The Arch and the Pack
A photo story by Stefan Frutiger.
Chapter 1 – Maps and Maybes
It all began with a choice: boat or boot.
Most people take the easy way—floating across Lake Powell, dock-to-bridge in comfort. But I wanted to feel it. Earn it. I wanted to approach Rainbow Bridge the way it demands to be approached—with respect, sweat, and silence. So, I studied maps, secured the Navajo Nation permit, and packed light: camera, water, a handful of beef jerky. No stove. No unnecessary weight.
Little did I know the heaviest thing I’d carry would be saying goodbye.
Chapter 2 – Grounded in Page
A coffee truck named Stay Grounded on the outskirts of Page offered more than caffeine. A Diné woman served me a cup and shared something more valuable: stories. Her family cattle grazed near Rainbow Bridge. She told me about the land with a reverence I would only come to understand later.
As I left Page, caffeine buzzed in my blood. But something else stirred too—anticipation. The kind that rolls low and slow before a storm of meaning.
Chapter 3 – The Bark and the Welcome
The road to the trailhead was more suggestion than path—rocks the size of duffel bags, a shifting sense of direction, but some comfort from GPS navigation. Then, barking.
Three dogs appeared as I tried to turn around. They weren’t wild—but they weren’t pets either. A man emerged from a nearby house and gave me instructions. I continued down the rough road, my tires crunching over ancient rock. The dogs followed.
By the time I reached the old Rainbow Lodge ruins, they had stopped barking. They just waited—heads tilted, patient. Watching me pack.
When I hit the trail, they did too.
Chapter 4 – Who Leads Who
They didn’t beg. They didn’t whine. They belonged. These weren’t pets—they were partners.
Oldie, Blacky, and Spot—names I gave them because every pack needs names. Blacky stayed close, Oldie was deliberate, slower than the others, and Spot was curious and energetic. Were they following me? Or was I now part of their pack?
We shared silence, heat, trail dust, and instinct.
Chapter 5 – Thirst and Trust
The desert has no sympathy for forgetfulness. I buried water caches under cairns at mile markers 2, 4, and 6. No surface water for the first eight miles meant every step was a prayer that my prep would hold.
The dogs? They seemed to trust the land more than I did. When we reached the canyon with its shallow creek, we all drank—me from the filter, them straight from the pools. The canyon walls, old and kind, offered shade.
For a moment, we all just rested.
Chapter 6 – The Step and the Struggle
Oldie hesitated at a dry waterfall. A big step. Too big it seems.
The others and I had already climbed down. I called, waited. He whined, pacing. Finally, he jumped.
There was something about this place that I wouldn’t understand until the next day on our way out.
Chapter 7 – The Stone Rainbow
And then, Rainbow Bridge.
A sacred arc, taller than the Statue of Liberty, carved not just by water but by belief. The Diné call it Nonnezoshe — “rainbow turned to stone.” The Hopi, Paiute, Ute, and Navajo all hold it sacred. You don't conquer this place. You arrive quietly.
I took photographs with film. Something about the slowness of analog suited the moment.
We posed, all four of us. No words. Just presence.
Chapter 8 – Predators and Play
They chased birds. A lizard. Even a bunny. Nothing serious. Just instincts stretching.
Upon return Blacky limped for a while — back leg stiff. I watched him carefully. But he didn’t allow me to closer inspect. He healed as we kept going. As if he knew we still had miles to go.
Chapter 9 – Echo Camp and the Night Watchers
At Echo Camp, we settled in. I had jerky. I shared. They begged for more, but I was not prepared to feed a larger pack.
Blacky lay against my tent, unmoving all night.
They woke four times — sharp barks, quick bursts into the dark. Coyotes, probably. They kept watch.
I slept in safety not earned but gifted.
Chapter 10 – Breaking Camp, Breaking Heart
4:50 AM. Blacky pawed at my tent. He wanted in. Or out. Or… together.
We began early. First few miles flew.
But again, the waterfall. Oldie couldn’t climb.
I went back. Lifted him gently, feeling the bones beneath his fur. He didn’t resist.
That’s when Blacky came over, tail wagging, eyes soft. He licked my hand.
Not as a dog licks a master.
As a brother thanks a brother.
I nearly cried.
Not for Oldie.
For us.
Because I knew what was coming.
Chapter 11 – The Last Mile
We returned to the trailhead. I packed the car. I drove slowly. The dogs followed for a bit — then peeled off.
No leash to unclasp.
No door to close.
Just distance growing, step by step. I watched the rear mirror.
Blacky stood there. Disappearing after the next turn.
That was all.
Chapter 12 – Echoes of the Sacred
That afternoon, I drove to the Navajo National Monument. Did laundry. Ate. Texted friends. My body was tired.
But part of me had stayed behind — curled beneath the tent, listening for coyotes, breathing in sync with the rez dogs I’d never see again.
Chapter 13 – The Bridge, The Dam, The Divide
Rainbow Bridge became a National Monument in 1910. In the 1960s, Glen Canyon Dam raised Lake Powell and buried the canyons. Sacred land, flooded. Culture, submerged.
The Navajo sued to stop it. They lost. Water needs outweighed spiritual needs — said the court.
Today, boats bring tourists close. But only hikers feel the cost.
Only hikers learn from dogs without homes.
Chapter 14 – The Rez Dogs Remain
Locals say the rez dogs just appear. My dogs wore collars. Probably had an owner. They were not strays.
They're born of the land, raised by sun and dust and spirit.
They show up when you need them.
And leave when it’s time.
Epilogue – No Dog Left Behind
Blacky, Oldie, Spot — you reminded me how to trust strangers, how to listen to silence, how to give without expecting.
You reminded me that the sacred isn't just stone.
Sometimes, it has fur. And walks beside you.