Southern Utah serves up beds beneath a billion stars, then spends the days trying to kill me with cliffs, chains and airborne dune buggies.
Words, Video & Images Justin Jamieson
Southern Utah serves up beds beneath a billion stars, then spends the days trying to kill me with cliffs, chains and airborne dune buggies.
Words, Video & Images Justin Jamieson
I’m stretched out on a decadently comfortable bed inside a luxury canvas tent, staring up at a sky so full of stars it feels like it’s raining light.
and I’m here to glamp my way across three of the region’s most ridiculous landscapes.
I’m stretched out on a decadently comfortable bed inside a luxury canvas tent, staring up at a sky so full of stars it feels like it’s raining light.
and I’m here to glamp my way across three of the region’s most ridiculous landscapes.
Don’t get too close to the edge!
My first stop: Open Sky, a self-described luxury wilderness resort, an understatement if ever there was one. This place is straight-up desert Shangri-La. The tent has hotel-grade linen, a bathroom straight out of the Ritz, and uninterrupted views of Utah's red rock region. There’s even a glass-roofed night bed for watching shooting stars.
Dawn creeps in slowly, lighting the sandstone walls from crimson to gold. It’s peaceful, spacious, and majestic, exactly the calm before the adrenaline storm that is the infamous Angels Landing hike.
This is camping Open Sky style.
This is camping Open Sky style.
My first stop: Open Sky, a self-described luxury wilderness resort, an understatement if ever there was one. This place is straight-up desert Shangri-La. The tent has hotel-grade linen, a bathroom straight out of the Ritz, and uninterrupted views of Utah red rock. There’s even a glass-roofed night bed for watching shooting stars.
Dawn creeps in slowly, lighting the sandstone walls from crimson to gold. It’s peaceful, spacious, and majestic, exactly the calm before the adrenaline storm that is the infamous Angels Landing hike.
Don’t let go of the chain.
Contemplating the trip down.
Getting to Angels Landing isn't the hard part. Winning permission to scare yourself senseless is. The final 800 metres of the hike is so popular, the National Park Service has to use the lottery system for a chance to tackle it. Thousands of people apply every day hoping to be one of the lucky few selected to inch their way along a sandstone fin with sheer drop-offs on both sides. Most lotteries promise cash or a new car. This one gives you the chance to lose your life. I hear a fellow hiker whisper to a friend "Apparently 6 people died here last year..."
The trail begins innocently enough, winding its way through Zion on a series of long switchbacks before climbing Walter's Wiggles to Scout Lookout. Families are smiling, people are chatting, everyone looks relaxed. Then the chains appear and only the lucky lottery ‘winners’ may pass.
Beyond this point the footpath narrows to little more than the width of a pair of hiking boots.
Steel chains are bolted into the rock because without them this would be a very short hike in every sense of the word. I wrap both hands around the first section and start shuffling upwards.
The sandstone ridge rises like the back of a giant dinosaur. On either side the canyon simply disappears. Hundreds of metres below, the Virgin River snakes through the valley, looking impossibly small from up here. I overhear another story of an unhappy husband nudging his wife off the edge a number of years back. Passing hikers coming the other way becomes an awkward game of "whose turn is it to hug the cliff?" while everyone pretends they're not terrified. Which, they are ofc.
The climb demands complete concentration. Every handhold, foothold and gust of wind matters. This is made even more difficult by the ridiculously spectacular views of Zion National Park. Then, just as my forearms begin negotiating with the rest of my body, the ridge opens onto the summit.
The reward is outrageous. Zion stretches to the horizon in every direction, towering sandstone walls glowing orange and cream. The fear melts away, replaced by that delicious mix of relief and triumph that only comes from earning a view the hard way.
Of course, there's one small catch. The only way down is exactly the same way you came up.
Never forget to stop and take in the views.
Bryce Canyon is like another planet.
The next day at Bryce Canyon, things soften, but only visually. Bryce is a cathedral of hoodoos, tall spires shaped by time and weather into a stone army that appears frozen mid-march. I wander through the amphitheatre feeling like I’ve entered a rock sculpture garden curated by a mythical civilisation.
The Paiute Indians that first occupied the canyon believe the rock formations are the Legend People, bad people who were turned to stone. It would be a creepy place at dusk with the ‘bad people’ leering from their frozen seats.
The silence out here is heavy and ancient. Every hoodoo looks different, weathered, surreal and hypnotic. Bryce Canyon is where geology comes to show off.
Golden hour is when the hoodoos really show off.
Potentially the coolest drive-in in the USA.
From there, I head to Ofland, a glamping setup that looks like a desert film set sprinkled with some retro Americana. My accommodation is more boutique cabin than traditional canvas, complete with a food package to cook over an open fire. Soon I’m grilling like a cowboy, if cowboys cooked with pre-marinated steak and cold craft beer. Flames crackle, stars pulse overhead, and the desert becomes a flickering amphitheatre.
The onsite drive-in cinema might be the most brilliantly eccentric thing I’ve seen anywhere. Instead of seats, old Caddies, Fords and Chevys sit lined up, facing the outdoor screen.
They look abandoned decades ago, yet somehow perfectly placed, like someone preserved a slice of American road culture right here in the desert.
I climb into one, feet up on the cracked dashboard, and watch How to Train Your Dragon projected against a star-splashed Utah sky. Coyotes howl somewhere in the dark, the night wind whistles across the basin, and suddenly an animated dragon movie feels like high art.
Kodachrome Basin State Park. Don’t pass it by.
The next morning I make my way to Kodachrome Basin State Park, the quiet overachiever of Utah’s geological family. While Zion and Bryce pull in crowds like the latest blockbuster, Kodachrome is the underrated indie film with cult fans and zero queues.
Here the rock formations rise like ancient chimneys surrounded by sagebrush and silence. I hike across rolling sandy trails, seeing just one other person. It feels like walking through a secluded desert gallery built entirely by the wind. Like the company itself, it seems the world has forgotten Kodachrome.
Then the adrenaline kicks back in. Someone suggests a UTV trip to Peek-A-Boo Canyon, which sounds harmless until we start accelerating across sand like we’re auditioning for Mad Max: Utah Edition. Hal, our laid-back guide, grins as I ask whether we'll get all four wheels off the ground with far more bravado than experience. "No," he says laconically. "But we'll have enough thrill factor. Trust me."
The UTV, a dune buggy on steroids, bounces, rattles and, in my mind, occasionally becomes airborne. Sandstorms erupt behind us as we tear along ridgelines and riverbeds. Shouting becomes pointless. Everything is engine noise, wind and the screams from Karen, my somewhat distressed navigator.
At the canyon, we climb out and wander on foot through a labyrinth of twisting slot passages carved by millenia of wind and water. Narrow sandstone walls curl into surreal shapes, glowing red and gold under shifting sunlight. Hal recounts hearing a flash flood roar through here, powerful enough to hurl one-ton boulders into the canyon walls. We climb over several still wedged into the crevices.
On the way back, adrenaline spikes again. A UTV hits a rut, tips and rolls. No injuries, just dust, laughs and a reminder not to get too cocky in the desert. Karen insists I slow down for the remainder of the journey.
This place is just weird!
Just hit that turn a bit too hard.
Views out to towards Arizona and Lake Powell.
Our final spot, literally before we cross into Arizona, is Under Canvas Lake Powell, with a main tent that looks purpose-built for cinematic desert dreams. You half expect to bump into a Tusken Raider from Tatooine, or Lawrence of Arabia ordering a Utah craft beer from the bar.
My safari-style tent is huge, with canvas walls that glow warm at sunset and a potbelly stove that feels like the cabin hearth of some pioneer explorer. I spend the evening feeding it firewood, captivated by the fire flickering against canvas before falling asleep slightly worried I’ll set myself on fire. Outside, Lake Powell turns molten gold in the fading light, cliffs glowing like they’re lit from within.
The Star Wars like restaurant of Under Canvas.
The next morning it’s canyoning at Diana’s Throne, also known as Elkheart Cliffs Slot Canyon, which I assume will be a gentle wander and a few scenic photos. Instead, ropes descend through rock funnels and slick sandstone slides. Guides scamper like mountain goats while I try to look confident, right up until I completely freeze at the top of my first abseil.
"Lean back. Sit into the harness," my guide yells. "Yeah, right. Easy for you to say," I think to myself
Eventually I release my grip and stutter down. We walk, crawl and climb through the winding canyon, abseiling down several higher cliffs, each requiring a different technique but delivering the same epic views.
Afterward, determined to keep both feet firmly on the ground, I point the car north towards the Toadstool Hoodoos, arguably the weirdest landscape in a state that's already set the bar ridiculously high.
It feels about twice as high when you’re up there.
Winding our way through the light.
The walk in is short and easy, winding across pale desert washes before the first of the hoodoos comes into view. They look completely absurd. Great sandstone columns topped with giant boulders balanced so carefully they appear to have been placed there by a giant with surprisingly steady hands. They're less geological formation and more nature taking the piss.
Wind and rain have carved these giant mushroom-shaped sculptures from the softer rock. They look like something dreamed up by a geologist after too much Viagra, or the film set of an old sci-fi movie where the aliens had an unhealthy obsession with oversized mushrooms. I wander between them, constantly looking up, convinced one strong gust of wind will send a giant sandstone cap tumbling to the ground. It never does. These bizarre balancing acts have stood here for thousands of years and will probably outlast us all.
Best of all, there's hardly another soul around. No queues, no crowds, no selfie sticks. Just silence, warm desert air and one of the strangest landscapes I've ever wandered through. Southern Utah has a habit of making geology feel like art, and nowhere is that more obvious than here, where Mother Nature seems to have swapped tectonic plates for a sculptor's chisel and decided to have a bit of fun.
It’s like walking through an abstract painting.
Back at Under Canvas I light the potbelly stove for no reason other than I like the crackle of it. The Milky Way has put on another ridiculous performance overhead and tomorrow I'll trade this king-sized bed for another dose of sandstone, dust and panic.
That's the genius of Southern Utah. It never asks you to choose between comfort and adventure. One minute you're sipping a local craft beer around a fire, the next you're hanging onto a chain above a thousand-foot drop or bouncing across the desert in a UTV wondering if all four wheels are still touching the dirt.
Southern Utah hands you both in equal measure. Ridiculous landscapes. Ridiculous accommodation. Ridiculously good fun. By the time I leave, I'm not thinking about the glamping anymore. I'm thinking about all the adventures I haven't had yet. And that's usually the sign of somewhere worth coming back to.
get in the know Bryce Canyon has the highest concentration of hoodoos anywhere on Earth.
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