Havasupai

 One week before

I hadn’t picked up my camera in what felt like ages. The relentless demands of work had consumed nearly every waking moment, and with April poised to leave for her spring break soon, my plan had been straightforward: double down and power through as much work as possible. But life, as it often does, had other plans.

The forecast for the Bay Area promised a weekend deluge, the kind that tempted me to hunker down with my laptop and a relentless to-do list. April, however, craved the opposite—an escape, a breath of fresh air away from the confining walls of our home. Her suggestion? A weekend camping trip among the towering redwoods of Humboldt State Park. When I half-jokingly proposed bringing my computer along, she firmly dismissed the idea: "No work this weekend."

Reluctantly setting aside my professional obligations, I dusted off my cameras, untouched since my last major trip to Hawaii. As I prepared the gear, a familiar excitement trickled in. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it right. We planned to leave early, chasing the golden hour light, making numerous stops to capture the majestic redwoods on camera.

The weekend unfolded with an unexpected ease. The colossal trees, immense and enduring, rose above us, a silent testament to the timeless beauty of nature. Our days were filled with good food, local beers, and the novelty of driving through trees carved out for this very purpose. At night, thanks to our trusty tent heater, we slept soundly, cocooned in the serenity of an almost deserted campsite.

As we wrapped up our brief but rejuvenating getaway, a casual lunch in a quaint town nearby brought unexpected news. April returned from a call looking both stunned and excited—her travel companion for an upcoming trip to Havasupai had just discovered she was pregnant and couldn't make the journey. Everything was already paid for; they were supposed to leave in six days.

"Can you go with me?" April asked, her eyes wide with a mix of hope and urgency. I hesitated, my mind racing through the backlog of work awaiting my return. But then, we talked about the rarity of such opportunities—how for many, a trip to Havasupai was a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. All I needed to do was show up.

After some time reviewing my schedule, I hesitantly agreed. Sometimes, life isn't about meticulously planning every step but about seizing the unexpected opportunities that come our way.

Fast forward through a hectic week of wrapping up projects and arranging last-minute time off work, we found ourselves in the bustling Las Vegas airport, ready to embark on an adventure that was as spontaneous as it was promising. This was not just a journey to a stunning destination, but a much-needed reminder to occasionally let go and live fully in the moment.

Old Route 66

Arriving at the Las Vegas airport around 7 in the evening marked the beginning of our journey into disconnection. As the city's neon lights started twinkling in the dusk, we shuttled our way to a rental car agency, where a serendipitous shortage of economy vehicles landed us a free upgrade to a Dodge muscle car. The unexpected thrill of driving such a powerful machine added an exhilarating edge to our departure from the ordinary.

Before heading out, we made a last-minute stop at REI to pick up backpacking fuel and some additional provisions. Knowing we had a few hours' drive ahead of us, we fueled ourselves with a stop at In-N-Out—my go-to for any road trip indulgence. With burgers in our bellies, I took over driving, choosing to navigate the slightly longer but iconic Route 66. Even in darkness, the hope of catching glimpses of vintage neon along this historic road was too enticing to pass up.

We rolled into the small Route 66 town of Seligman around 1 a.m., tired but wired with anticipation for what lay ahead. The chill of the night was biting, prompting us to crank the heater as we settled in for a short rest. However, sleep was brief; at 5 a.m., April nudged me awake with unexpected news—the official Instagram account for Leica had liked and commented on one of my videos. Half in a dream state and half in disbelief, I couldn't grasp the reality of this virtual nod from a photography giant.

Unable to fall back asleep, I wandered into the cold pre-dawn with my camera. Seligman at this hour was ethereal. The Main Street, crafted for tourists, was deserted, and the back roads reserved for locals whispered stories through my lens as the first light painted everything in hues of possibility. The town was a visual feast of contrasts, beautifully isolated in the stillness of morning.

Returning around 7, April and I grabbed breakfast at the local hotspot—a diner renowned on Google reviews and buzzing with travelers. Fuelled by hearty meals and bustling conversations around us, we packed up quickly after eating and drove to the Grand Canyon Caverns to pick up our permits. This spot, a curious amalgamation of a hotel, gas station, and travel center, marked the last touchpoint with modern conveniences before we ventured deeper into nature.

By 11 a.m., we reached the trailhead, greeted by the unexpected sight of hundreds of cars and a vibrant crowd more reminiscent of a festival than a hiking trail. Here, amidst the jovial chaos, we opted to use the mule service to carry our bags down—a convenience we hadn't planned on but gratefully accepted, shifting our essentials to our day packs.

The excitement briefly turned tense when I caught some flak from a park official for taking photos of the mules, a minor confrontation that underscored the transition from a world ruled by screens and likes to one governed by raw, natural law.

With our packs ready and the canyon before us, the air a crisp mid-60s, we stood on the brink of the vast, carved earth. There was a moment of hesitation, a collective breath held between the known and the unknown. As we prepared to descend, the grandeur of the canyon seemed to pull us into its depths, inviting us to disconnect fully from the world we knew and plunge into its profound and ancient silences.

Down and down we go

We started strong under a sun that hung directly overhead, its rays intense yet tempered by the cool air of the canyon. The initial two miles were a steep descent, with switchbacks that bottlenecked with fellow hikers. Around us, the canyon walls, etched with time, began their grand reveal.

Near the remnants of an old man-made structure, a friendly dog appeared, trotting alongside us, a silent companion in our journey. Above, a helicopter buzzed, shuttling between the rim and the Native American village nestled deep within the canyon. It was a surreal procession; first, we were above the helicopter, then alongside, and finally, we watched it from below as our path dipped deeper into the canyon's embrace.

As the trail leveled off, the crowd thinned, and the vastness of the canyon enveloped us. April and I, now mostly alone, took advantage of the solitude. Our cameras became extensions of our eyes, capturing slivers of time against the timeless backdrop. The hike transitioned into a serene march through corridors of rock, sculpted by eons of geological artistry. The landscape was a tapestry of color—ochres and ambers blending into the deep greens of sparse vegetation.

At the halfway point, we paused to refuel, munching on the remnants of breakfast and a medley of snacks. As the golden hour approached, the canyon transformed. The light softened, painting everything in hues of gold and amber, and soon the first signs of the strikingly blue water appeared—its color a vibrant contrast, enriched by the minerals of the earth.

Entering the Native American town marked a shift in our journey. We crossed the bridge, retrieving our packs with a renewed sense of purpose to make it to camp before dark. The fading light clung to the canyon rims as we hurried along the path to secure a campsite. And then, as twilight touched the edges of the day, we encountered the majestic sight of Supai Falls. The waterfall, a cascade of pristine water, was a spectacular vision. Unable to capture it on color, I had to use black and white.

As expected, the prime camping spots were taken. Undeterred, we found a flat area by the river—an imperfect but serene spot to settle for the night. April and I quickly divided our tasks: she arranged our sleeping quarters while I filtered water from the river, the soothing sound of the current a backdrop to our activities.

Dinner was a simple yet extraordinary affair by the riverbank. April had packed smoked duck breast and gourmet ramen noodles, a luxury in the wilderness. We savored each bite as dusk enveloped the canyon, the day’s experiences simmering into a warm contentment. The meal concluded, and after a quick rinse in the chilly river water, we retreated to our sleeping bags.

Despite the forecast suggesting a plunge below freezing, the canyon’s embrace was gentle that night. I drifted off to sleep, cocooned in the peace that only such profound natural beauty can offer. It was, unquestionably, the best night’s sleep I’d had in months—a restorative end to a day of descent both literal and metaphorical, into the heart of the canyon and into a deeper connection with the world around us.

Our own private island

The sun had barely risen when April, in a burst of early morning energy, scouted for a new campsite. She woke me with excitement—a dream spot had become available. After a brief survey of other options, we settled on her initial find: a secluded isle cradled by the cerulean embrace of the river, accessible only by balancing across a fallen log. The serene isolation felt like a secret haven made just for us. We spent the morning setting up our new home base, stringing a hammock over the water between two sturdy trees, and simply reveling in the peaceful surroundings. Rather than embarking on the planned hike to Beaver Falls, we opted for a day of leisure, brewing coffee and basking in the slow rhythm of canyon life.

As the morning unfolded, April was touching up her makeup when my phone buzzed with a timely reminder—the solar eclipse was imminent. It was April 8th, and we were minutes away from the peak of this celestial event. We scrambled to a clearing on our tiny island, donned our eclipse glasses, and watched in awe as the moon claimed its brief dominion over the sun. Though the coverage was less than forty percent, the sight was nonetheless breathtaking, a stark reminder of nature's grandeur.

Later, fueled by the morning's cosmic display, we set off for Mooney Falls, located just at the campground's edge. The descent to the falls is renowned for its challenge—an adventure carved into the very bedrock of the canyon. A tunnel through the rock and chains bolted to the cliff side guide the brave downward. As we navigated this vertical maze, the mist from the falls dampened the path, turning our descent into a slippery endeavor. Despite the daunting aspects of the hike and a brief surge of fear, the thrill of the challenge spurred us on. My camera, though exposed to the spray, survived the journey, a testament to our preparedness.

Reaching the base of Mooney Falls felt like stepping into another world. The waterfall cascaded into a vibrant blue pool, its waters a surreal shade that seemed more dreamlike than real. We spent hours there, wading and exploring the basin, joined by others who shared in the joy and beauty of this natural wonder.

Hunger eventually called us back to reality, and after a picnic lunch, we made the slow climb back up. The path was busier now, the earlier solitude replaced by a queue of fellow adventurers. The climb was cautious but filled with camaraderie as we all ascended from the depths of the canyon.

On our way back, we stopped at Supai Falls, hoping for a treat from the local flatbread stand. Though they were out of bananas, the strawberry flatbread proved a delightful consolation. We explored the falls under the clarity of daylight, appreciating its beauty anew before returning to our island campsite.

The day, light yet filled with new experiences, drew to a close as we settled back at our site. Dinner was simple, our conversation meandering through the day's adventures. As night fell over the canyon, the river's gentle murmur lulled us into another night of profound sleep under the stars, deep in the heart of Havasupai.

Beach Day

We rose with the sun, albeit later than many of the early risers around us, fueled by the anticipation of visiting Beaver Falls. After packing a day's worth of snacks, swimsuits, and our trusty hammock, we set off, ready to take on the day more leisurely than the last. The descent through Mooney Falls was slower this time, hampered by a cautious crowd. The thrill of navigating down the day before was replaced by patience as we watched several hikers turn back, overwhelmed by the daunting path.

Once past the cliff, the trail smoothed out, presenting a clear path lined with the stunning backdrop of the canyon walls. The weather was perfect, clear and sunny, ideal for the numerous river crossings that we tackled with ease in our sandals. Our journey was graced by a rare encounter with a female ram, her presence so serene that I managed to capture a close-up, a treasured shot for any photographer.

A fellow hiker returning from a longer trek shared tales of sighting big rams in the early morning, suggesting they might return at dusk. Inspired, April and I decided to linger in the area later in hopes of catching this majestic scene ourselves. The hiker, a fellow photography enthusiast wielding a film camera, exchanged a few tips before continuing on his way.

Continuing our trek, we soon arrived at the bustling scene of Beaver Falls. The area was alive with excitement, from boisterous Boy Scouts to families enjoying the refreshing waters. April and I agreed on our approach: have fun first, photos later. The chill of the water was a brisk welcome as we dove into the activities around us. I joined the scouts in their cannonball antics, coaxing the shyest among them to take the leap after I did, much to April's amusement.

I ventured up a precarious route to the top of the waterfall. While sketchy, the panoramic views from above were breathtaking, offering a moment of solitude amid the day's liveliness. Although there was a higher tier accessible only by a questionable log climb, I opted to enjoy the view from where I stood, leaving the more daring ascents to the adventurous scouts.

As the sun began to dip, the temperature dropped sharply, prompting a rapid exodus from the falls. April, chilled and careful not to get her hair wet, and I stayed to enjoy our planned picnic. Our meals were a mixed bag—one delicious, the other a regrettable attempt at green curry. Post-meal, we found a quieter spot by a smaller waterfall to set up our hammock—an idyllic setting for the afternoon wind-down.

Here, tranquility enveloped us. As I filtered water and April took her turn relaxing, the serene moment was punctuated by the sudden appearance of rams. First one, then three, they grazed close enough to startle but remained peaceful, adding an unexpected thrill to our restful pause.

This encounter with nature, raw and unscripted, underscored the day's perfection. Surrounded by a picturesque waterfall on one side and grazing rams on the other, we soaked in the beauty and the stillness.

Eventually, it was time to return. We retraced our steps, climbed the cliffs of Mooney Falls, and made our way back to camp. With an early departure planned for the next day, we welcomed the night early, retiring as the canyon shadows deepened into twilight. Our last full day in Havasupai had been nothing short of magical, a fitting prelude to the journey back to the ordinary world awaiting us.

Hike Out

Our final day in Havasupai began before dawn. We set our alarms for 5:30 AM, and by 6:45, we were on the trail, coffee warming our bellies and spirits. At the spring, we topped off our water bottles, and a lucky find of Ritz crackers at the trailhead's free pile seemed to promise a good day ahead—Ritz being a cherished snack for our travels.

Hoping for a chance to fly out of the canyon, we trekked to the town to check the helicopter schedule. April, having never experienced a helicopter ride, was eager for this potential adventure. Unfortunately, we were too early, and with no definitive answers, we settled for a leisurely breakfast while we waited. But luck wasn't on our side that morning; it was clear we would be hiking out.

The temperature was notably higher, about 20 degrees warmer than our hike in, promising a challenging ascent. With our packs strapped on—having opted out of the mule service—we were determined to complete our exit on our own terms.

The trail out mirrored our initial descent but with the added intensity of the midday sun and the uphill battle. Frequent breaks and abundant water helped us manage the heat. By mid-afternoon, we reached the final ascent. Here, under the shade of a familiar rock where we had met a friendly dog days earlier, we paused longer, making friends with a group of older hikers from Utah.

The camaraderie was uplifting, and their presence motivated us as we tackled the steepest part of our hike. Despite April's usual struggles with such demanding trails, she found a rhythm that was slow yet unwavering. Together, we pushed through the final leg, reaching the top more swiftly than expected.

At the trailhead, we celebrated briefly, then dropped our bags and strolled to our parked car. Returning to pick up our gear, we found our new friends from Utah had just completed their climb. In a final gesture of trail fellowship, we gave one of them a lift to their vehicle.

Exhausted but fulfilled, we scrapped any grand plans of further adventures along Route 66 or brewery visits. The comfort of a hotel was all we could manage. After checking in, we returned to the same diner we'd visited before our hike. A hearty meal of steak for me and a French dip for April, coupled with a few beers, was the perfect close to our strenuous day.

Back at the hotel, a quick shower was all it took to wash off the dust and fatigue. I managed a few photographs of neon lights—a nod to the vibrant spirit of Route 66—before we both succumbed to a deep, restorative sleep. That night, the adventure didn't need to stretch any further; we had ventured enough, and the canyon had given us all the challenges and beauty we could have hoped for. This was the end of our journey in Havasupai, a fitting culmination of physical exertion and profound natural experiences.

Last Steps before Home

As we drove back to Las Vegas the next day, the landscape shifted around us, from the profound depths of the canyon to the quirky charm of roadside attractions. Each stop was an opportunity to stretch our legs and capture snapshots—not just with our cameras, but with our minds, preserving the fleeting moments that punctuated our return to civilization.

These photos, while seemingly disparate, stitched together a narrative of transition—from the wild, untamed beauty of Havasupai to the manufactured novelty of tourist stops. Yet, each image shared a common thread: a celebration of journey and destination, of the extraordinary and the everyday.

As the miles back to Las Vegas dwindled, April and I found ourselves deep in conversation, recounting each day’s hike, each night’s starry sky, and the unexpected challenges that we had overcome together. These reflections brought laughter and a few reflective silences, as we realized just how much the journey through Havasupai had given us.

Concluding this journey, I am struck by how the landscape of the heart can be as vast and varied as any physical terrain we traversed. The trails we walked in Havasupai will fade over time, but the impressions they left on us will not. In documenting this trip, I hope to have captured not just a sequence of events, but a series of emotional landscapes that resonate with the universal quest for connection, challenge, and discovery.

So, as this story closes, another begins: the story of integrating these experiences into the fabric of our everyday lives, letting them inform our choices, enrich our relationships, and inspire our future adventures.

And as always, the road calls us back—not just to places known and unknown but to the deeper exploration of our own boundaries and dreams. The journey never truly ends; it simply pauses, waiting for the next chapter to unfold.