The Little Grand Canyon

The desert stretched before them in an ocean of rust-red stone and jagged shadows. It was September 19, 2025—a Friday—and by the time Will, Tony, and I shouldered our packs and stepped onto the trail at 12:30, the sun was already merciless, its heat pressing down with the weight of an anvil. Dust rose with each footfall, swirling in the dry air like ghostly signals from another age.

Canyons towered on either side, cliffs etched by millennia of wind and water into colossal fortresses of rock. They called this place the Little Grand Canyon, and it earned the name. The sandstone walls rose like battlements, the silence broken only by the scuff of boots and the occasional whisper of wind. For a fleeting moment, I could picture horsemen riding through these corridors, cowboys chasing shadows, native scouts perched on ridgelines, watching unseen.

The first eight miles were deceptively easy. We moved at a brisk three miles an hour, carving our way deeper into the canyon. The trail meandered past brush and stone, until we stumbled upon a curious sight: a lone boulder with weathered wooden posts forming a square at its base. We christened it “Cowboy Camp,” a ghost of some forgotten settlement.

Not long after, the wilderness bared its teeth. Brush thickened into a punishing wall of thorns and branches, clawing at our arms and legs. The trail itself seemed to vanish, reduced to little more than the faint memory of game paths—trails etched by deer, perhaps even the ghosts of beavers. A carcass confirmed how unforgiving this land could be: a horse, long dead, its bones stripped bare. Mountain lion country.

The air buzzed with flies, relentless in their pursuit, driving us to curse, swat, and douse ourselves in bug spray. Then came the rivers. At first, shallow crossings let us dance across stones without removing boots. But soon, the canyon forced its hand. Water deepened, and with it, our resolve. Boots off, sandals strapped—into the cold, biting current we plunged. The river soothed sunburnt skin but promised danger with every crossing.

By mile eleven and a half, fatigue gnawed at our edges. We made camp at a junction where three canyons collided, water within easy reach. Firelight soon cracked against the canyon walls, smoke warding off the swarming insects. Dinner was simple, but the conversation was timeless, stretching into the darkness like the sparks rising from our flames.

When sleep finally called, the desert transformed. Clouds parted, unveiling a sky so full of stars it looked as though the heavens themselves had torn open. For a moment, the canyon felt infinite, a reminder of how small we really were.

Morning came with coffee—a luxury in that barren wilderness—and the boldness of exploration. We scrambled up rocks, testing gravity, and indulged in the primitive joy of hurling boulders from heights just to hear them shatter below.

But soon it was time to march again. The plan was simple: push seven or eight miles closer to the car. We began in sandals, wading straight into the river to avoid the jungle of thorns. The water was cool, almost inviting, until it wasn’t. Mudslides offered the only exits, slick chutes of clay that demanded precision and nerve.

I slipped. My pack, with tent and sleeping bag, plunged into the shallows as I crashed into the current. Laughter eased the sting, but the risk was real. Wet gear out here was more than an inconvenience—it was vulnerability.

The canyon wasn’t finished testing us. A buck exploded from the brush, a flash of antlers and muscle, bounding effortlessly where we had stumbled and cursed. Soon after, disaster struck again: my Chacos gave out, the soles tearing free, leaving me sliding helplessly over mud and stone. Will’s trekking poles spared him on the next climb, but I sank knee-deep into muck, the canyon swallowing me like quicksand until he pulled me free.

By day’s end, we found refuge beneath a massive rock overhang, a cave-like shelter with a fire pit and stone table. Yellow jackets harassed us, but the fire drove them back. When rain swept through, we scrambled—Tony and I had rain flies, but Will wasn’t so lucky. He tucked gear under the stone ledge while we huddled by the fire, the storm roaring outside.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the storm broke. Clouds peeled away, and the Milky Way ignited across the sky, an arc of light stretching from canyon wall to canyon wall. Beneath its glow, we became part of something ancient—chanting, laughing, stoking fire as generations before us had.

The final morning dawned golden, sunlight spilling across the canyon walls like molten fire. Coffee in hand, we packed up, aching but resolute. With less than four miles to go, the trail spared us the worst of the bush, though the desert sun reminded us whose domain this truly was.

At last, the truck came into view. Packs slid from shoulders, and for a moment it felt as if the canyon itself had released us from its grip. Air conditioning blasted away three days of heat and grit, but the memories clung tighter than any thorn or fly.

We had endured. We had laughed, cursed, bled, and sweated in the Little Grand Canyon. And as we rolled toward Salt Lake City, I knew this wasn’t just a trip. It was a story—and one of many yet to come.