I wasn’t supposed to be here. Dead Horse Point was one of those names I’d passed more times than I could count—just a brown sign on the way to Canyonlands. I never stopped. Never even thought about it, really. The name sounded too dramatic, too bleak. Like one of those roadside legends meant to spook tourists or sell postcards. So I kept driving.
But this time, something felt different.
The morning was soft in a way desert mornings rarely are. Clouds hung low but thin, like gauze pulled across the sun. The world felt quieter than usual, and when I saw the turnoff sign again, I didn’t talk myself out of it. I turned.
There was no grand plan. No moment of destiny. Just curiosity and good light.
When I reached the overlook, I expected the usual—maybe a parking lot, maybe a railing, maybe a view worth five minutes of awe before moving on. What I got instead was silence so complete it felt sacred. And a view that stopped me cold.
Dead Horse Point isn’t subtle. It doesn’t whisper. It sprawls—2,000 feet straight down to the Colorado River, winding in a horseshoe so perfect it feels carved by design. Layers of red rock fold into each other like time compressed into color. You don’t just look at it—you fall into it.
I stood there longer than I meant to. Camera in hand, but not lifting it. Just absorbing it. The way the wind curled around my legs. The stillness of the sky. The sense that this place had seen things I hadn’t earned the right to know.
The silence wasn’t empty. It was watchful.
Later that day, after continuing on to Canyonlands, I stopped at the visitor center. I didn’t ask about Dead Horse Point on purpose. It just came out, like a stone you realize you’ve been carrying in your pocket.
The ranger didn’t flinch. He just nodded.
“Ah. That place,” he said.
He told the story the way someone tells a memory that isn’t theirs, but has lived in them a long time. In the late 1800s, cowboys would use the point as a natural corral. They’d herd wild mustangs across the narrow neck of land, then barricade it with brush and timber. With sheer cliffs on all sides, the horses had nowhere to go. They’d pick the best of the bunch and ride off, leaving the rest to be collected later—or let loose to roam free again.
But once, for reasons no one remembers—or maybe no one wants to admit—they didn’t come back.
No one knows why. Maybe they forgot. Maybe a storm hit and made the return too dangerous. Maybe they decided the remaining horses weren’t worth the trouble.
Whatever the reason, the result was the same.
The horses died up there. Trapped. No food. No water. Just the wind. And the river—blue and cool and mocking—just out of reach.
I don’t remember what I said after that. Maybe nothing.
On the drive back, the road felt longer. I pulled off again at the overlook, now seeing it with different eyes. The landscape hadn’t changed—but it had shifted. Or maybe I had.
It’s strange how grief can hang in the air of a place without you realizing it. Stranger still when the grief isn’t yours.
I looked out again over the canyon, this time imagining what it must have felt like to be one of them. Hooves scuffing sandstone. Nostrils flared. The horizon shrinking with every turn. Waiting for something that never came. Dying not from some violent end, but from absence. From being forgotten.
That’s what got me.
The story lingered in my chest like dust. It crept into the way I framed the photo. I wasn’t just capturing a view—I was recording a memory not mine to own.
And still, the feeling wasn’t just sorrow. There was something else there too. Something stubborn. Sacred, even.
Because somehow, this place still sings. The wind still moves through it. Light still paints the canyon walls every morning like it did the day before. Life continues, even where it once stalled. And that, in its own way, is a kind of redemption.
We like to think of land as silent. As backdrop. But sometimes, the land remembers. And if you stand still long enough—if you listen—sometimes it tells you things. Things about loss. Things about time. Things about how beauty and sorrow are often layered in the same soil.
Dead Horse Point isn’t just a name. It’s a reminder. That even the most breathtaking places can hold grief. That even the forgotten deserve to be remembered.
- Utah State Parks – Dead Horse Point State Park
- Moab Museum – Legends and Lore: The Story Behind Dead Horse Point
- Utah History Encyclopedia (University of Utah Press) – Entry on cowboy practices and land use
Leave A Comment
Comments