.

See more of Jeff’s photography at the Canyon de Chelly Gallery.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

Walnut Canyon Lakes has been my home for nearly ten years. It’s not exactly Walden Pond, but it inspires me nonetheless, especially when I am out there with my camera in hand.

What looks like an ordinary pond at first glance turns out to be something much richer. In a town surrounded by forest and high desert, open water is rare, and anything with water quickly becomes a magnet for wildlife. Over time, these two small lakes have become one of Flagstaff’s most popular birding hotspots — and my favorite place to wander with a long lens and no plan in mind.

Depending on the season, the lakes can feel like a revolving door of migration. Ducks and geese raft across the surface. Wading birds stalk the shallows. American Robins and Cedar Waxwings strip the Russian olive trees of fruit while seedeaters scratch through the grass and raid backyard feeders. In winter, when everything else freezes, the circulated water stays open, drawing in anything wild that has a need to drink or rest.

When the ponds finally do ice over, the mood shifts. Waterfowl slip and slide across the frozen surface like clumsy skaters. Except for the occasional sound of the cracking ice, the lakes are quiet and calm.

Bald Eagles arrive every January and perch in the dead snags along the nearby Campbell Mesa hillside. I like watching them from below, wondering what goes through their minds as they sit for hours, motionless except for that steady, swiveling head. Occasionally I will scramble up the slope for a closer look, photographing the eagles from a respectful distance with my telephoto lens.

By early summer, the same American Osprey pair will return to their weathered tree across the road from the lake. They repair their nest, lay eggs, raise their young and then, in September, separate and vanish toward their winter destination in South America. Watching an osprey dive headfirst into the lake after a fish — wings tucked, splash exploding outward — never gets old.

I have had my share of surprises too. A Greater Roadrunner, normally not seen at this elevation, once trotted across the road toward Campbell Mesa like it had someplace important to be. Mule Deer and Rocky Mountain Elk step down from the mesa to drink in the soft evening light. The pointy-eared Abert’s Squirrels chatter in the Ponderosa Pines overhead. Even the less-welcome visitors — skunks, racoons and the occasional band of javelina — remind me that this little patch of water belongs to everyone.

One day, a copper-colored shape stopped me in my tracks: a White-Faced Ibis, tall and elegant at the shoreline. Not a typical Flagstaff resident. It let me edge closer for a few photos before flying off. It was around for a few days and then disappeared, as mysteriously as it arrived. I like to think it was simply pausing here to rest on its long migratory journey. I just happened to be lucky enough to witness the stopover.

I would not call myself a serious birder. I don’t keep a life-list and couldn’t identify every song drifting through the trees. But I love watching them, learning their habits, and photographing them when I can. Every new species sends me down a rabbit hole of research — where it came from, what it eats, and why it behaves the way it does. That’s my version of a life-list.

For all their natural feel, the lakes themselves are human made. My neighbor, who were here from the beginning, remembers when these basins were nothing more than dry ground in the mid-1980s, dug as part of the surrounding subdivision and country club. A few years later they were lined and filled with reclaimed water from Flagstaff’s reclamation plant — recycled, carefully treated, and dependable in our dry climate — creating a small, permanent patch of blue where none had existed before. What started as practical water storage for the golf course slowly became something else entirely: an oasis that birds, deer, elk, and photographers like me now treat as if it had always been here.

Life in Flagstaff has a soundtrack, and often it’s a birdsong. Jays chatter in the Ponderosa Pines. Warblers offer thin, flute-like notes from the trees. Just the other day, a neighbor told me he had already counted seventy-one species in our little neighborhood this year alone. That’s not a quiet backyard. That’s a front-row seat to one of nature’s best live performances.

Most days, I simply walk the path around the water and see what’s happening. The light changes. The seasons turn. Something unexpected always appears.

It may not be Walden Pond.

But for me, Walnut Canyon Lakes is close enough.

See more of Jeff’s photography at the Walnut Canyon Lakes Gallery.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

My first impression of the Painted Desert was one of vastness, quiet and undisturbed solitude. From each overlook, the land stretches outward in silent waves of color—soft lavenders, deep rusts, chalky grays, and sun-warmed reds—layered so precisely they seem brushed by hand. There are no towering peaks or forests here, no rushing rivers, no obvious signs of life clamoring for attention. Instead, the Painted Desert asks something different of the visitor: to slow down, to look carefully, and to imagine time on a scale far larger than ourselves.

This vast “badland” region lies in northeastern Arizona, spanning roughly 7,500 square miles of the Colorado Plateau. It begins south of Holbrook and stretches 160 miles northwest in a long crescent toward the edge of Grand Canyon National Park. Most of it is within the Navajo Nation. There are not many trails and a few poorly maintained roads. Towns are scarce. Wide stretches remain difficult or impossible to access, giving the region a character that feels very much like wilderness—even if it lacks that formal designation. Its relative remoteness has helped preserve a landscape that remains largely shaped by natural forces rather than modern development.

One of the most revealing places where I have experienced this solitude is the largely abandoned Little Painted Desert County Park north of Winslow. With few visitors and little infrastructure, the badlands feel raw and uninterrupted. Here, the Chinle Formation’s layered colors—reds, purples, grays, and muted greens—are on full display, and the sense of adventure is inseparable from the quiet. It is easy to feel as though you have stepped into a landscape that has been left alone to weather time on its own terms.

The name “Painted Desert” comes from Spanish explorers who passed through the region in the sixteenth century. During his 1540 expedition in search of the mythical Seven Cities of Cíbola, Francisco Vázquez de Coronado encountered these vividly banded hills and named them El Desierto Pintado. Long before European explorers arrived, this land was home to Indigenous peoples, including the ancestors of today’s Hopi and Navajo, whose cultural ties to the region extend deep into the past and continue into the present.

That sense of continuity is especially apparent along trails that pass through ancient habitation sites. Walking the Agate House Trail near sunset, I felt the complete quiet—much as it must have felt centuries ago. The stillness was briefly broken by a desert cottontail tucked motionless beside the trail, watchful and unbothered. I took his picture and he quietly slipped away followed by the sun dipping below the horizon and the desert’s colors softening into shadow.

The Painted Desert’s remarkable palette is the product of time and slow change. Long before the land took on its present form, rivers crossed broad plains here, leaving behind layers of sediment that would eventually harden into rock. Over millions of years, uplift and erosion exposed these layers, allowing color, texture, and form to emerge gradually across the landscape.

Iron-rich minerals lend reds and oranges to the hills, while other elements introduce purples, blues, and grays. Harder layers resist erosion, forming mesas and ridges, while softer layers wear away into rounded hills and narrow ravines. Rather than dramatic upheaval, it is this patient, incremental process that gives the Painted Desert its distinctive character—soft and fragile in appearance, yet remarkably enduring.

In the southern reaches of the Painted Desert lies one of its most recognizable features: the petrified wood of Petrified Forest National Park. More than 200 million years ago, huge trees fell and were buried by sediment, their organic material slowly replaced by minerals that preserved their internal structure. Today, fossilized logs rest scattered across the desert floor, quiet reminders that this stark landscape was once a lush green forest.

At Blue Mesa, the trail descends into the heart of the exposed layers, where bands of beige, green, white, and blue swirl through a landscape stripped of its trees and vegetation. Aside from scattered petrified logs—the last trace of an ancient forest—it is a place that feels intentionally shaped and faintly unsettling, resisting easy interpretation and underscoring how fully this land belongs to deep time.

Human presence in the Painted Desert has always required adaptation and restraint. At Homolovi State Park north of Winslow, ancestral Hopi pueblos sit low against the land, their placement shaped by water, weather, and survival. Today, herds of feral burros roam freely across the landscape. According to the state park, they appeared recently, in the early 2000s, their origins uncertain. Photographing them from my car, a sudden nudge to the bumper felt like a reminder that this remains their domain, and that visitors are only passing through.

Despite its beauty, the Painted Desert is an unforgiving place to live. Temperatures can swing from bitter cold in winter to extreme heat in summer, and rainfall is scarce and unpredictable. Vegetation is sparse and hardy, limited to grasses, shrubs, and occasional wildflowers that have adapted to these extremes. When life does appear—whether in a patch of blooming zinnias or a quick-moving lizard—it feels even more remarkable for its persistence.

Along the Little Colorado River, the desert briefly breaks its silence at Grand Falls—sometimes called Chocolate Falls for the color of its muddy water—where the river plunges into a volcanic chasm. The seasonal falls once drew large crowds, a rare moment of motion in an otherwise still landscape. Today, access is restricted following years of littering and damage from thoughtless visitors and off-road vehicle use, a reminder that even resilient places can be vulnerable to careless visitation.

Standing at an overlook, it is easy to feel dwarfed—not by height, but by scale and time. The Painted Desert does not overwhelm with drama so much as it humbles with its persistence. Its colors shift subtly with passing clouds and changing light, revealing new patterns with each glance.

The Painted Desert is not a place to hurry. It rewards patience and curiosity, inviting repeat visits and deeper exploration. Every ridge hints at another unseen valley; every layer of color marks another chapter in Earth’s long story. For those willing to look closely, this severe landscape offers more than scenery—it offers perspective. And once you leave its windswept overlooks behind, the desert has a way of lingering, quietly urging you to return and see what else lies beyond the next painted hill.

See more of Jeff’s Painted Desert Images at the Painted Desert Gallery.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

In 2026 history buffs, auto enthusiasts and road-trippers mark the 100th anniversary of that famous American highway, Route 66, and nowhere does its story unfold with more charm and character than across Northern Arizona. From the volcanic foothills near Oatman to the Painted Desert near Holbrook, this portion of the Mother Road offers a vivid look at how a highway helped shape the American West—and how its legacy continues in the communities along the way.

Boundary Cone Butte to Oatman

Crossing into Arizona from the west, the first major landmark is Boundary Cone Butte, a volcanic neck rising sharply above the desert floor. Long before automobiles arrived, this butte guided Indigenous travelers, miners, and surveyors through the foothills of the Black Mountains. In early spring, the meadows below the butte light up with California poppies, providing one of the most colorful gateways of the entire highway.

Just ahead lies Oatman, a former gold-mining boomtown where the Old West still lingers in weathered wooden storefronts and staged gunfights. The real stars, though, are the burros, descendants of those left behind by miners. They roam the streets freely, greeting visitors as if they’ve been doing it for a century—which, in Oatman’s case, they nearly have.

Sitgreaves Pass and the High Desert Beyond

Leaving Oatman, the highway climbs and twists toward Sitgreaves Pass, one of the most dramatic and historically significant segments of Route 66. At 3,586 feet, it follows the alignment of Edward Fitzgerald Beale’s 1857 wagon road. Early motorists navigated the narrow curves with far less horsepower and far less room for error, turning this crossing into a true adventure. Today the pass still delivers sweeping views of the Black Mountains and the Colorado River valley beyond.

Descending the east slope brings travelers into Kingman, long one of the busiest hubs on the Mother Road. Kingman thrived during the postwar travel boom, offering motels, cafés, service stations, and neon-lit streets that welcomed thousands of families heading west. Much of that mid-century identity remains visible today.

Peach Springs, Seligman, and Williams

Beyond Kingman, Route 66 opens onto broad plateaus and arrives at Peach Springs, tribal headquarters of the Hualapai Nation. In the classic era of auto travel, Peach Springs served as a key rest stop before the steady climb toward Flagstaff. Its deep cultural roots and surrounding high desert make it one of the quieter but more significant stops along the way.

Farther east lies Seligman, a small town with a big role in Route 66 preservation. When the interstate bypassed Seligman in 1978, local barber Angel Delgadillo spearheaded an effort to protect and promote what remained of the old road. That movement helped spark the wider Route 66 revival, and today Seligman is known for its restored storefronts, classic cars, and unmistakable mid-century atmosphere.

Continuing through the high-country pines leads to Williams, one of the most authentically preserved Route 66 towns in America. Known as the “Gateway to the Grand Canyon,” Williams also holds the distinction of being the last town along the Mother Road to be bypassed by Interstate 40—in 1984. Its main street still glows with neon, classic diners, and motor courts, offering an experience that feels remarkably unchanged.

Between Williams and Flagstaff lies the small community of Parks. The Parks in the Pines General Store and Deli stands along a quiet stretch of Route 66 between Williams and Flagstaff, its vintage 76 sign and weathered red storefront preserving the classic character of mid-century roadside travel in Northern Arizona.

Flagstaff and the High-Country Crossroads

East of Parks, the road climbs into the world’s largest contiguous Ponderosa Pine forest and arrives in Flagstaff, the largest city on Arizona’s stretch of Route 66. Here, the Mother Road intersects with the city’s lumber, railroad, and cultural history.

Just west of town is the historic McAllister Ranch, founded in 1916 by William Beeson. The ranch once supported farming and livestock operations along the early Route 66 corridor. Its stone barns and 20th-century house still stand, now repurposed by the City of Flagstaff for Public Works while preserving the site’s historic fabric.

Downtown Flagstaff is anchored by the well-known intersection of Route 66 and Humphreys Street, where signs point toward the Grand Canyon, Albuquerque, and Phoenix.

Portions of the original Route 66 alignment survive as part of the Flagstaff Urban Trails System, keeping the historic roadbed alive and woven into the city’s daily life.

Flagstaff also has an unexpected link to pop culture. When Jackson Browne wrote the lyric “standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona,” he was actually in Flagstaff, on the corner of Route 66 and Switzer Canyon Road near the old Dog Haus restaurant. Winslow later built an entire park around the lyric—perhaps the most famous misunderstanding in Arizona music history.

East of downtown stands the historic El Pueblo Motel, whose distinctive neon sign remains a Route 66 landmark. During World War II, El Pueblo served as a training site for the U.S. Marine Corps’ Navajo Code Talkers, who practiced the unbreakable code that would play a crucial role in the Pacific theater. The surviving buildings and sign remain important reminders of this chapter in American history.

Winona, Two Guns, and the Painted Desert

A short drive east leads to Winona, famous for its brief but memorable mention in Bobby Troup’s 1946 classic “Get Your Kicks on Route 66.” The original 1930s steel truss Winona Bridge still stands north of town, preserved as a rare example of early highway engineering.

Farther along, perched on the rim of Canyon Diablo, sits Two Guns. In the early 20th century, it served travelers with a gas station, zoo, trading post, and campground. But when Route 66 realigned—and later I-40 redirected traffic entirely—Two Guns fell into decline. Today, its stone ruins and the nearby 1915 Canyon Diablo Bridge offer a stark look at how dependent small communities were on the Mother Road.

Holbrook and Petrified Forest National Park

The bustling town of Holbrook continues the Route 66 tradition with classic motor courts, vintage neon, and mid-century relics that keep the spirit of the road alive. Like many towns along the route, it preserves one of the fragments that together tell the full story of the Mother Road.

East of Holbrook, Route 66 enters Petrified Forest National Park, the only national park in the country containing an original stretch of the historic highway. The alignment here is no longer paved; instead, a faint roadbed and a straight line of telephone poles mark where the Mother Road once crossed the desert. A weathered 1932 Studebaker stands beside the alignment, creating a quiet memorial to the many travelers who passed through long before the interstate era.

A Century of History on America’s Most Famous Highway

Route 66 was never a single, seamless road. It evolved constantly, realigning with the needs of motorists and eventually yielding to the interstate system. Today it survives in segments—some preserved, some repurposed, some fading quietly into the desert.

Yet even as a road of scattered pieces, Route 66 remains unified in its purpose.

Created in 1926, it became a conveyor of hope during the Great Depression and Dust Bowl era, a military corridor during World War II, and a symbol of postwar opportunity. It carried families westward, shaped the economies of small towns, and helped define America’s relationship with the freedom of the open road.

Northern Arizona remains one of the best places to trace that history—through mountain passes, high-country towns, wartime motels, neon-lit streets, and desert horizons marked only by telephone poles and sky.

As Route 66 marks 100 years, its legacy endures not because it is fast or efficient, but because it represents something lasting; the belief that the journey ahead holds promise, and that the road itself tells a story worth preserving.

See more of Jeff’s Route 66 pictures at the Route 66 Gallery.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

Driving into Arches National Park from nearby Moab, Utah, my first thought was: “I’ve never seen so much red rock in one place… but where are the arches?” At first, you don’t see any — just endless cliffs glowing red in the desert light. But hidden among this landscape are more than 2,000 documented natural arches, the highest concentration on earth. Alongside them rise stone fins, balanced rocks, and pinnacles that look like nature’s own sculptures.

How the Arches are Born

Arches National Park owes its beauty to geology, time, and just the right amount of wind and water. The park’s Entrada Sandstone was once a vast desert of shifting dunes. Over time, those fine, rounded grains fused together with calcite, forming porous rock. Rainwater — just 8 to 10 inches a year — seeps into cracks, slowly dissolving the calcite and weakening the stone from within. Erosion carves domes into narrow fins, and when a fin develops a weak point, an arch begins to form.

Most arches evolve gradually, but change can be sudden. In 1940, a large boulder fell from Skyline Arch, dramatically enlarging its opening. The rock debris still lies at its base today — a reminder that even slow landscapes have their moments of drama.

Elsewhere in the park, time works more quietly. Landscape Arch, stretching an astonishing 306 feet, is among the world’s longest natural spans. In 1991, a 60-foot section crumbled away, leaving the arch thinner and more fragile than ever. And in 2008, Wall Arch collapsed completely. Nothing in Arches is permanent — the land is always reshaping itself.

Iconic Landmarks

Every visitor has a favorite, but a few formations stand apart:

• Delicate Arch rises 65 feet above the slickrock, a graceful curve that has become the symbol of Utah itself. It appears on license plates and even graced a U.S. postage stamp in 1996.

• Balanced Rock towers 128 feet, its 3,500-ton sandstone cap perched improbably on softer mudstone. One day, erosion and gravity will bring it down — but for now, it stands as one of the park’s most photographed features.

• The Fiery Furnace, a maze of fins, canyons, and narrow passageways, protects rare plants and fragile soils. To explore its hidden corridors, visitors need either a ranger-led hike or a special permit.

A Sunset Pilgrimage to Delicate Arch

The highlight of one of my visits to Arches came in the evening. I set out on the Delicate Arch Trail late in the day, climbing across slickrock as the light softened. By the time I reached the final rise, the arch stood glowing before me, framed against a sky deepening with color.

I found a spot and sat quietly. Then I started shooting frame after frame, wanting to capture the changing light and how it played on the delicate rock formation and the surrounding slick red rock. After a while I put my camera down and just listened to the desert hush, felt the cool air settling in, and watched the sun sink lower. Then, as the sun descended, Delicate Arch glowed as if lit from within.

It felt less like a photo stop and more like a pilgrimage. Each click of the camera felt reverent — an attempt to hold onto a fleeting moment in a place shaped by millions of years. As twilight fell and the crowd began the hike back, I lingered a while. Under the first stars, the arch seemed timeless, and I felt very small — and very grateful — beneath it. The hike back in the dark brought joy as to what I had witnessed and felt — and sadness in leaving, not knowing when I would return.

Visiting Arches Today

For photographers, the best light often comes at sunrise or sunset, when the rocks blaze with color. Wide-angle lenses capture the drama of sky and stone, while a zoom lens reveals textures in the sandstone. Trails are well marked, but it’s important to stay on them; the dark, crusty soil — called biological soil crust — can take decades to recover if damaged.

Preserving a Fragile Masterpiece

Arches has been protected for nearly a century. In 1929, President Herbert Hoover established it as Arches National Monument; in 1971, Congress redesignated it as Arches National Park. Thanks to that foresight, the world can still experience this extraordinary landscape.

Walking among its formations, you feel the patience of geology. These arches took shape over millions of years, yet they can vanish in an instant. That tension between endurance and fragility gives the park its power. For me, the memory of standing beneath Delicate Arch at sunset remains — a moment when time, stone, and silence came together in perfect balance.

See more of Jeff’s Photography at the Arches National Park Gallery.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

Imagine standing north of Flagstaff, Arizona a thousand years ago as the ground shook and fire erupted from the earth. Basalt magma shot skyward in a fountain nearly 850 feet tall, raining down black cinders and molten rock.

According to the Grand Canyon Trust, Sunset Crater erupted for a period lasting several months to a year. Geologists debate the exact date of the eruption but it probably occurred in several stages between 1040 and 1100 AD. The eruption forever changed the landscape, covering vast areas with volcanic ash and cinders. It also changed the lives of the Sinagua people who lived there forcing them to abandon their settlements and move elsewhere. Today we call it Sunset Crater, the youngest volcano on the Colorado Plateau, and its story is as much about survival and resilience as it is about destruction.

When famed Civil War veteran and explorer John Wesley Powell led the U.S. Geological Survey in the 1880s, he traveled through northern Arizona’s San Francisco Volcanic Field. Among the 600 cinder cones and lava domes, one peak stood out. He wrote:

“A portion of the cone is of bright reddish cinders, while the adjacent rocks are of black basalt. The contrast in the colors is so great that on viewing the mountain from a distance the red cinders seem to be on fire.”

Powell dubbed it Sunset Peak, a name later changed to Sunset Crater.

The volcano’s eruption produced two massive lava flows — the Bonito and the Kana-a — and spread black cinders across 810 square miles. The eruption forced the Indigenous Sinagua people to abandon their homes, fields, and villages in the immediate area. But this was not the end of their story. Archaeological evidence shows that the Sinagua adapted, moving to nearby regions where they built new communities, some in the cliff dwellings we can still see today at Walnut Canyon and the pueblos at nearby Wupatki. In time, they learned to farm in the ash-rich soils that held moisture and supported crops like corn, beans, and squash. Out of upheaval came ingenuity and survival.

Nearly lost to Hollywood in 1928, Sunset Crater was saved by public outcry when Paramount Pictures proposed dynamiting its flank for a Zane Grey film. It was saved thanks to the efforts of, Museum of Northern Arizona director, Harold S. Colton and many other concerned citizens. In 1930 President Herbert Hoover declared it a National Monument. Sixty years later, it was renamed Sunset Crater Volcano National Monument, protecting more than 3,000 acres.

Today, the monument offers hiking trails through its stark yet beautiful terrain. The Lava Flow Trail winds a mile through cinders and jagged basalt. The Lenox Crater Trail climbs gently for views of the San Francisco Peaks. And the Lava’s Edge Trail traces the rugged boundary of the Bonito Lava Flow. Hiking to the summit itself has been off-limits since 1974, a move that protects the fragile landscape from erosion.

While the red rim and black lava remain harsh and forbidding, life has been slowly returning. Grasses, wildflowers, and pines push through the cinders, while animals reclaim their habitat.

For me, walking these trails is like watching a story of rebirth unfold. Sunset Crater reminds us that even after violent destruction, the earth heals. Nature — and people — find a way forward.

One thousand years ago, Sunset Crater erupted in fury. For the Sinagua, it meant loss and disruption — but also adaptation and resilience. Today the volcano stands quiet, a reminder of both nature’s raw power and the determination of people to survive in its shadow. To stand at the base of its lava fields is to feel history underfoot, glowing not with fire, but with memory.

See more of Jeff’s Sunset Crater pictures at the Sunset Crater Gallery.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

Life in Flagstaff has a soundtrack and often it is a birdsong. Whether it is the chatter of jays in the ponderosa pines or the flute-like notes of a warbler near a mountain spring, birds bring our northern Arizona landscapes to life. Just the other day, a neighbor excitedly told me he had already identified 71 species this year. And that is just within our Walnut Canyon Lake neighborhood. That is not a quiet backyard. That’s a front-row seat to one of nature’s greatest live performances.

Out on the trail, bird sightings can feel like little moments of magic. A friend hiking at nearby Griffiths Spring was delighted to follow Yellow-Rumped Warblers flitting from branch to branch like restless flashes. At Walnut Canyon Lake, I watched a Brewer’s Blackbird making repeated flights; back and forth, back and forth; tirelessly feeding its young. And on Campbell Mesa, a Western Tanager graced me with a brief but spectacular visit, frolicking among the trees in a brilliant flash of yellow and red.

But it was a copper-colored visitor that truly took my breath away; a White-Faced Ibis, standing tall and graceful at the edge of Walnut Canyon Lake. Not a typical Flagstaff resident, this striking migratory bird with its long legs, curving bill, and shimmering plumage, let me inch closer for photos before vanishing days later, never to be seen again. I like to think it was just pausing for a rest on its long journey north. I was lucky to be in the right place at the right time.

Where the Wild Birds Are

Flagstaff is a haven for wildlife watchers. With the town’s 3,000 acres of open space and surrounded by the vast 1.8 million-acre Coconino National Forest, there are boundless opportunities to spot birds and other wildlife. The forest’s astonishing diversity, desert scrub to alpine peaks, makes it home to more than 300 species of birds. And that is not counting the nearby national monuments and parks that are also teeming with wildlife. No wonder birds keep popping up in our conversations. They are part of the fabric of life in Northern Arizona.

I would not call myself a “serious birder.” I don’t keep a life list, and I probably could not identify a bird just by its call. But I do love spending hours watching them, learning about their habits, and photographing them when I get the chance. Each new bird that I photograph sparks a bit of research, and those little discoveries; where they come from, what they eat, why they behave the way they do, becomes my own kind of life list.

Windows Into the Wild

Even in an urban setting, birds connect us to the wild world. Through our windows, we catch glimpses of them hopping along branches, building nests, or teaching their young to fly. They make the ordinary feel extraordinary.

And when we step outside into forests, meadows, wetlands, and wildlands, we’re met with an even greater pageant. Each bird species has its own story. Some are lifelong locals, others are just passing through. Some nibble seeds and berries, others dive for fish or scavenge for scraps. Their beaks; curved, hooked, spoon or chisel-shaped, tells you exactly how they make their living. Every bird is a finely tuned adaptation, a survivor in a world of change.

They also do something most of us only dream about: they fly. While we remain earthbound, tethered to gravity, birds rise and roam, guided by instincts that science still cannot fully explain. It is humbling and inspiring.

Feathered Joy

For me, birds are a constant source of wonder. Their songs fill the air like nature’s own symphony. Their colors dazzle against blue skies and green forests. Their behaviors, whether comical or majestic, offer endless fascination. And if I am lucky, I capture a moment in a photograph that brings all that beauty home.

In a world that can often feel rushed and noisy, birds remind us to pause. To look up. To listen. And to find joy in the simple presence of something wild and free.

See more of Jeff’s bird photography at the Birds Gallery.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

For years, I passed the Two Guns exit on Interstate 40 east of Flagstaff without giving it a second thought. It was just another lonely off-ramp leading into the vast Arizona desert. Then one evening, as the setting sun cast a golden glow on the abandoned stone buildings, something about the place stopped me in my tracks.

Curiosity got the best of me. The next time I was in the area, I pulled over, camera in hand, and stepped into the eerie remnants of what was once a thriving stop along Route 66. What I found was a ghost town with a colorful name and a past as wild as the unlikely legends surrounding it.

Two Guns was a product of the early 1900s, a small community that sprang up along the historic Santa Fe Highway, which was later incorporated into the famous Route 66. Perched on the edge of the 80-mile-long Canyon Diablo (Spanish for Devil’s Canyon), its very name hints at its colorful past. Some say the town was named after Western silent film actor William Surrey Hart, also known as “Two Gun Bill,” thus adding to the town’s mystique. Or it could be that the name simply reflected the lawless, gun-slinging spirit of the Old West.

Like many Route 66 towns, Two Guns thrived as a roadside attraction. It boasted a gas station, a restaurant, a campground, a swimming pool and even a zoo. But as the decades passed, disaster struck repeatedly—businesses burned, owners abandoned their dreams, and the final blow came with the completion in 1968 of Interstate 40, which rerouted traffic away from the town. By the mid-20th century, Two Guns had been left to the wind and the ghosts of its past.

Few places blur the line between history and myth like Two Guns. One of its most infamous stories is that of the so-called "Apache Death Cave." According to legend, in 1878, a group of Apache warriors hid in a cave within Canyon Diablo, plotting a surprise attack on the Navajo. But the Navajo discovered their plan and set fires at the cave’s entrance, asphyxiating those trapped inside. Supposedly, the cave remains a site of restless spirits and bad luck.

Historian Blue Miller casts doubt on this widely-repeated tale. He pointed out that the story first appeared in a 1968 book, "Two Guns, Arizona," by Gladwell Grady Richardson—a local author well known for embellishing history with a good dose of fiction.

In another unlikely story from that same book, Henry McCarty (alias: Billy the Kid) and his gang took refuge during the winter of 1879-80 in the ruins of a stone house on the edge of Canyon Diablo.

Regardless of their authenticity, these legends persist, drawing ghost hunters and curious visitors to the abandoned buildings and to the shadowy depths of the canyon.

According to the Arizona Historical Society, Richardson, in addition to his prolific writing, also worked as a trader at the Two Guns Trading Post while maintaining a house in nearby Flagstaff.

Richardson's knack for mixing fact and fiction was not limited to Arizona. He spun similar yarns about ghost towns in New Mexico and probably elsewhere.

As intriguing as these ghostly tales are, the real history of Two Guns is just as fascinating. Beyond the legends, the town played a crucial role in early travel through Arizona, and its story is deeply intertwined with the challenges of crossing the rugged Canyon Diablo.

Canyon Diablo was a formidable obstacle for settlers, travelers, and the Southern Pacific Railroad. Before bridges were built, wagons (and later, automobiles) had to zig-zag down the canyon slope and hope that the riverbed was dry enough to cross.

In the early 20th century, the Santa Fe Highway became one of the most important routes for travelers crossing the American Southwest. It was part of the National Old Trails Road, a network of highways linking the country before numbered routes existed.

Once the Santa Fe Highway began bringing tourists, prospectors, and pioneers through the Arizona desert, Two Guns became a natural stopping point along the way. In 1914, plans were set in motion to build a bridge at Two Guns. Arizona State Engineer Lamar Cobb selected the site, and for $9,000, contractor Thomas Maddock of Williams, Arizona, agreed to construct the bridge. Designed to withstand flash floods, the Canyon Diablo Bridge opened on March 17, 1915, and instantly became an integral part of the Santa Fe Highway.

In 1926, when the Santa Fe Highway was incorporated into Route 66, Two Guns found itself in a perfect spot to capitalize on the new wave of automobile travelers. Businesses sprang up, offering fuel, food, and entertainment to weary drivers making their way across the country. For a time, Two Guns flourished, riding the golden age of the American road trip.

But progress was fleeting. In 1938, traffic was routed onto a new bridge to the north, beginning the decline of Two Guns. In 1988, the original Canyon Diablo Bridge was added to the National Register of Historic Places; a silent tribute to a town that once stood at the crossroads of adventure and survival.

Today, Two Guns is a shell of its former self. The once-bustling roadside stop is now a collection of crumbling stone buildings, graffiti-covered ruins, and scattered remnants of a bygone era. Unlike many Western ghost towns, Two Guns remains largely untouched; no gift shops, no guided tours, just the echoes of history whispering through the desert wind.

For reasons unknown, the town still has its own dedicated exit off I-40; perhaps the only off-ramp in the country that leads to nothing but the past. Those who take the exit will find themselves standing amid the ruins, left to wonder about the people who once called this place home. Was Two Guns a town cursed by its own history, or just another victim of progress? Either way, the ghosts of Two Guns and Route 66 are waiting for those who are willing to stop and listen.

See more of Jeff’s Two Guns pictures at the Two Guns Gallery.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

Trails have served as essential threads in the fabric of human culture for millennia. From the earliest hunter-gatherer paths to migration routes to today’s recreational trails, they have facilitated exploration, trade, migration, and spiritual journeys.

Trails predate recorded history, with evidence of early human travel routes found across the continents. These paths connected communities, hunting grounds, and sacred sites, shaping societal development and cultural exchange.

As civilizations grew and expanded, trails became vital arteries for commerce. The Silk Road, Inca Trail, and Oregon Trail are just a few examples of how trails fueled economic growth and human migration. Trails have long guided human travel and discovery. They represent journeys of hope, hardship, and resilience.

National Scenic Trails are a designated category of trails that hold special significance in terms of their natural beauty, historical importance, and cultural value. These trails are designated by the United States Congress and managed by various federal agencies, including the National Park Service, the U.S. Forest Service, and the Bureau of Land Management. National Scenic Trails provide a unique opportunity for people to experience some of the most breathtaking, remote, and diverse landscapes that the United States has to offer. The Pacific Crest Trail in the West and the Appalachian Trail in the East are two of the more familiar National Scenic Trails.

The history of the National Scenic Trails began in 1968 when the National Trails System Act was passed by Congress. This legislation established a non-motorized system of trails that would provide outdoor experiences for people while also preserving and protecting many natural and cultural resources.

The Arizona National Scenic Trail, stretching over 800 miles from the Mexican border to the Utah state line, exemplifies the natural beauty that can be found within Arizona. The Arizona Trail captivates hikers, nature enthusiasts, and adventure seekers with its rich history and breathtaking vistas.

The Arizona Trail was the vision of Flagstaff teacher Dale Shewalter in the late 1970s. Shewalter wanted to create a continuous trail that would traverse Arizona and showcase its natural beauty and diversity. He and a dedicated group of volunteers worked to establish and promote the trail. Shewalter's dream gained momentum, and in 1985, the Arizona Trail Association was founded to work toward the creation and stewardship of the trail. In 2009, the Arizona Trail was officially completed and designated as a National Scenic Trail. Ongoing efforts to improve and maintain the trail continue to this day.

Flagstaff, the home of Dale Shewalter, plays a unique role in the routing of the Arizona Trail. The trail has a main route through the center of Flagstaff as well as an alternate “equestrian bypass” that traverses the town to the east.

What sets the Arizona Trail apart is its remarkable diversity. As hikers traverse the trail, they encounter an array of ecosystems that reflect the unique landscapes of Arizona. From the cactus-filled deserts of Southern Arizona to the alpine forests of Northern Arizona, the trail takes hikers on a journey through grasslands, canyons, mountains, and plateaus. This topography also brings with it a wide variety of plant and animal species, making the trail a showcase of Arizona’s biodiversity.

Perhaps the most iconic segment of the Arizona Trail is its traverse of the Grand Canyon. This segment offers hikers the opportunity to experience the breathtaking beauty of the canyon from a unique perspective, providing panoramic vistas that only the hardiest of hikers have ever viewed.

Whether you “through hike” the entire trail or just hike a section at a time, the scenic beauty of the Arizona Trail is a constant companion. Sunrises and sunsets paint the sky with a vivid palette of colors, that casts a magical glow on the landscape. Magnificent rock formations, blooming wildflowers, and the changing hues of the desert create a visual tapestry that captivates the senses.

The Arizona Trail not only offers breathtaking scenic beauty but also tells a story of collaboration, determination, and the preservation of natural and cultural resources. Whether you hike the Arizona Trail for a day, a month, or a lifetime you will experience the grandeur of Arizona's landscapes and become part of the trail's ongoing history and legacy.

See more of Jeff’s Arizona Trail Pictures at the Arizona Trail Gallery.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

In the American Southwest, we seem to have a love-hate relationship with the prairie dog.

To environmentalists and nature lovers, these small, highly social animals are endearing and indispensable. They are the life of the grassland party, maintaining biodiversity, enriching the soil, and providing food and shelter for a host of other creatures. But to farmers and landscapers, prairie dogs can be a nightmare. Their extensive burrow systems can damage crops, undermine infrastructure, and create unsightly landscaping challenges. Add that to their reputation for spreading diseases that can affect livestock, and it’s no small wonder they have earned a mixed reputation.

However, the Gunnison’s prairie dog (Cynomys gunnisoni) is no ordinary rodent. Named after Captain John W. Gunnison, an American explorer and surveyor, this medium-sized member of the squirrel family plays a vital role in the Southwest’s grassland ecosystem. First identified as a distinct species in 1858 at the Smithsonian Institution, the Gunnison’s Prairie dog is found across Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and northern Mexico. Their light-brown coats, sprinkled with black-tipped hairs, and their distinctive white-tipped tails make them easy to recognize.

Gunnison’s prairie dogs are grassland architects, constructing elaborate “prairie dog towns” with burrows that can house hundreds of residents. These underground networks are more than mere shelters; they are masterpieces of engineering, complete with specialized chambers for nesting, food storage, and even waste management. Above ground, the prairie dogs live in complex social groups, each burrow ruled by a dominant male who oversees a harem of females and their offspring. Think of it as a soap opera set on the grasslands.

During warm weather, you will spot these creatures busily foraging, grooming, or scanning the horizon for predators. Their keen peripheral vision—thanks to eyes on the sides of their heads—helps them keep tabs on threats like hawks, foxes, or snakes. In cooler weather, they are active throughout the day, and come inclement weather, they retreat to their burrows. From November to March, they enter a state of hibernation, surviving on stored fat reserves and slowed metabolisms.

One of the most fascinating aspects of the Gunnison’s prairie dog is its sophisticated communication system. With an array of vocalizations, including screams, barks, and whistles, these rodents can issue warnings, attract mates, and even delineate territory. Their barks are like coded messages, detailing predator types and locations. Remarkably, they also have an “all-clear” signal and employ up to 11 distinct warning calls. Dr. Con Slobodchikoff, a professor emeritus at Northern Arizona University, studied their vocalizations extensively and concluded that their communication is so nuanced, it qualifies as a language—a linguistic achievement in the animal kingdom.

Despite their ecological importance, Gunnison’s prairie dogs face numerous threats, including habitat destruction, predation, and disease. As grasslands are converted for agriculture, urban development, and energy projects, these keystone species find their homes increasingly fragmented. Efforts to protect them have included habitat restoration, predator management, and even captive breeding programs. But with many people still viewing them as pests, these initiatives often face significant resistance.

One notable conservation effort took place in 2018 in Flagstaff, Arizona. When plans for a new hotel threatened a local prairie dog colony, conservationists with Habitat Harmony relocated 105 animals to a new site. Ironically, when the hotel project was later canceled, enough prairie dogs were still around to reclaim their original territory. It is a testament to their resilience and adaptability.

Fun facts you might have missed: Gunnison’s prairie dogs are not just ecosystem engineers but also dieticians for the grasslands. Their foraging helps control plant growth, promoting a balance that benefits the entire habitat. They are also prey for numerous species, from golden eagles and ferrets to badgers, making them a critical link in the food web.

So, whether you see them as charming stewards of the grasslands or pesky invaders of your fields, there is no denying the Gunnison’s prairie dog’s role in the circle of life. They are not just surviving in the American Southwest; they are thriving, shaping, and sustaining an ecosystem that is as intricate as their burrows.

See more Gunnison’s Prairie Dog pictures at the Gunnison’s Prairie Dog Gallery.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park, located on the Arizona-Utah border, is not a national park in the traditional sense but is administered by the Navajo Nation. This extraordinary region offers some of the most iconic and enduring images of the American Southwest. The landscape, characterized by its harsh, open desert and punctuated by striking sandstone rock formations, is a mecca for photographers. The play of light and shadow on the buttes and mesas during sunrise and sunset creates breathtaking displays of color, making it an unparalleled destination for observing and capturing the natural beauty.

This area is known to the Navajo People as Tse Bii' Ndzisgaii, which translates to "Valley of the Rocks." Monument Valley’s formations are remnants of a geological history stretching back hundreds of millions of years. During the Permian period, approximately 250 million years ago, the area was covered by an ancient sea, and layers of sediment were deposited over time. These sediments compressed into rock, forming the foundational layers of sandstone. Over subsequent geological periods, tectonic activity caused the region to uplift, exposing the sandstone. The forces of wind and water eroded the sandstone and resulted in the striking display of buttes and mesas that we see today.

The erosion process, which continues to this day, has sculpted the towering monoliths and mesas seen throughout the valley. The distinct red hues of the formations come from iron oxide within the sandstone, while occasional darker streaks are the result of manganese oxide. Each butte and spire tells a story of millions of years of transformation, shaped by the relentless forces of nature. The formations are the remnants of a once-continuous sandstone plateau, now weathered down to their unique and iconic shapes. This dynamic interplay of geology and time has created a landscape that feels both ancient and alive.

For the Navajo people, Monument Valley holds deep cultural and spiritual significance. The land is more than a stunning landscape; it is intertwined with the Navajo beliefs, traditions and way of life. Many of the formations are associated with Navajo stories and legends, reflecting the sacredness of the natural world. The names of many formations, such as Yei B Chei and Totem Pole, stem from Navajo spirituality, connecting them to deities, myths, and the natural elements.

Navajo culture emphasizes harmony with the land, and Monument Valley serves as a living testament to this connection. Guided tours led by Navajo guides allow visitors to gain a richer understanding of the area's cultural depth. Through these experiences, visitors can hear ancient stories, witness traditional song and dance and learn about the practices that have sustained the Navajo people for centuries. These interactions provide a window into a worldview that honors and respects the natural world.

For many visitors, Monument Valley feels familiar, even on a first visit. Its rugged terrain has achieved iconic status thanks to its frequent appearances in movies, advertisements and magazines. Few landscapes evoke the spirit of the Old West as powerfully as Monument Valley, which has served as the backdrop for more than sixteen major motion pictures and countless commercials. The area became especially famous through the work of director John Ford, who used its dramatic vistas in films like Stagecoach and The Searchers, cementing its place in cinematic history.

The best way to explore the park is by taking the 17-mile dirt road that loops through Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park. This scenic drive, which typically takes two to four hours to complete, features many turnouts and observation points where visitors can fully appreciate the grandeur of the formations. Key landmarks include the East and West Mitten Buttes, Merrick Butte, Three Sisters, John Ford’s Point, Camel Butte, Rain God Mesa, The Cube, Artist's Point, North Window and The Thumb. Rain God Mesa, located at the heart of the park, holds special spiritual significance for Navajo medicine men and serves as a testament to the cultural and spiritual heritage of the Navajo people. Many of the formations bear names given by the Navajo for their spiritual importance or by early settlers who were struck by their unique shapes.

Beyond the scenic drive, guided tours led by Navajo guides provide deeper insights into the park’s history, geology and cultural significance. Visitors may also have opportunities to learn about Navajo traditions and hear stories passed down through generations, adding layers of meaning to the already awe-inspiring vistas.

Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park is more than a picturesque destination; it is a place where natural history and human culture intertwine. Whether you come for the dramatic landscapes, the rich Navajo heritage, or simply the experience of standing in a place that feels timeless, Monument Valley offers an unforgettable journey into the heart of the American Southwest.

See more Monument Valley Tribal Park pictures at the Monument Valley Gallery.

Leave a comment

Share

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.

When I first visited the towering pine forests of Northern Arizona, my daughter who lives in Flagstaff, told me about a squirrel with unusually long ears. The first time I saw one of these strange critters, I thought I was looking at a miniature rabbit. Then it scampered up a tree and I realized this was no bunny. This was the Abert’s squirrel she had been telling me about.

The Abert's squirrel (Sciurus Aberti Woodhouse) is named after two people. Colonel John James Abert (1788 – 1863) was an American military officer and naturalist. He was the head of the Corps of Topographical Engineers who led the effort to explore and map the west. Samuel Washington Woodhouse (1821 – 1904) was a doctor and naturalist for the 1851 Sitgreaves Expedition which explored from New Mexico, across Arizona to Fort Yuma in California.

Abert’s squirrels are identified by their dark gray back with a reddish-brown patch on top, white underbelly and large bushy tail. The big tufted ears are the most distinctive feature. The ear tufts are longer in the winter and may disappear altogether in the summer. Abert's squirrels have strong rear paws and hind legs which makes it well-adapted for living in trees, climbing and jumping from branch to branch. They are a non-territorial animal that may have an overlapping range with other squirrels. They do not hibernate or cache their food and can be seen foraging throughout the year.

Abert's squirrels live in the mountains of Northern Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, parts of Wyoming and North Central Mexico where they thrive in the Ponderosa pine forests. Flagstaff is an ideal location for the Abert’s squirrel because of its proximity to the Coconino National Forest which contains the largest stand of Ponderosa pine trees in the world.

Eating is a complicated, messy and year-round affair for the Abert’s squirrel. Its favorite food source is the Ponderosa pine cone which begins to develop in May. The squirrel holds the cone with its front paws and rotates it, peeling away and discarding the scales to consume the tasty seeds. As pine cones mature through the summer a single squirrel can eat the seeds from up to 75 cones per day. As soon as the pine cones are depleted of seeds, the Abert’s squirrel turns to the pine twigs for its primary source of food. After the needle clusters and outer bark of the twigs are removed and discarded, the nutritious inner bark is consumed. In the wintertime a single squirrel can eat 45 twigs per day. The squirrel’s diet also includes the buds and shoots of the pine as well as tree sap and fungi that they dig up. The tree sap is thought to be a “sweet treat” for the squirrels.

The symbiotic relationship between squirrel and pine tree is both complex and intriguing. The tree provides the squirrel with the nutrition it needs; the squirrel helps the tree by spreading spores from the fungi they eat. The fungi then grow around the tree roots to help maintain moisture which is beneficial to the survival of the Ponderosa pine.

The messy eating habits of the Abert's squirrel benefits other animals too. When uneaten pine scales and outer bark are dropped, the debris piles up below the tree. This squirrel “trash pile” is quickly consumed by mule deer.

The Abert's squirrel builds its nest high up in the branches of the Ponderosa pine tree. A typical nest is built from pine twigs and is similar in size to that of a large bird. Plant material is collected to line the nest which is used for sleeping and living during cold weather as well as for raising the young. In late spring or early summer, one to five pink hairless and sightless baby squirrels are born. By August, the youngsters emerge from the nest to begin foraging alongside the parents.

As I study, photograph and write about nature, I am constantly learning different ways that wildlife adapts and connects to its natural surroundings. The symbiotic relationship of the Abert’s squirrel with the Ponderosa pine forest is just one example of how all life is interconnected. Nature is a delicate balance that we can appreciate and must all work to protect.

See more Abert’s Squirrel pictures at the Abert’s Squirrel Gallery.

Leave a comment

Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.

See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.