October 8, 2025
This morning, I left Price and headed toward the San Rafael Swell Recreation Area, eager to explore what is often called Utah’s “Little Grand Canyon.” The drive itself was already an adventure — about fifteen miles on a gravel road that wound through open desert plains and low, rust-colored hills.
The road shimmered in the morning light, and every few miles, the horizon widened into a vast emptiness where the air seemed to hum with silence.
The Wedge Overlook Trail begins unassumingly, leading into a wide canyon that soon narrows into a more intimate,
sculpted passage. The walls rise gradually, their surfaces streaked with layers of ochre, rose, and cinnamon-red sandstone — the kind of colors that shift with every minute of changing light. After about four hundred yards, the canyon tightens, and the first obstacle appears: a smooth, polished boulder wedged between the walls.
I watched a couple turn back here; the woman seemed hesitant to climb over, and I must admit, it was a tricky spot. I felt slightly sorry, too, because I had parked my car in the shade of their large mobile home, which now stood alone in the bright sun.
Once I scrambled past the rocks, the canyon continued for about a mile, its floor littered with dry sand and small stones. The air smelled faintly of sage and dust. Then, quite suddenly, the walls dropped away, and I found myself following
a dry riverbed bordered by low shrubs and junipers. In the distance, the Cedar Mountain Range rose before me — a magnificent sight. The cliffs glowed deep red in the sunlight, like iron heated in a forge, while the lower slopes faded into muted tones of green and gray, where desert plants clung to the dusty soil. The mountains seemed to stand guard over the emptiness, their flat tops and sheer faces carved by centuries of wind and water.
Just then, my phone vibrated with an emergency alert from the Sheriff’s office: a warning that the weather might change, bringing rain and possible flooding. The idea of a flash flood here was sobering, but the sky above me was a flawless blue, not a single cloud in sight. Turning back wasn’t an option I could seriously consider. I wanted to reach the best viewpoint and capture the colors of Cedar Mountain while the light was perfect.
So I pressed on, taking short cuts over small ridges, the crunch of gravel beneath my boots echoing softly in the silence. About twenty-five minutes later, I reached a rise that opened up to a sweeping panorama.
The red cliffs of the range stretched endlessly, their surfaces rippling with shadows and light. The contrast of red stone, gray sagebrush, and the infinite blue above was breathtaking. I stood there for a while, breathing in the dry air, feeling the stillness of the desert.
The return took me a little over two and a half hours in total. When I reached my car again, the sun was higher, the heat shimmering off the gravel road. From there, I decided to continue about six miles farther to Pine Canyon. Even the drive there was stunning — a landscape of ridges and mesas bathed in golden light, where every turn revealed a new view worth a photograph.
Pine Canyon turned out to be even more beautiful than I expected. I followed the old OHM road that winds gently through the canyon, its track framed by rocky slopes dotted with pinyon pines and desert shrubs. The silence here was absolute. Not a single off-highway vehicle passed by, and I was grateful for that;
the still air would have quickly turned into a cloud of dust. Instead, there was only the quiet whisper of the wind and the occasional call of a distant raven. I met just three other hikers on their way back — cheerful faces already touched by the sun — and after they disappeared around a bend, I had the place entirely to myself.
Later, as the light began to soften, I drove to the Little Grand Canyon Overlook. The name is almost ironic — there is nothing “little” about it. The view opened up into a vast labyrinth of cliffs and canyons stretching to the horizon, the San Rafael River cutting its winding path far below.
The cliffs glowed with layers of orange, red, and gold, their shapes sculpted into towers, fins, and deep recesses that caught the fading sunlight. Standing there, I felt the immensity of the land — ancient, silent, and unchanging.
It had been a long day, but one of the most rewarding of this journey so far. The San Rafael Swell may be less known than Utah’s national parks, yet it carries the same grandeur, just quieter, lonelier, and perhaps even more profound.