October 16th, 2025
I drove to Walmart in Page and parked my car there. The morning air was still cool, the sky already glowing in that deep, brilliant blue that only the desert knows. I packed my backpack with my camera and a simple lunch, then set off toward the Colorado River. The path led me through open sandstone country, where the earth shone in warm tones of red and gold.
When I finally reached the river, its emerald-green ribbon shimmered far below, flowing quietly but with unmistakable power. I followed it for about a mile, walking roughly a hundred meters above the water. From up there, the view was breathtaking—every curve of the river revealed new shapes of rock, new shades of color, as if the landscape were alive and shifting with the light. At one bend, I noticed a small island in the middle of the stream, resting like a forgotten pebble in a sea of green water.
After a while, I turned away from the river, heading toward the viewpoint marked “Colorado River” on the AllTrails map, not far from Horseshoe Bend. The terrain became wilder, more dramatic. The path wound through cliffs sculpted by centuries of wind and rain. Their forms were astonishing—arched, twisted, smoothed, and carved as if by an artist’s hand. Every step revealed new patterns of erosion, delicate grooves and hollowed pockets glowing in orange and rose tones. The ground was rough and sharp, made of brittle rock that could easily cut through thin soles. I was thankful for my sturdy hiking shoes.
When I reached the viewpoint, the landscape opened up magnificently. Below me, the Colorado River gleamed like a serpent of turquoise, coiling through the deep canyon. The cliffs dropped steeply toward the water, layer upon layer of red sandstone, ochre, and pale beige. Across the river, the horizon spread out into a panorama of distant mountains—eastward, they rose in soft pastel hues, pink and violet under the hazy sunlight; to the north, a small mountain range stretched in rugged outlines, its slopes painted in earthy reds and shadows of purple.
Far below, small motorboats traced thin white lines across the water, their sound barely reaching the height where I stood. The silence was immense, broken only by the whisper of wind gliding over the rocks. I could see no path leading up the opposite side of the canyon—if there had been one, I would have gladly continued toward Horseshoe Bend. But here, the cliffs were impassable, steep and wild.
So I found a flat rock near the edge, sat down, and unpacked my lunch. As I ate my sandwich and drank some cool water, I let the scene sink in—the glowing cliffs, the deep, endless sky, the tranquil sweep of the river below. It was one of those moments that seem to stop time.
After a while, I packed up and began my way back the same route I had come, the late afternoon sun now painting the canyon walls in golden light. The air was dry and still, and the desert around me seemed to hold its breath. When I finally reached my car, I felt both tired and deeply content—grateful for a day spent in such pure, untouched beauty.