My name is Marty Hulsebos and I've been a passionate landscape photographer since the late 1980's.
I had photographed Monument Valley many times, capturing the red rock buttes and sweeping desert vistas that made the land feel like a doorway to another world. But I had a dream that lingered unfulfilled, an itch that wouldn’t let go—a shot from atop Hunt’s Mesa. I’d seen breathtaking photos taken from there, high above the valley floor, with an expansive view of the spires and mesas bathed in dawn or sunset light. But Hunt’s Mesa wasn’t exactly accessible; it required a Navajo guide with a 4x4, and appointments had to be made months in advance. I was never that organized—every visit had been on a whim, leaving me unable to plan the kind of perfect shoot I imagined.
But one clear day, as I was passing through the Navajo reservation with my camera gear in the backseat, the idea hit me again. The light was perfect, a mix of deep blue skies with scattered, wispy clouds and that unmistakable desert glow. I remembered a friend mentioning a guide who sometimes led last-minute tours to Hunt’s Mesa. I thought, It’s hopeless, but before I knew it, I was dialing his number. To my surprise, he had one seat available for an overnight trip. If I could be ready in an hour, I could go.
My heart raced as I packed my gear, almost in disbelief. In under an hour, I found myself climbing into an old, beat-up 4x4 with a Navajo guide, who introduced himself simply as Ben, and a quiet couple who looked equally excited and nervous. The road was nonexistent—just rough, sandy tracks that cut through the desolate landscape, an expanse of red dirt and sagebrush. As we ventured further, the familiar buttes of Monument Valley gave way to a more rugged, less traversed part of the desert.
The air was crisp, tinged with the earthy scent of sage and dust. Occasionally, Ben would stop and ask us to get out so he could navigate the vehicle over sandy patches or climb steep, rocky slopes. The terrain was brutal, and there were moments, especially during the steepest climbs, when I questioned my decision. The truck groaned and tipped at sharp angles as we ascended. The roar of the engine echoed through the canyons, mingling with the dry rustle of desert plants in the wind. But each time I thought I’d had enough, I remembered why I was there: for that shot, for the view I’d dreamed of, and I pushed through, feeling the pulse of determination beat louder.
At last, we reached the top. I stepped out onto the mesa, and my breath caught. Below us, the valley stretched wide, painted in the golden hues of sunset. Massive buttes and mesas rose up like ancient guardians, their red faces glowing in the fading light, shadows stretching across the land in intricate patterns. It was the view I had only dreamed of—more vivid, more awe-inspiring than any photo I’d ever seen.
I set up my camera near the edge, heart pounding with excitement and disbelief. The air was cool and tasted faintly metallic, a hint of the minerals in the stone around us. As I adjusted my settings, the quietude of the mesa seeped into my bones. The only sounds were the click of my camera shutter and the soft murmur of the others around me, all of us entranced by the scene. Every shot felt like a small miracle, each frame capturing a piece of the landscape’s spirit.
Once the sun dipped below the horizon, we gathered around a campfire. The warmth was a welcome relief as the desert chill settled in. Ben wrapped potatoes in foil and buried them in the coals. As they roasted, he shared stories of his ancestors, tales that brought the valley to life in a new way, filling the darkness with visions of past generations and the significance of the land beneath us. I could smell the smoky richness of the potatoes, mixed with the scent of burning sage. Eating them, still hot from the coals, felt grounding, connecting me to this place and its people in a way I hadn’t expected.
We rose before dawn the next morning, and the early light was as magical as I’d hoped. Delicate clouds lined the horizon, adding a sense of depth and drama to the scene—a rarity, Ben said, in the typically clear desert skies. The clouds caught the first light, glowing pink and orange against the cool blues of the receding night, framing the valley in a way I knew few others had captured. I pressed the shutter, filled with a quiet, grateful joy.
The drive back down was just as rough, but this time, I didn’t mind. My determination had led me here against all odds, without planning, without expectation. I’d captured the shot I’d always dreamed of, and as the desert rolled by, I felt deeply fulfilled, carrying with me not just images, but memories of a journey that had gone far beyond the photo I’d set out to capture.
