Keeping Space

There’s something rare about driving through southern Utah and realizing just how much land is still open to people. Mile after mile of dirt roads, public trails, desert overlooks, and places where you can pull over, step out, and simply exist without fences every hundred feet. It feels free in a way much of the country no longer does.

We took a few new roads this year and a few we have always loved. It’s kind of nuts to see how many more folks are out and about, but we usually take this trip in June or July - knowing full well WE are the crazies out at that time.

Some days we had 80+ miles of dusty, dirt road. Sometimes less.

For someone used to the wide-open spaces of Arizona, it feels familiar. But after traveling through other states (or countries) where public access is limited, gated, or crowded into tiny pockets, you begin to understand just how special the West really is.

Public land matters for obvious reasons — recreation, hunting, camping, hiking, horseback riding, off-roading, wildlife habitat. It gives families a place to explore without needing wealth or private ownership. A kid with an old pickup and a fishing pole deserves the same sunset views as someone with a million-dollar vacation property. Public land keeps that possibility alive.

But what often gets forgotten is that these landscapes are not untouched museums. Much of the West is a working landscape. Ranchers, farmers, and grazing permit holders have been part of caring for these lands for generations. The open spaces people love to photograph and vacation through did not stay open by accident.

In many cases, ranching is one of the reasons they still exist.

Without working ranches, a tremendous amount of land would eventually become subdivided, fenced into ranchettes, paved over, or developed into the same endless spread of houses and chain stores found almost everywhere else. Cattle ranching, especially in arid country, often preserves large connected landscapes that wildlife and people both benefit from.

That’s why respecting ranchers while using public land matters so much.

If a gate is closed, close it behind you. If cattle are on the road, slow down instead of treating them like an inconvenience. Don’t cut fences, trash water tanks, or tear up muddy roads because it makes for a fun video online. Those roads people love exploring through southern Utah didn’t magically appear for tourism — many were built and maintained over decades for ranch work, mining access, fire control, and land stewardship.

There’s also a growing disconnect between people who use the land and people who actually live on it.

For many visitors, public land is an occasional escape. For ranching families, it’s daily life. It’s checking water in July heat, doctoring cattle ten miles from pavement, hauling salt before sunrise, fixing flood damage after monsoons, and watching drought conditions closer than the weather report. These families often act as the first eyes on wildfire starts, broken infrastructure, injured wildlife, or illegal dumping long before any agency hears about it.

None of this means public lands belong only to ranchers. They absolutely belong to everyone. That shared access is one of the greatest parts of the American West. But shared spaces only work when there’s mutual respect between recreation and production, between visitors and locals, between those passing through and those whose livelihoods depend on the land staying healthy.

Traveling through southern Utah reminded me how lucky we are to still have places where you can disappear down a dirt road for hours and feel small beneath the cliffs and sky. In some parts of the country, land is so privatized that people barely have room to roam anymore. Access becomes crowded parks, tiny trail systems, or carefully controlled recreation zones.

Out here, there is still room to breathe.

That freedom is worth protecting.

Not just the scenery itself, but the entire balance that allows it to remain open: public access, responsible recreation, land stewardship, and the ranching families who continue to live and work in these harsh, beautiful places long after the tourists head home.