Sunset at Toroweap Overlook

My wife Cora and I got married on July 29, 1989, and decided that our honeymoon would be a two-week guided raft trip through the Grand Canyon. As we were approaching Lava Falls, one of the most difficult and dangerous rapids on the Colorado River, Nathan, our guide, took a moment to point toward the top of the massive cliff rising on the north side of the river. “That’s Toroweap Overlook,” he said. “A lot of famous photographs have been taken there. But you have to drive 60 miles of dirt roads to get there.”

For 37 years, that comment lingered in my mind, through the early years of our marriage, my transition from outdoor-sports photographer to landscape photographer, the birth of our two daughters, and the joys and frustrations of helping two children become the thriving young adults they are today. Finally, in March 2026, it was time to go see what Nathan had been talking about.

After shooting the lunar eclipse at the Wave and recovering for a night in a hotel in Kanab, Utah, I spent two hours and 20 minutes bouncing over the rutted dirt road and finally reached the Tuweep Campground, just a mile or so from the overlook. To my surprise, I had the campground all to myself. It was only noon, so I hiked nearly four miles along the Tuckup Trail, which starts at the campground, and picked a spot along the canyon rim for the wide panorama I hoped to shoot at sunrise the next morning. Then I drove the rough 4wd road to the overlook, parked, and walked over to the rim.

Most views of the Colorado River from the rim are disappointing. Only short stretches of the river are visible through gaps in the cliff-and-bench topography that is typical of the Grand Canyon. The dizzying prospect from Toroweap Overlook was the opposite, both terrifying and sublime. Terrifying because it seemed like the river was directly below me. Sublime because the river was visible for miles as it flowed through its awesome chasm. I took a guess as to how far the river was below me. One thousand feet? That seemed like an underestimate. Perhaps 1,500 feet was closer to the truth. I dug out my 7 ½ minute USGS Vulcans Throne quad, subtracted the elevation of the river from the elevation of the overlook, did a double-take, checked the figures again, and gasped. The river was 2,800 feet – more than half a mile – below me. No wonder the overlook was so famous.

I selected an airy perch just a couple of feet from the edge of the cliff, set up with great care, and waited. To my delight, the clouds gathering over the canyon began to glow as sunset approached. I shot an absurd number of frames as the color peaked, then faded, completely in awe of what time and the river had wrought. I was overjoyed to have finally had the opportunity to photograph from one of the Grand Canyon’s most spectacular overlooks, a place that I had longed to see for 37 years.