The road into Monument Valley feels like something out of memory—burnt orange earth, wide sky, and rock formations that look too ancient to be real. I didn’t set out with a route in mind. Just a direction. And somewhere along the stretch of desert silence, the road stopped being a path and started feeling like a companion.

I drove with the windows down, dust curling into the corners of the car, the smell of sun on metal thick in the air. The land was empty in that way that feels full—of space, of time, of stories you’ll never know. At one point, I pulled over just to sit still. To watch the shadows shift on the buttes and mesas, changing the mood of the whole valley without a sound.

The isolation wasn’t lonely. It was expansive. The kind that makes your thoughts echo a little longer than usual. I listened to music for a while, then nothing at all. Just wind, and heat, and the rhythm of tires humming against the earth.

Driving across Monument Valley isn’t about getting anywhere. It’s about dissolving into the landscape. About remembering that the world is older than you, quieter than you, and more generous than you expected.