Valle, AZ - An Evening Arrival Before the Canyon

We were driving north on Route 180 out of Flagstaff. It was 6:00 PM but the sun was still up—low and golden, washing the landscape in that kind of light that makes you want to stop and look for no reason at all.

Heather looked out the window. The land was flat and wide, covered in yellow grass and scattered shrubs.

“Who buys land out here?” she asked.

“I guess somebody who likes space,” I said.

We passed the turnoff without realizing it. Had to go up half a mile, turn around, then ease back south until we saw the sign - Dewey. It was just a dirt road, no markings but a name on the map. I turned the Jeep Patriot right and we dropped onto the washboard. The road was rutted deep from rain and time, and I shifted into four-wheel drive. The tires held on.

Dust kicked up behind us like it had somewhere to be.

Then we saw it—off to the right, nailed to a rough post, a crooked handmade sign:

2648 Dewey

STARGAZER

An arrow, drawn in faded green, pointed down a gravel road.

We turned again.

The gravel was easier—firm, packed. The sun angled across the land, catching in the grasses and glowing on the white edge of the trailer ahead.

“That it?” Heather asked.

“That’s it,” I said.

Photography by Heather. 

The trailer looked like it had been there a long time. It was raised on blocks, a new wooden deck bolted to the side. Clean and square, aged but standing. A garbage can sat nearby with a heavy red rock on the lid to keep the wind honest.

Past it was a small building—just big enough for a shower and a sink. Solar panels stood beyond that, pointed west toward the last of the sun.

We got out. The wind was soft. The silence was full. You could hear things in it—the crunch of gravel, the creak of the deck boards, the call of one bird far off, maybe the last one up.

“Feels like nobody else is out here,” Heather said.

“They aren’t,” I said.

She didn’t answer. Just stood there watching the sun tip down behind the trailer.

It was still warm. The air smelled like earth. The kind of evening where you don’t need to talk. Where the quiet does the talking for you.