So I Slept in…a Cave
In one of the most remote parts of the U.S., my family and I stayed in a cave carved out of stone and connected under a sky full of stars.
Photographs by Dan Prothero
From the back of our rented SUV, my four-year-old son, Ellis, asks, “Mommy, why are we driving through a river?”
As water splashes the car, I explain: Our home for the next two nights is in a wild place, inaccessible to vehicles except via this rugged route, which, yes, involves driving through a creek — but Ellis isn’t listening. “Look at that mountain, Daddy! Can we climb it? Where are we? Are we there yet? Mommy, why are you driving so bumpy?”
This deluge of chatter isn’t new; Ellis hasn’t quit talking once during our drive along the Burr Trail Road, an old cattle trail turned scenic backway that slices through some of southern Utah’s most jaw-dropping, and least touristed, terrain. He’s shouted cheerful greetings to horses, compared enormous rock formations flanking the road to sandcastles and blocks of cheese, fired off colors of the landscape (orange, brown, purple, red, yellow, black), and — when the shoulder of the road became a canyon — squealed, “We’re on top of the world!” My husband and I have flown our young son to a remote corner of the U.S. hoping to ignite in him a passion for wilderness, and our plan is already working. But it’s about to get even wilder.
After emerging from the creek, we bounce along a thin dirt road, maneuvering through puddles and swerving in a sandy patch (PSA: An all-wheel vehicle with decent clearance is required to access this property), until we reach our destination. I park by the horse corrals and for the first time, Ellis falls silent.
We are deep inside the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, looking at our Airbnb for the night: a 5,700-square-foot cave blasted out of a 60-foot-tall, 150-foot-wide rock.
I’ve spent time in this monument before. Over a decade ago, I lived for several years in the nearby town of Boulder, population 250. I’ve also met our host, Grant Johnson, before. But even if I didn’t know him, I’d have known of him. Grant is one of the region’s most renowned wilderness experts, having guided backcountry trips for 22 years around the Escalante River, the last area in the lower 48 states to be explored and mapped.
We find Grant in the kitchen, canning salsa. There was a freeze a few nights ago, he explains, so he’s hurrying to preserve the vegetables he harvested. When he moved onto the 40-acre property in 1977, it was nothing but rocks and sand dunes. Today the homestead has three huge gardens, more than 30 fruit trees, 20 acres of irrigated pasture, a swimming hole, three cows, six horses, three cats, one dog, and dozens of wild turkeys. Not to mention this cave, which is currently blowing our minds.
Grant gives us the tour. In each room is a massive glass-paned window that doubles as a door to endless wilderness. The living room features a large plate-steel woodstove and an oversized bean bag (which Ellis flings himself onto gleefully). Downstairs is the “jam room,” where local musicians and guests who’ve brought instruments can play. A long wooden bridge leads to our wing, which includes two charming bedroom nooks, a lounge, and private bathroom. The floor is painted a cheerful blue, the furnishings are bright yellow and turquoise, and it’s all unfussy and relaxed, which suits us perfectly; we’ve passed too many vacations fretting over the likelihood of our child destroying someone’s pristine white sofa. Here, we have no worries. Or nearly none. As we tour the space, Grant answers our questions about the cave’s creation, and Ellis starts climbing the walls. Literally.
In 1973, at age 17, Grant moved to Moab. At 19, he started putting himself through school by working with explosives in uranium mines. At 21, he ended up here, in Deer Creek, living in a teepee. Three years later, he purchased the forty-acre lot near the creek. When he met his now-former wife five years later, they moved into a bigger teepee, then a tiny trailer, where they raised their daughter. They spent 24 years without electricity, 17 of which they also had no hot running water or phone. “We weren’t trying to be permanent campers,” Grant explained. “We just couldn’t figure out where to make a home.” Finally, inspiration struck. He would blast a house into a rock: the giant Navajo Sandstone dome already on the property.
In 1995, Grant began dynamiting and, over eight winters, carved the cave with hundreds of blasts and thousands of individual drilled holes. Today, it’s hydroelectric, with radiant heated concrete floors. A steel chimney is made of irrigation line, and a heat exchanger is MacGyvered from an old propane tank. The interior stays cool in summer and warm in winter. The project took approximately sixteen years to finish.
“I always told myself it was about the journey and not the end result,” says Grant. “But the result is that it’s so incredible to live here, every day I walk in and just go, whoa.”
Listening to Grant talk, I realize he matches the landscape. His skin is the exact shade of sandstone, his hair resembles the streaks of white in the rocks, and his eyes are the blue desert sky. It’s as if our host, having inhabited nature for nearly 45 years, has become nature.
As the sun begins to dip, Grant suggests we watch the sunset from the roof. We take his advice and lace up our hiking shoes. “We can climb the house?” Ellis asks, incredulous.
Before we go, I give him a primer: This is a sand dune that nature hardened over time. It’s solid, but certain parts can still crumble beneath your feet. Ellis listens semi-carefully, then takes my hand and drags me uphill. The view from the top is spectacular. It’s October, and yellow cottonwood leaves glimmer against cinnamon-colored buttes. On the descent, I teach him to side-step on the slickrock. He insists on practicing by climbing up and down three more times before dinner.
We brought food and could have cooked in Grant’s well-outfitted kitchen, but instead we drive twenty minutes into tiny, remote Boulder — the last incorporated town in the continental U.S. to receive its mail by mule train — where my sister owns a farm-to-table restaurant called Hell’s Backbone Grill. We sip craft cocktails, eat elk stew, and inhale dark gingerbread with butterscotch sauce. When we return to the cave, the night is black as iron, and the stars, in contrast, like neon. We stare up, and the sky stares back. It’s vast, so much bigger than usual, all its edges stretched. Standing together in the dark, I can hear nothing except our collective breath. We are deeply isolated, and closer than ever.
Early the next morning, we snuggle in our comfy queen bed and gaze out the window as dawn turns the cliffs twelve shades of amber. Following breakfast and several cups of Grant’s strong coffee, we wander out to explore. While weaving up the cliffs, Ellis notices the cave below. “I can see our house from here!” he yells.
I’m determined to teach him all I can about this place. He already knows a dozen new dinosaurs have been unearthed in the monument since 1998. Next is a lesson on cryptobiotic soil, the black moss-like living organisms that protect the ground from erosion while feeding it nitrogen and carbon; they’re fragile as brittle leaves, I explain. Armed with this new knowledge, he becomes a desert defender, vigilant about our every step.
I pull a sprig of sagebrush for Ellis to smell, and a juniper berry he can nibble. We show him wild animal tracks and ironstone concretions, cacti and tiny wildflowers. And when he lies down on the ground and starts sifting fine red sand through his fingers, I enjoy a moment of pure parental relief. He’s forgotten, at least temporarily, about Legos and YouTube cartoons.
I’m excited to find a lithic, the scrap of an arrowhead (but not surprised; the monument has been inhabited for 13,000 years) and explain why we need to leave it behind: because a monument belongs to everyone. It’s a place for all to enjoy, respect, and preserve. What I don’t say is that this particular monument was recently reduced by nearly 50 percent and divided into smaller chunks, a decision made by the administration to open it to mining and drilling. What I don’t say is we’ve brought Ellis to this land we love so he’ll love it, too, and grow up fighting to protect it.
Back in the cave, we spend our afternoon showering, napping, taking photos, reading, and enjoying the profound quiet. At dusk, we wander outside to join Grant, where he’s roasting poblano peppers, slowly turning the crank of a metal basket filled with red-hot coals and peppers. The air is dust and spice, a quintessential Utah recipe.
Grant tells us he considers this an adventure house. “You’re at the center of the monument,” he says, “so you just get up in the morning and go. If you see something cool, you stop and check it out. When you discover a special spot, even if a million people have been there before, it’s yours.”
The next day, we follow his advice: get up in the morning and go — back through Deer Creek, down the Burr Trail, past pale domes, buttery cliffs, maroon hoodoos, a slot canyon. When we pull over to hike and Ellis shoots straight up the sloped slickrock, I feign composure. This land is beautiful but brutal, and I’m silently freaking out about him slipping and hitting his head. I’m also keenly attuned to the importance of encouraging his independence. I stop myself from calling out, warning him to be careful. Instead, I stand back and admire my son’s newfound confidence. Though he’s spent only a few days exploring this unfamiliar terrain, he deftly scrambles up and sidesteps down. He’s tanned and dusted with red dirt, his hair messy and sun-streaked, his pockets full of rocks. He’s thoroughly immersed and is now our teacher, showing us that in a place like this, it doesn’t take long to become nature.
About the author: Lavinia Spalding is series editor of The Best Women’s Travel Writing, author of Writing Away: A Creative Guide to Awakening the Journal-Writing Traveler, and co-author of With a Measure of Grace and This Immeasurable Place. She wrote the introduction to the e-book edition of Edith Wharton’s classic travelogue, A Motor-Flight Through France, and her work appears in such publications as AFAR, Tin House, Longreads, Yoga Journal, Ms., Airbnb Magazine, Sunset, Post Road, The San Francisco Chronicle, San Francisco magazine, and The Guardian. Lavinia is a member of the Writers Grotto and Peauxdunque Writers’ Alliance. She lives in New Orleans. Visit her at www.laviniaspalding.com and watch her TEDx talk here.
