It was just after one in the afternoon when I left Moab, heading southwest in the direction of the National Monument. My goal was to reach it by sunset, but the landscape refused to let me hurry. Almost immediately, I found myself stopping again and again, unable to resist the call of the desert’s silent monuments.
The air shimmered with heat as the pale autumn sun cast long shadows over the ochre earth. To the left and right of the road, sandstone towers rose from the desert floor like ancient sentinels. The Sugarloaf stood squat and powerful, its rounded summit catching the light like a mound of molten gold. Not far away, the Setting Hen Butte spread her wings in stone, her silhouette unmistakable against the empty blue.
I stopped again when the Rooster Butte appeared, sharp and proud, as if crowing over the valley. Then came the whimsical Lady in the Bathtub, reclining lazily in the desert sun — her curves soft yet monumental. Every formation seemed to have a story, a gesture, a personality sculpted by time and wind.
The Mexican Hat came next — a precarious red sandstone disc balanced impossibly atop a slender pedestal. Behind it stretched a wide mesa, its layers of crimson and violet rock glowing in the afternoon haze. I lingered there, camera in hand, the wind warm against my face, the silence immense.
By the time I reached Highway 163, the light had begun to soften, brushing the cliffs with amber and rose. At 5:18 p.m., I stopped for the first time near the famous Forrest Gump Point. The long straight road stretched endlessly ahead, vanishing into the horizon framed by monumental buttes. The scene felt both cinematic and timeless, the desert breathing slowly under the lowering sun.
I drove a little farther, letting the golden light guide me. The closer I came to the buttes, the more the scene changed — the rocks shifting from deep rust to a burnished red, their edges glowing as if lit from within. At eight minutes past six, I reached the other side, the sun now behind me. Suddenly the whole valley ignited. The cliffs and mesas turned to fire — Castle Rock blazed like a fortress of light, while Brigham’s Tomb rose in solemn majesty, its layers glowing in copper and rose. Nearby stood the King on His Throne, its summit sharp against the flaming sky. Sentinel Mesa loomed silent and vast, and further still, the Artist’s Point opened like a painted panorama of shadow and color.
Merrick Butte and Big Indian glowed with the last rays, their massive forms reflected faintly in the shallow pools that had gathered from last week’s rain. The entire desert seemed alive — every ridge, every mesa breathing in the last warmth of the day. I stood there in the quiet, the camera forgotten for a while, watching the sun melt into the horizon.
As twilight deepened, the colors faded into violet and dusk-blue. The temperature dropped, and the first stars appeared above the desert plain. I drove on slowly, the shapes of the mesas now only dark silhouettes against the glowing sky — the day closing behind me like a curtain of light.