The Beginning of the Trail
At ten in the morning, I set out for Buckskin Gulch, following the sandy path toward the Wirepass Trail. The first stretch of the trail led me gently into the desert, through the typical vegetation that defines so much of the American West—low sagebrush, tough grasses, and the occasional juniper twisted by years of sun and wind. The air was cool and clear, carrying that dry mineral scent that always hangs over these wide, open lands.
The Gates of Stone
After about five hundred meters, the scenery shifted dramatically. Suddenly, flat rock formations rose from the desert floor—two on the left, one on the right—each about thirty meters high and seventy meters wide, standing roughly eighty meters apart. Together, they formed a kind of natural gateway. The rocks glowed in the morning light, their surface a brilliant orange, almost radiant against the pale blue sky. It felt like walking through a door into another world.
I passed two more of these “gates,” each different in shape. One side formed a narrow, ribbed ridge, the other side conical columns. I am always deeply impressed when I see how nature sculpts the stone here, curving and folding it with the patience of millennia.
The Desert and the Climb
After about three and a half kilometers, I turned left and continued for another eight hundred meters through deep sand. Every step sank in, turning the hike into a steady rhythm of strength and breath. The trail began to rise. Walking uphill in soft sand was exhausting, but rewarding.
Then, quite suddenly, the landscape changed again. Wide rock slopes unfolded ahead of me, smooth and immense, like frozen waves. In the distance stood strange columns and ridges that resembled craters. It felt like stepping onto another planet—perhaps the moon, or Mars.
The Ascent and the Spine of Stone
The mountain climb was steep and risky. The ground was covered with thin, sharp ribs of rock—beautiful but treacherous. I paused often, looking around at the immense silence.
About three-quarters up, I rested. Before me, a remarkable formation appeared—it looked like a staircase or a spine, the vertebrae of the earth itself, descending diagonally down the slope.
Across the valley, another mountain rose, crowned with columns and sparse shrubs. I sat, ate, drank, and absorbed the silence.
The Summit and the Return
At the top, I was astonished by the life around me—pine trees and hardy shrubs growing among the rocks. From there, the view opened wide: orange and red stone waves fading into the distance.
After exploring eastward, I began my descent carefully. I tried to photograph the “spine” from above, but its form was clearer from below.
On the way back to the trailhead, I stopped again and again, admiring the cliffs now glowing in the late sun, deepening into amber and crimson.
It was a great hike—demanding, breathtaking, and full of quiet wonder. I felt deeply privileged to witness such beauty, carved over millions of years by wind and time.