One Van, One Woman, a Thousand Miles of Discovery
JACKSON, Wyo. — The runway at Jackson Hole Airport cuts through Grand Teton National Park, where jagged peaks rise like a welcome committee. It was my first time in Wyoming, and even the baggage claim came with a view. I picked up the keys to a sleek Mercedes-Benz Sprinter from Moterra Campervans and pointed the van south, a solo traveler with a rough plan: cross Idaho, traverse Utah, dip into northern Arizona and end in Las Vegas.
Into the Night
The first leg blurred into darkness. After hours of open highway and the occasional glow from a distant farmhouse, drowsiness hit just shy of Salt Lake City. I eased into a rest stop, folded into the camper’s bed and let the quiet hum of the heater lull me to sleep. As the sun rose, I rolled the final 30 miles to the Bonneville Salt Flats. Morning light revealed an otherworldly expanse—hard-packed, blindingly white, and perfectly flat. I set up my drone and watched the van’s shadow stretch for miles across the salt crust. It felt less like Earth and more like a minimalist painting in motion.
Sand and Silence
That evening I sampled downtown Salt Lake City’s early-fall charm over dinner and dessert, then steered south toward Kanab. The farther I drove, the warmer the air turned. Coral Pink Sand Dunes State Park had been on my bucket list for years, and it didn’t disappoint. The sand really is coral—peachy, luminous, almost glowing at sunset. I rented a sandboard and trudged up steep hills with camera gear slung over my back, each climb a mini workout followed by a bumpy, laugh-filled tumble back down.
Border Crossings and Canyon Curves
Just before dark I crossed into Arizona and gained an hour, setting up camp near Page. After a quick stovetop dinner in the van, I fell fast asleep. Morning brought Horseshoe Bend. Even at dawn the overlook was crowded, but the view—a sweeping curve of the Colorado River wrapped by towering sandstone walls—was worth weaving through the crowd to capture a photo. A few miles away, Lower Antelope Canyon revealed the trip’s grand finale. Guided by a Navajo host, I descended into narrow passageways carved by centuries of flash floods. Shafts of light bounced off the sandstone, painting the walls in burnt orange and violet. Every turn begged for a photograph.
A Red-Rock Farewell
From there, the open road called west. I spent my final night in Nevada’s Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area, waking to a sunrise over the red cliffs. I cooked breakfast outdoors, savoring the stillness before headed back to civilization. By late afternoon I returned the Sprinter in Las Vegas and boarded a flight home to Connecticut, carrying memories of the road and the desert.
