While West

I woke up on my 31st birthday in Centerville, Utah, hungover from the previous night’s double double and fries from In-N-Out. It was the last day of a week-long trip driving through most of Utah. This marked the second landlocked state I’ve been to (shoutout to Vermont). I’ve seen the East Coast and the Pacific Ocean from four different states, but never anywhere in between. Utah and the American Southwest were on my mind for ten years. When I learned photography in college, I marveled at famous photographs that Ansel Adams, Garry Winogrand, Stephen Shore, and William Eggleston made during road trips across the country. They captured signs of life I never knew possible. I yearned to see Americana, rural charm, and vast landscapes. More than anything, though, I needed to escape the city and slow down. The year leading up to this trip was eventful: two surgeries, lots of physical rehab, a relationship, a break up, and a new job. I felt overwhelmed. I scheduled some time off work for my birthday and headed west.

This wasn’t the first time I traveled alone, but it was the first time being alone on a trip. In the past, I visited California to visit or stay with others. This time, though, there was no one else. After telling a friend my plans, he said, “I like traveling alone but this doesn’t seem like the kind of trip I’d want to do alone.” I agreed. This wasn’t ideal, but it was my reality. I knew I couldn’t have strung anyone along for this itinerary given the time of year. Early May is a golden time in Utah in which the snow has melted, it’s not too hot, parks aren’t at peak attendance, and I always schedule PTO during my birthday anyway. The first thing my aunt asked me when I got back was, “What were the pros and cons of traveling alone?” Pros: out the door by 7 am, no one complained about my music in the car, no one asked me ‘why the fuck do you want to do that?’ when I wanted to do something stupid, like take a 2.5 hour detour to the alien-themed restaurant, and tallboys in my underwear in the motel. Cons: driving all 1,500 miles, paying for everything, couldn’t order additional food at restaurants to share, and I had to carry a tripod or ask strangers for pictures of myself. 

Unlike every past vacation, I didn’t fully know what I was doing on this trip until I got there. The photographs that inspired me to see Utah were made decades ago; I had to find my own version of that world. I stayed further away from the National Parks than most tourists in hopes of photographing interesting signs and buildings along the expansive roads. Along with photography in college, I learned about land art and its pioneers during the 1960s and 70s. Seminal works by Nancy Holt (Sun Tunnels) and her late husband Robert Smithson (Spiral Jetty) were located in Utah. Other famous works were also out west like Michael Heizer’s Double Negative in Nevada and Walter De Maria’s Lightning field in New Mexico. These weren’t the centuries-old paintings or public murals that I thought of as art; they were massive forms and structures created in tandem with our Earth. Land art was not to be preserved and pristine forever. Like all of us, it was meant to erode and decay. I’m aware of the asininity of artists manipulating the natural earth for the sake of seeing how it will change. The aesthetic value is there, though, and I thought the Spiral Jetty looked really cool. I made a goal to see it. The last piece of my personal manifest destiny stemmed from an essay by Susan Lepselter I read in anthropology class. She wrote about the uncanny and its place in the American West. Lepselter immersed herself in the ghost town of Rachel, Nevada, 150 miles northwest of Las Vegas. Rachel’s population is that of an apartment building in Brooklyn; the only thing notable nearby is the infamous Area 51. As a result, tourists and drifters sought Rachel and its main attraction, the Little A’Le’Inn, as a place they could find community; they didn’t feel they belonged anywhere else. Many lived in their cars and trailers and frequently passed through. In the essay, A’Le’Inn regulars regaled each other with stories of abduction, migration, finding and losing oneself, and being on the run. My science fiction fandom was my initial attraction to Rachel and the A’Le’Inn. Then the stories told by Lepselter resonated in a different way; after moving from my hometown at age five to a place where I was the only one of my race, I sometimes felt a little alien, too. I wanted to see the tiny town and feel what the people in Lepselter’s essay felt. I wanted to experience the uncanny, the banal, the kitsch, and the open landscape of the Western United States that I spent ten years indulging in through art and literature.

Inspirations (all artists credited in captions)

I booked a flight to land in Vegas on April 29th at 10 am. My initial plan was to drive two hours to Zion National Park in southwest Utah for the afternoon before checking into the motel in Orderville, UT, where I’d be staying the next few nights. A detour to Rachel seemed unreasonable; it was 2.5 hours from the Vegas airport after I’d already spent five hours in the air. Then another four hours from Rachel to Orderville; it would have been too much traveling in one day since I had already been awake since 4 am EST. It certainly was too much, but I did it anyway. After picking up the RAV4, I went to 7-Eleven for a case of water, coffee, and taquitos. The taquitos hit my system like Popeye’s spinach. I texted my dad and my brother that I landed and set course for the Little A’Le’Inn.

Las Vegas’ facsimile skyline reminded me why I never thought I’d go to Rachel - I never thought I’d go to Las Vegas (sans a family vacation there when I was three years old). It seemed too hot and too far away to be a destination; maybe some day. I escaped city limits and drove along the Great Basin Highway. I felt the immediate thrill of passing trucks at 105 mph, but the mountainous monotony I yearned for caught up to me fast. By the end of the first hour, I was fading and I stopped at a gas station to recharge. Soon after, I came upon the first landmark that made me yell “fuck yeah!” to myself in the car: the sign for the Extraterrestrial Highway. Another 45 minutes to Rachel from there. The road winds up and down for a little bit through Bald Mountain (another telling sign I made the right choice to drive to Rachel) until you reach a flat clearing, and from there the town enters the horizon. I looked for the sticker-blasted sign with Rachel written in Comic Sans. As soon as I found it, I felt like I was home. 

The gravel parking lot to the Little A’Le’Inn was spittin’ distance from the Rachel sign. I pulled up and decided to eat first, take pictures second. There were only two other customers when I walked in, and I sat down at the end of the bar by the gift shop. Euphoria, bliss, shock, relief, and disbelief came over me, I think. It’s hard to describe feelings I never had before. Is this what it’s like to meet your heroes? Or was it too much caffeine without enough sleep? My heart was racing, my cheeks were locked into a smile, but my mind was at ease. I made it someplace I never thought possible; I imagined traveling to outer space itself was more likely for me than the Nevada desert. More than all of that other shit, though, I felt hungry. I ordered the “world famous” (our world?) alien burger and fries, more coffee, and then a slice of cherry pie for dessert. The server and the service was slow, which I loved. My eyes darted around all of the decor and merchandise. The uncanny was crystal clear. Alien souvenirs, dollar bills, movie posters, and signed memorabilia from famous visitors stuffed every wall and shelf.      

There was one regular who spoke to everyone like they were his best friends. He mentioned retiring to live in his van, and had an encyclopedic knowledge of the Western U.S. This was one of the likes of whom Lepselter described in her research: the people who are not defined by their jobs or relationships or places they’ve lived, only by their character. About a dozen people arrived after me; I was the only one dining alone. It seemed like a big crowd for a Wednesday afternoon. The regular greeted each customer and helped the server bus plates. I wanted to get to know them, but both were kept busy by the patrons. I closed out my tab after a $15 food bill and $75 worth of souvenirs, then spent the next 30 minutes photographing the Little A’Le’Inn inside and out.

There was a renovated and now alien-themed gas station/gift shop up the road from the Little A’Le’inn. I stopped for fuel and another $30 worth of gifts and readied up for the arduous journey to my motel. The road out of Nevada is a blur. Writing this five weeks later, I can’t recall which road was which. I took photos along the way, they can explain it better. Once I hit Cedar City, UT and drove through Cedar Canyon, though, I was instantly reassured by my decision to take the detour to the Little A’Le’Inn before going to Utah. I found the first of many scenic routes. The canyon was cool, green, and serene. Three hours prior in Rachel, it was 90º and arid; in Cedar Canyon, there was still snow on the ground. I hastily skipped all of the viewpoints on a determined mission to get to my motel in Orderville. Crossing the NV/UT state line meant jumping an hour ahead into MST, the third time change in one day. After over five hours in the air and on the road, with less than five hours of sleep, I was ready to call it a day.

I got to Orderville around 7:30 pm and picked up a sandwich at Archie’s Food To Die For en route to the Parkway Motel. I was disappointed that the Parkway’s neon sign was dark, but I lit up when I walked in my room. It was styled like a Rainforest Cafe with decorative fake trees and branches overtaking the room. The living room caught me off guard with a daybed I thought was my actual bed, but nothing prepared me for what lay past the next door: a tree trunk step stool leading to a mattress four feet off the ground, and a mirror on the ceiling above the bed. Utah was better than I ever dreamt. I threw my bags on the daybed and dove into my sandwich at a small table in the main room. It had been a whole five hours since my last serving of beef and cheese, so I ordered a Utah Philly - a hero with thinly sliced steak with provolone, peppers, and a jalapeño ranch. Slight in volume, but very tasty. I supplemented with snacks from Terry’s Food & Drug (surprisingly open till 9 pm) across the street from the motel. I was lucky to call the Parkway Motel home. It was exactly what I pictured Utah would be like in my head. My guess is it was once a roadside motel that someone bought and converted into Airbnb listings, where I found it.

Orderville is a tiny place with only a few small businesses and a gas station. I chose it for its location near Zion and Bryce Canyon National Parks as well as Coral Sand Dunes State Park, but I was still hunting for charm. On my last night in Orderville, I drove 20 minutes south to check out Kanab. Known as Little Hollywood because of the western movies filmed there, Kanab is a bona fide small town full of shops, beautiful signs and storefronts, and a variety of restaurants. I opted for dinner at Houston’s Trails Ends restaurant because of their neon sign and rustic interior. I later realized it was the same restaurant where Stephen Shore made one of his most famous photographs from the series that helped inspire my trip. Call it fate, call it hunger; retrospectively, it seems as monumental as going to the Little A’Le’Inn. The next morning, I checked out of the Parkway Motel and prepared for a long day on the road. I started with breakfast at the Thunderbird Restaurant in Mt. Carmel, a perfect time capsule of Americana. Biscuits and gravy with pie à la mode for dessert provided surplus calories for a hike in Bryce Canyon National Park and a 3.5 hour drive after.

From Bryce Canyon, I headed to my next stay at the Sleepy Hollow Motel in Green River, another scant town like Orderville. Both are built along a state road with a few restaurants and motels, but mostly vacant lots and buildings. I learned of the Sleepy Hollow Motel from a podcast about Utah’s history (Speak Your Piece) that highlighted tourism. It opened in 1954, so my expectations of the room were low. I was pleasantly surprised to have air conditioning, a king size bed, and a flatscreen TV with cable; also, to my delight, the neon sign worked. The motel manager was an affable woman who moved at a snail’s pace and created a sense of home away from home. She recommended Ray’s Tavern so I went for a necessary burger and beer; I couldn’t believe it had been over 24 hours since my last serving of beef and cheese. As I walked to and from Ray’s I felt like Travis in the film Paris, Texas - alone in the desert. No one else was afoot in town as I took photos of signs and horizons along the way. Sitting in Ray’s by myself was comforting, but being alone outside in the town felt uncanny. Still, I felt relief from the crowds in the National Parks and my general city life.

        Green River was an hour’s drive to Canyonlands and Arches National Parks, plus Dead Horse Point State Park. On my first day, I went out early for a hike around Dead Horse Point before my 1 pm timed entry at Arches. This was by far the hottest and sunniest day of the trip, but I came prepared and felt great after five hours of hiking. I wound down in the closest town to the parks, Moab, where most tourists stay. I settled into a booth at the Moab Diner with my fourth serving of beef and cheese of the week, an amazing Southwestern spin on a French dip sandwich. Moab was like Kanab in appearance with retro signage and small businesses, but much busier. Hotels and motels were on almost every street, alongside far more gift shops and outdoor adventure hubs. My favorite dish of the week came at Moab Coffee Roasters, where I had a cinnamon gelato affogato to refuel for the drive back to Green River. I sat outside and soaked in the surreal scenery of the town surrounded by red cliffs. My body was exhausted. My eyes welled with tears of joy. On the drive home, I impulsively took a short detour to Jackass Joe’s alien-themed gas station and mini mart. It was a contemporary version of the Little A'Le’Inn, with lime green alien merch and UFOria taking over the place inside and out. To my disappointment, the cashier hadn’t even heard of the Little A’Le’Inn. Jackass Joe’s lacked charm, so my souvenirs totaled less than $30 along with some snacks for the night.

In the morning, I sat outside Green River Coffee Co. next door to my motel with a fantastic breakfast burrito and plotted my next moves. I could have gone three hours straight to the next destination in Centerville, a small suburb of Salt Lake City, but instead I drove an hour the opposite way to see Canyonlands National Park. It was four hours north to Centerville from there. I was so tired of driving, but I was nagged by my mindset of this trip being once-in-a-lifetime. Canyonlands was a very worthy detour, and I embraced the last of the vast, elevated views before heading to the city. I hoped for some interesting stops along the way, but all I mustered was a rest area for a power nap and bathroom break. The drive was scenic, though, with some stormy weather and views of mountains along the way. I finally reached the city and stopped at Crown Burgers for their signature pastrami-topped cheeseburger before crashing in my Airbnb at 9 pm.

I had the eve of my birthday to explore Salt Lake City, and I did so very slowly. I normally like to walk around a new city with my camera, but I was too tired for that and drove to specific destinations instead. I started with breakfast at Ruth’s Diner’s famous trolley car before checking out some used clothing stores in SLC. For the first time all week, I had cell phone service everywhere I went. I started to feel like a member of society again. I spent most of the afternoon at Loki Coffee on my laptop organizing some thoughts and photos. The next day was going to be one of the longest days yet; my Airbnb checkout was 11 am and my flight was at midnight. After reaching my limit of thrift stores, I picked up some In-N-Out and went home to plan my last day in Utah 🌀

        I slept like a rock and packed up everything the next morning, then checked out a little early. I had obligatory birthday calls with my dad and grandma, then prepared for the drive to the Spiral Jetty. There is nothing else at the Spiral Jetty besides the Spiral Jetty; no cell service, no bathrooms, no water, and no trash cans. Only some rocks and a plaque. The last 15 miles of the road are unpaved dirt and gravel; high ground clearance vehicles are recommended. When I researched the journey, I read that visitors should stop at the Golden Spike National Monument visitor’s center 30 minutes away for amenities; it’s a great destination on its own. I left Centerville with coffee, water, Trader Joe’s snacks, and a full Hawaiian plate lunch from Mo’Bettahs and headed north. I felt anxious in the car, eager to see what I traveled across the country for but worried I might get lost or pop a tire along the way. The dirt road to the Jetty was very familiar; cows and ranchland as far as the eyes could see. As soon as I saw signs for the Spiral Jetty, though, my tensions eased and I braced myself for more bliss.

I arrived at the Spiral Jetty around 1 pm. I had it to myself for half an hour; in those 30 minutes, I never felt more alone on this Earth. I slowly walked through the Jetty and basked in the solitude. Salt, land, and sea converge here. When the Spiral Jetty was completed in 1970, it was engulfed by the Great Salt Lake. On May 6th, 2025, the water lay several hundred yards from the Jetty due to years of drought. Dia, the proprietor, maintains aerial records of the formation. The Jetty feels large in person, its scale warped by the void around it. Looking at the aerial and satellite photos, though, shows its small size in reality - only about 1,500 feet in total length (including the spiral). Much of the sand is covered in crystallized salt, crunching with each step as you approach the water. The Salt Lake’s water has a pink hue from its mineral content, creating a fantastic scene. Mountains loom on the horizon. Pelicans flew overhead while lizards scavenged for bugs around the land. As I headed back to my car, several other visitors arrived. I sat on a rock overlooking the Jetty and ate Hawaiian food while watching others traverse. About ten others came and went during my time there. Some for a few minutes, some for hours as well. After taking photos, I walked to the water’s edge and explored the Lake with all five senses. I didn’t go far into the water, but I heard from some others there that if I did, I’d float on top. No need; I already felt like I was floating.

Four hours at the Spiral Jetty wasn’t enough, but I had a flight home to JFK that night. After returning the rental, I killed a couple hours at the airport bar with some birthday drinks. I treated the Little A’Le’Inn and the Spiral Jetty as if I’ll never see them again, spending equal amounts of time recording them with cameras and being present in them without technology. After ten years of anticipation and wonder, I felt satiated. Seeing these places again wouldn’t be the same in another ten years or more. I’m no longer chasing that feeling. I take pride in setting seemingly impossible or outlandish goals and achieving them - so far, this pride has come from completing grad school, traveling to Japan, and this trip. There are probably a lot more things to do on Earth and other goals to set before the aliens come for us. I’m not sure what they are yet.

Park Photos