When my professor said we'd wake up at dawn on our Sunday “day of rest” to drive through southern Utah and look at rocks, I wasn't the sunniest.
Valley of the Gods, a scenic 17-mile drive through towering red sandstone formations, was an attraction we couldn’t miss.
By that point, the school trip had been filled with hard work, so I was admittedly pessimistic about the detour.
“I mean, I understand they’re historical and iconic,” I thought. “But they’re just rocks.”
However, riding in the backseat of a university minivan in my sweatshirt and beanie, watching the fiery red mesas and clear blue sky pass by the window, I began to see the beauty in what my professor called the “little Buddhas” of the valley.
My grip on my camera tightened as the road turned to thick gravel and dipped into muddy ruts.
Our car was not designed for off-roading, but my professor’s confidence suggested these buttes — isolated rock towers — were worth the trip.
In the front seat, my classmate held a giant map. Being part of the Google Maps generation, it felt almost otherworldly to watch her use one hand to hold it and the other to point to the first butte.
Scotchman Butte, not to be confused with Idaho’s “Scotchman Peak,” stood sturdy at the start of our journey.
It seemed at home among the valley’s towering, dramatic landscapes, reminiscent of Scotland’s castles.
Scotchman was hard to identify. As my professor, classmate, and I debated the first buttes, it became clear that what the rocks look like to you is just that — what they look like to you. Completely subjective. Some of the rocks I named may not match the official names.
Don’t get caught up in naming the rocks. That was the role of the Navajo and other local tribes, who saw mystic reverence in the valley and treated the buttes as vessels for warrior spirits.
Even prospector Albert Christensen — known in San Juan County for his home carved into a cliff, Hole N’ The Rock — named the valley in the 1940s after likening the sandstone formations to gods of mythology.
If anything, let the majestic figures be what you need them to be.
That’s what we did with the Seven Sailors, the next butte on the map. Several rocks look like soldiers in formation.
These seven stood out, their heads in a line and topped with flat sailors’ caps.
As I climbed back into the car, tracking in red dirt, I couldn’t help but think that those Seven Sailors were troublemakers, out on the town for a night of fun.
The rocks began to feel more real.
We kicked up more dust in our minivan. Then, as we crested another small hill, I caught my breath.
Setting Hen sat facing away from the caravan of cars and the rising festival hot air balloons, with Rooster standing a short distance behind her.
At this picture stop, I lingered a little longer. My classmate got out to stand by me.
“In my mind, they’re lovers,” I said about Hen and Rooster.
“That’s fair,” my classmate said. “Whose eggs do you think the hen is setting over?”
A setting hen, or “broody” hen, is a mother driven by instinct to protect her children.
The hen might spend ages sitting over her eggs, keeping them warm, plucking feathers from her own chest to make them a cozier nest, and fluffing up her wings to mark herself as defender of the territory.
The Hen sat over the valley, calmly staring me down as if I was an ant, knowing I can do nothing to her chicks.
I urged a vibrant hot air balloon to hurry up and get out of the way so I could see Hen fully.
In this moment, I felt the same kind of awe that I feel when I think of the divine.
I understood how a hen and a Scotchman — and later Rudolph and Santa — could feel like gods here.
Our next stops were deeper in the valley, where we found a busier road full of tourists with curiosity like ours.
Hot air balloons gathered around Franklin and Battleship Rock.
The squat Franklin must have been quite the leader to command a vessel like Battleship Rock.
Franklin is also a serious climb — some people scale the formation — rated class 5.9 on the Yosemite Decimal System.
More people chose instead to stand on the firm ground of the road, observing the buttes and hot air balloons from afar.
This created congested roads and the perfect circumstance for what I can only call the most fun traffic stop I have ever encountered.
My professor was starting to realize that we might be running late for church.
He tried to push it, but chaos entered in the form of an adventurous jogger that somehow kept running past us, a slow SUV in front of us, and even a hot air balloon called “Heart’s Desire.”
All at once, the jogger caught up to us, and “Heart’s Desire” came bouncing into view. The hot air balloon skidded over desert brush towards the road.
“Don’t land here,” my professor nervously exclaimed. “We have to get to church!”
We watched the basket tip into the road, then gasped as the jogger and SUV didn’t stop, getting closer to the balloon.
“Heart’s Desire” shakily glided over tire tracks, and as we held our breath, she made it over to the field to our right.
Bursting into laughter, our crew mused about what a fun sequence of photos that would make later.
The rest of our journey introduced us to the lonely Pyramid Peak, explored the walls of Castle Butte and even passed an unnamed butte that we named “Sock Drawer.”
We passed De Gaulle, standing shorter than the troops he commanded.
My classmate and I couldn’t help but giggle, wondering if De Gaulle felt his height being mocked.
It was humbling to discover that Charles de Gaulle was a key leader in World War II, leading the French against Nazi Germany and later helping to restore democracy in France.
The corners of my mouth still tilt at the imagination of a cheeky local naming the stubby butte.
Our drive ended with a giddy greeting to Rudolph, Santa Claus and Lady in the Bathtub.
Santa’s sleigh sits just over the valley, with a view that provides a breathtaking summary of the trip so far.
Meanwhile, Lady sits with refined posture, alone in her own private corner of the valley.
We rushed through the last of the rollercoaster gravel road, and I leaned back in the back seat for the first time on the journey, reeling.
There was a bit of nausea. Surely a bit came from a bumpy ride, but some must have also come from the task ahead of me.
How do I properly communicate the thrill I’ve felt from simply seeing a few big rocks off of US Highway 163?
I’m not a geologist. I know very little of the science, the explanation of how such incredible structures came to exist. And I can only romanticize so much.
But as we drove out of the valley, I knew. This valley carries meaning on its own.
And yes, we did make it to church on time.
