Going Beyond Utah’s Mighty Five

I had decided to start my September, shoulder-season trip in St. George, a small city located 8 miles (13 kilometers) north of the Arizona border. The town doesn’t have the name recognition that Moab does, but it’s not far behind: the area’s tourism revenues nearly doubled from 2019 to 2021, and the city’s growth reflects that change. Local, higher-end shops are replacing generic chains; my hotel, the Advenire, was and is the first boutique hotel in the entire Zion area. The spot feels like it’s part Moab, part Sedona—but before their spotlights hit.

The former Mr. Welch was originally tasked just with taking me from the airport to my hotel, but upon hearing of my search for less-trodden beauty, he recommended I visit nearby Snow Canyon State Park—and said he would even get me there. I initially brushed off his suggestion, taking it as simple politeness, but a quick Google told me I had to take him up on the offer. The following morning, he picked me up at the Advenire and drove me to park headquarters, about 10 miles (16 kilometers) from downtown St. George.

As soon as we arrived, I immediately knew I’d hit the jackpot; when I stepped out of the car, my feet hit the same rocks that form the canyons and cliffs of Zion National Park: orange-red Navajo Sandstone. It was everywhere. And the hikers? Pfft. In the course of an entire morning, I would run into fewer than a dozen.

From park headquarters, I made a beeline to the Lava Flow Trail, a 2.3-mile trek (3.7-kilometer) through the state’s fiery past. Over the next few hours, I ascended stacks of red-, white-, and cream-colored sandstone; I crawled into lava tubes; I touched the sand grains of petrified dunes; and I walked on streams of craggy black basalt. Zion is sometimes translated as “kingdom of heaven” or “holy place,” and in these places, I had found my own—roughly 50 miles (80 kilometers) away from the one everyone else knows.

The next day, I was off on another non–national park excursion. After breakfast at the hotel—they’re famous for their huge, buttery biscuits—I met up with tour guide Kyle. Kyle partners with the Advenire, which encourages their guests to use guides to explore the area’s outdoors. The idea of promoting guides, instead of having people explore on their own, is becoming popular across Utah and the West at large. The idea is that with a guide, you will be respectful and abide by leave-no-trace principles. You’re also less likely to get lost or hurt, and you’re more likely to have a good time.

Also, you’re more likely to find ways to escape the crowds.

Kyle’s off-the-radar suggestion was a visit to Yant Flat, in Dixie National Forest. After a 9-mile (14.5-kilometer) washboard drive up to 6,000 feet (1,829 meters), we took the roughly 1.5-mile (2.4-kilometer) hike to the aptly named Candy Cliffs—the towers of sandstone have patterns so wild they can look like candy canes (similar to the patterns on the more famous site, the Wave). I spent the morning walking along the rocks’ undulations and curves and taking photos; the scant handful of other travelers I saw during my exploration gave my shots that little-person-big-world vibe.

After my excursion with Kyle, I headed out to experience sunset at another less-trodden wonder, about two hours away: Cedar Breaks National Monument. As Snow Canyon is to Zion, Cedar Breaks is to Bryce Canyon—it’s smaller but nearly identical. (Cedar Breaks towers over them all, however, sitting at roughly 10,000 feet, or 3,048 meters.) It boasts the same orange hoodoos, the same dash of emerald tones in the pines, a similar eroded amphitheater—if I were to show you a picture, you’d likely be unable to tell the difference between the two spots. A group of local astronomers were running both night-sky and solar telescopes near Point Supreme, and they kindly offered me the chance to gaze directly upon the sun before it fell below the amphitheater walls. That required a telescope to shield our eyes; gazing directly at the Milky Way, an hour or so later, did not.

The next day took me to the city of Moab, which is, famously, the entrance to Arches National Park. The locals joke that winter is “left-turn season,” as summer crowds make it nearly impossible to get around town—luckily, September proved to be a simpler time to use that blinker. I posted up at the Radcliffe Hotel, another spot that encourages its guests to use guides to explore. The staff there booked me an afternoon tour with Mike Coronella, and soon after I arrived, I headed out with the talkative mountaineer. Our first task was heading down SR-279, aka Potash Road. This scenic drag winds along the Colorado River, with a portion nicknamed “Wall Street,” thanks to the cliff that towers over it. As it turns out, that sandstone wall also comes lined with hundreds of petroglyphs, most around 2,000 years old.

We pulled over and gawked. The more we gawked, the more we’d spot.

Along this sacred highway a number of fantastic trails with tempting names unfurl, including Middle Earth and Corona Arch. We headed to Longbow Arch, a moderate 1.2-mile (1.9-kilometer) trek about 15 minutes from town. It begins at the Poison Spider parking lot (try forgetting that name!) and heads away from the river, along visible dinosaur tracks, across scores of slickrock, through small canyons, and up to the trail’s 60-foot (18-meter) natural billboard, Longbow Arch. Yes, majestic arches exist outside the national park. Crowds may care about borders and designations, but the gods of geology certainly do not.

After lounging under Longbow, discussing Moab’s turn to responsible tourism, and my incessant questioning about dinosaurs, Mike and I followed the green-blue trail markers back to the trailhead, saying our goodbyes at the Radcliffe. I thanked him for insight into Utah’s landscapes and admitted that my love for the state’s national parks had been turned a bit upside-down. It turns out that sometimes you just need other, fresher eyes to find what’s beautiful.