Morning frost in the high desert, sandstone glowing like embers by sunset, and a quiet night with only the wind and the mesas for company.
I hit the road at 9 a.m.—early for me on this trip—finally shaking off the last of the jet lag and finding my rhythm. As I headed north, it didn’t take long to see why people speak with such reverence about this part of New Mexico. The scenery shifted fast. The dusty, flat scrubland of the south gave way to a richer palette—soft pinks, deep reds, and layers of stone that seemed to glow under the morning sun. It felt like crossing an invisible border into a wilder, more dramatic chapter of the state’s story.
Heading north out of Santa Fe toward Angel Peak, the road unwinds into a landscape that feels almost painted into existence. The flat desert plain stretches wide, dotted with hardy shrubs and tufts of sun-bleached grass, all framed by the weathered lines of a rusty barbed-wire fence. In the distance, a striking mesa rises, its layers of red, gray, and beige stone telling a story millions of years old. The top sits like a fortress wall, while the slopes beneath are carved into dramatic ridges and gullies by centuries of wind and rain. It’s the kind of view that makes you ease off the gas, because every mile feels like rolling deeper into a Georgia O’Keeffe canvas.
It was about a three-hour drive to Angel Peak, and I was loving every minute of it, at least until I rolled the window down. Every time I let my hand ride the wind like we used to as kids, carving it through the air like a surfer, a sharp midday chill reminded me of the icicle that had formed from my water tank the night before. My first-generation Revel has its water tank and some of the lines mounted on the outside of the van, and cold weather is always a concern.
When I stopped for gas not far from my destination, I checked the forecast and saw temperatures dropping even lower—mid to low 20s overnight. That sealed it. Even with the tank heater on, I wasn’t eager to gamble with frozen pipes. As I passed near Angel Peak, I caught glimpses of the rugged beauty I’d been aiming for, but I kept rolling. It would have to wait for a trip planned for slightly warmer weather. My original plan had been to start in the south while it was still cool, then work my way north as spring warmed things up. In reality, the timing was off—too hot down south, too cold up north. I’d managed to luck into a few stretches of perfect weather along the way, but the air today told me my luck was running thin.
I’d figured it was going to be an easy driving day, but when I decided to aim for the Valley of the Gods—forecasted to be three or four degrees warmer—I accidentally signed myself up for another three to four hours behind the wheel. The route took me through an Indian reservation, where I ended up stuck behind a slow-moving agriculture vehicle for miles. Passing wasn’t really an option, and honestly, speeding on the res felt like a bad idea out here. The whole stretch had a “just take it slow” kind of vibe.
I got near the valley of the gods just when the sun was setting. It cast the red red rocks in an almost god like way, throwing off colors of red and bourbon that makes your eyes blink thinking it can’t be real. The rocks towered so close to my cockpit that sometimes I had to hunch down the seat to see the tops of them. I knew I was close
I rolled into the east entrance of the Valley of the Gods and paused at the sign. The warnings were clear, when it rains out here, the road can turn into a slippery, tire-sucking mess. A few leftover puddles from yesterday’s shower reflected the gray sky, but the dirt looked dry enough for my liking. Clouds hung low and the daylight was fading fast, so I was already on the hunt for a campsite. Little did I know how surprisingly easy this place would be to settle into.
At first, the view was blocked by a hill, so I had no idea just how wide open the camping options really were. I’ll admit, my pulse ticked up a notch when I saw the first pullouts already taken. I hate the feeling of racing against the sun without a guaranteed spot, especially somewhere I’ve never been. But the road kept offering more, bumpy, rocky dirt lined with well-spaced campers, each about fifty yards apart. Most had claimed sites with the telltale signs of past campfires. About three-quarters of a mile in, I found my spot. Getting to it meant a little off-road weaving and a few bone-jarring dips that grazed the rear storage boxes, but it was worth it. I had privacy from the main road, yet neighbors were close enough that it felt safe.
The Valley of the Gods is like Monument Valley’s quieter cousin, the same towering red sandstone buttes and mesas, just without the tour buses. It’s Bureau of Land Management land, so camping is free, and the silence is something you can actually hear. Out here, the rock formations have names like Battleship Rock and Lady in the Bathtub, carved by millions of years of wind and water.
Dim sum with a desert view — Valley of the Gods style. Cold outside, heater on, and red rock mesas for miles.
Once I parked the Redneck Ferrari, hunger kicked in. I dug out the leftover dim sum from the day before, half had been frozen, half kept in the fridge. The refrigerated batch went straight into the air fryer with a touch of avocado oil spray. If you’ve never had air fryer dim sum, do yourself a favor. Those little dumplings came out hot, crispy, and somehow better than fresh from the restaurant. Outside, the temperature had dropped into the high 30s, so I fired up the Espar diesel heater, cracked the door, and zipped into my jacket.
From my fold-out chair inside the van, I had a front-row seat to the view: a wide, red expanse scattered with scrub brush, leading to massive mesas glowing faintly under a moody sunset. Not a soul in sight. It was too cold to linger outside, but that didn’t matter. Dinner was perfect, the heater was humming, and I had the Valley of the Gods all to myself.
After dinner, I slid the van door shut as the cold settled in deeper. Even with the diesel heater running full blast, I could still feel the chill seeping in. Once the cabin felt toasty, I turned on the hot water and treated myself to a quick one- or two-gallon shower. For a van shower, it’s not bad at all. At just under 5’10”, I fit fine — though anyone much taller would probably need to perfect their shower acrobatics to reach all the right spots.
Clean and warm, I felt restless. I’d driven far more than planned that day, and my legs were itching for a stretch. I bundled up in my warmest clothes and stepped outside into the biting cold. The wind had picked up, cutting through the stillness of the Valley of the Gods. You don’t see other people walking around at night like I do I’ve noticed.
I wandered past six or seven campsites, each tucked away in the darkness. No one was outside — just faint glows from heaters and lanterns inside. A few cars rolled by, their occupants offering friendly waves. The cold made the decision for me before long, and I turned back toward the Redneck Ferrari.
It was pitch black. I switched my camera to night vision and pointed it at the van. Even then, the image barely came through — a shadow of the camper against the silhouette of the mesas, one small light glinting back at me in the dark.
I’ll dive deeper into this spot on my next trip, but for now I’ll just say this — the Valley of the Gods is an absolute gem of a place to camp. The road in is fairly easy, the campsites are well maintained, and the crowd here has a mellow, friendly vibe. You’ve got miles and miles of open space to choose from, with room to spread out so it never feels crowded. It’s quiet, peaceful, and jaw-droppingly beautiful. Out of all the places I’ve camped over the years, this one sits firmly near the top of the list.
Morning light would find me tracing the entire Valley of the Gods road, each turn revealing new stone sentinels and endless desert stillness. Angel Peak would have to wait for a warmer welcome on a future trip.
View the next leg of this journey here:
View the previous leg of this 4k mile journey here:
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