Early one May morning, my partner and I left Las Vegas and followed the interstates and the Valley of Fire Highway into the desert, headed toward Nevada’s oldest and most visually striking state park.

The city’s sprawl gave way quickly to open desert, and soon we were surrounded by red rock outcrops and distant ridgelines beneath a sky streaked with thin, high clouds. As we approached the entrance to Valley of Fire State Park, the landscape sharpened—sandstone bluffs rose on either side of the road, their colors deepening in the morning light. It was easy to see why early visitors gave this place its name: the valley looked as though it had been set ablaze by the sun.

Valley of Fire Highway

Our first stop was Windstone Arch, a small but graceful formation tucked away along an informal trail. A short, sandy climb led us into a narrow alcove, where the arch formed a delicate window in a sculpted wall of rock. Few people were around, and the stillness of the place made it easy to imagine the slow, patient work of wind and time shaping the landscape.

We continued on a gravel road that wound through the desert past boulders and low brush. Larger and more prominent than the first, Arch Rock rose above the terrain like a weathered watch. Nearby, a cluster of campsites was nestled among the formations—sheltered pockets of space framed by curving cliffs and wind-carved stone.

From there, we drove to Atlatl Rock. A metal staircase climbed the side of a sandstone face, leading to a viewing platform where a panel of petroglyphs came into view. The dark varnish on the rock had been etched with figures, animals, and abstract shapes—symbols left by the region’s earliest inhabitants, including the Basketmaker and Ancestral Puebloan peoples. Their meanings may be lost, but the carvings remain vivid and remarkably well preserved, offering a rare connection to those who once passed through this valley.

A short walk brought us to the Petrified Logs Trail. Here, ancient tree trunks—long since turned to stone—lay scattered across the dusty ground. Their layered textures and earthy tones stood in contrast to the surrounding dunes, a reminder that this sunbaked landscape was once part of a lush, prehistoric forest. The midday sun gave the fossilized wood a silvery, almost metallic sheen, and a faint breeze stirred the desert air.

In the afternoon, we hiked out to the Fire Wave, a broad expanse of swirling sandstone in shades of pink, cream, and rust. The stone curved and rolled like frozen surf, the result of millions of years of shifting sand and sediment. It’s one of the park’s most iconic spots, but on this afternoon, it was all ours, the landscape open and immersive.

Just beyond, Kaolin Wash offered a narrower, more intimate experience. We followed the slot canyon as it twisted between smooth rock walls, their cool shade a welcome change from the open desert. The passageway had been carved by seasonal floods, its sculpted surfaces evidence of both violence and grace.

As the light began to soften, we made our way to the White Domes Trail. The path led through another narrow canyon framed by towering cliffs, then opened into wide clearings dotted with boulders and arches.

We ended the day at Silica Dome. A short climb brought us to a panoramic overlook just as the sun began to sink behind the hills. The sandstone glowed with soft amber and rose tones, casting long shadows across the valley.

By the time we returned to the highway, the park had nearly emptied. The silence felt deeper, the colors more subdued. It had been a full day—one of sandstone and sky, of deep time and fleeting light—spent in a place that felt both ancient and alive.