Bryce Canyon holds more stone spires than anywhere else on Earth, thousands of them, packed into bowls bitten out of a high plateau rim in southern Utah. They are called hoodoos, and every one is standing for the same reason: a slab of harder rock on top is sheltering the soft limestone underneath from rain and frost. When the stalk finally wears through, the tower falls. The amphitheatres face east, which is why the day here starts at Sunrise Point. The first light runs down the spires tower by tower while the hollows below still hold cold blue shadow. At 2,400 metres that hour is near freezing. From there you follow the rim trail almost level to Sunset Point, the basin at your elbow the entire way. A short pull uphill reaches Inspiration Point, higher than either, where the towers stack into one frame and spill towards the pine forest below.
From Sunset Point the Navajo Loop switchbacks steeply off the rim into the amphitheatre. Partway down it threads Wall Street, a slot barely wide enough for two people, with the orange walls leaning in overhead. On the floor, Douglas firs grown tall reaching for light still look small against the rock, and the towers you looked down on now stand over you. Going down is quick; the climb back out is the work, because the air up here is thin. After dark the spires drop to silhouette and the sky takes over, this being one of the darkest places in the country. The park's name came later, from Ebenezer Bryce, a rancher who ran cattle below these cliffs in the 1870s and said the maze was a hell of a place to lose a cow. Thor's Hammer is the one everybody photographs. It stands below Sunset Point, a block of hard rock left balanced on a stalk of soft limestone, and the first switchbacks bring you near enough to see how thin its neck has worn.