There are stories-old and new-all written in the sand. It’s a place with a human history that dates back 2,500 years or more, to when the Basketmakers first carved their existence from the sandstone here. I’d wanted to be alone, but soon found, through pictures pecked into sandstone and moonlight illuminating an orange wall decorated with human handprints, that Bears Ears is not an empty desert wilderness. I never feared the coyotes howling nearby in the night they were friends who would protect me from the violence I had escaped in my marriage. The focus required to live in this environment moved me past my trauma and kept me in the present.

Wild weather swings and harsh terrain ensured I never got stuck in the quicksand of inner turmoil. I thought going deeper into the geologic layers would scour me of the film left by a tumultuous divorce and expose something better underneath. I decided to stay-all year-navigating the network of twists and turns through the rock strata. But I knew that wouldn’t really help me get better. After that first, failed hike, I contemplated leaving the desert. I came to Bears Ears because I needed space to be alone, to rest in safety, to scream at the sky. Its vast open spaces hold crevices and caves, a mingling of exposure and protection that sets the stage for a reckoning. Throughout history and literature, the desert has been a place of healing, exile, and solitude. I was looking for escape, but the canyon was offering only depth. When my eyes dried, I got up, brushed the sand off my legs, and left. It was this exact spot, in 2017, during my first hike in Arch Canyon-one of my first in the greater Bears Ears area-where I realized not even the soaring canyon walls were enough to shelter me from a broken heart at what my life had become. I’m reminded: The desert is less nature’s blank slate than it is an ever-growing time capsule, collecting stories for a millennium and revealing them to those willing to listen. With the sun kissing my cheeks into a smile, my eyes trace down from the rim to a line in the cliff which clutches a small, rock structure. Scooping up sand in the wide entrance of Arch Canyon, I cast my gaze upward where clouds linger on the sandstone spires, as if to hold onto the view just a bit longer. Heading out the door? Read this article on the new Outside+ app available now on iOS devices for members!

Where did hikers get stuck in quicksand