Southwest Road Trip Travelogue: Moved to Tears by a Memorial, Camping Between the Prescott Pines, & Grand Canyon Gazing
From Prescott’s pine forests to the Grand Canyon’s south rim, this final chapter follows the road back to Phoenix and the end of a nine-day journey I’ll never forget.
After three days of relative stillness in Joshua Tree, the pace of ever moving forward began again, but in ways that kept me rooted to the present, from scenic highways to unexpectedly moving moments and the possibility of the end not actually being the end.
Part 3 of this nine-day Southwest road trip travelogue series traces the final arc of the journey, from waking up in a vineyard along Route 66 to snaking through pine forests, mountain towns, and a very grand indeed canyon. These days carried more momentum, more emotion, and more surprises than I ever could have predicted they would—reminders that some of the most meaningful moments on the road aren’t planned at all.
This is the stretch where the trip could have ended quietly…but instead went out with a bang, in true Western style.
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Day 7: Kingman to Prescott, Arizona & White Spar Campground
Day 7 at a glance: vineyard wake-up, mountain roads, an unexpected tear-jerking moment, a creative mountain town, and the moment the trip had the possibility of stretching a little longer.
Waking up in a vineyard inside a van wasn’t a dream I knew to have, but what a delight it was to open my eyes to rows of vines and the sun rising over the far-off mountains. Coffee brewed, enjoyed in bed of course, and van prepared, it was eventually time to drive off for what might be my last full day with the van. I said a quick goodbye to my gracious host, Steve, and pointed the van back toward Route 66, bound for Prescott. On paper, it was a roughly three-hour drive. In reality, it was one of those days where the miles mattered far less than everything that filled them.
In my loose pre-planning, I’d marked a few stops I wanted to make along the way—old western towns like Congress, a scenic canyon off Highway 93 I could stop at for lunch with a view, the Yarnell Hill Fire Memorial along Highway 89, and a short wander through Prescott before settling in for the night at White Spar Campground.
But like so many days on this trip, the drive itself caught me completely off guard. Google Maps hadn’t indicated the narrow, zigzagging mountain roads with steep drop-offs I’d maneuver, or that I’d climb from low desert, then up and over rugged hills, and finally up to thick forests with snow still lingering on the ground.
When I pulled off at my first stop, the Yarnell Hill Fire Memorial, I didn’t fully understand what I was arriving at. ChatGPT had suggested it as something interesting to visit en route, but I hadn’t had a chance to dig deeper than that. The memorial was tucked just off a snaking highway in the mountains, only a few parking spots at its base and a park ranger roaming about the lot. It looked more like a trailhead than a roadside memorial.
I caught the ranger’s attention, hoping to get more details about the hike. He was visibly caught off guard by how little I seemed to know about the spot. Without really mentioning a lick of what awaited, he did say it’s a seven-mile, very steep out-and-back trail. I almost turned around then to get back in my van, not having the time to do a seven-mile hike in the middle of my day-long drive, but he encouraged me to walk even just 15 minutes up the trail. So I did.
The climb was as steep as he warned, but the views of the valley below just kept getting better and better with each step. It was hard to choose my turnaround point with that kind of incentive. Going a little further and a little further and a little further still, I suddenly understood the ranger’s surprise at my focus on the length of the trail rather than the meaning of it.
Every few hundred meters, there was a plaque—each one bearing the face and story of a firefighter who had lost their life fighting the fire on this very hill on June 28, 2013. The man on the first plaque was Eric Shane Marsh, superintendent of the Granite Mountain Interagency Hotshot Crew—at the time a newly certified and highly-trained team of wildland firefighters (essentially the Special Forces of firefighters). Superintendent Marsh trained and then led the group of 18 young Hotshots, whose faces now appear along this trail in memorium, sadly to their death.
Looking at Marsh’s image and reading about his life—a husband, an avid outdoorsman, and seemingly not much older than me—I was growing more and more moved by where I was, by what this was. Scattered on the ground underneath the plaque were little tokens left by those who climb this hill to pay their respects to these brave men.
Wishing I had more time to continue further up the trail, I retraced my steps down the mountain instead, now heavy and humbled by what I’d come to understand. At the trailhead, I bumped into the ranger again and, almost in apology, told him that now I understand what all this was.
Seated on a bench nearby was a retired firefighter who overheard my apology. He shared with the both of us that he’d recently lost his wife—who was also a firefighter—and that they used to visit this trail and memorial together several times a year. Toward the end of her life, she could only make it a few steps up the hill due to an ankle injury sustained on the job, but they always came anyway, mostly at her urging. Now, he comes alone.
As he spoke, his eyes filled with tears, and for the first time in my life, I truly understood the sacrifice firefighters make to do this job for us, just how brave and selfless those in this line of work truly are. Nearly tearing up myself, I looked this man fully in his glistening eyes and said thank you. Thank you for your service. Thank you for your bravery. And thank you for sharing some of your story, and your wife’s, with me.
Minutes later I was back in my van, humbled and now moved, my own eyes now glistening as I pulled back onto the highway. I didn’t wake up today expecting an experience like this, but it was one I’d never forget it.
Prescott was still a few hours away, on the other side of a winding mountain road through Prescott National Forest. The sight of pine trees, along with juniper and granite outcroppings, felt grounding. Forests have always had a way of calming me. I was glad they were what lay just around the next corner from the Yarnell Hill Fire Memorial.
Prescott itself surprised me. I hadn’t expected such a lively historic downtown, with antique shops, old-west saloons, cafes, and bakeries lining the streets. Parking near the courthouse, I wandered through a few antique stores and secondhand clothing shops before landing at a café called Wild Iris, packed wall-to-wall on a Sunday afternoon. I ordered their Mexican mocha—made with creamy Ibarra chocolate and a hint of spicy cayenne—and found a seat.
Earlier, I’d noticed an email from Roadsurfer come through with all the information for my campervan return, scheduled for the next day. I hadn’t paid much attention to it at first—just another end-of-trip detail waiting patiently in my inbox. But sitting there in the café, mocha in hand, I opened it again.
Beneath the instructions was an option I’d never considered before now, the option to extend my reservation.
The thought landed softly at first, then all at once. And before logic could catch up, I connected to the café’s Wi-Fi and did a quick gut-check search—if I had one more day, where would I go?
There it was on the map, staring back at me: the Grand Canyon. Just two hours north.
I’d initially ruled it out, assuming temperatures this time of year at the Grand Canyon would be too cold for van life. But after several nights of navigating temperatures in the 30s, I knew that excuse no longer held. I could handle it. My heart raced as I sent off the extension request and immediately began scanning campground availability inside Grand Canyon National Park. It felt reckless and exhilarating all at once.
Still riding high by my spontaneous and yet unconfirmed decision, I made my way to White Spar Campground. Instead of the peaceful campground in the forest I thought I had booked, I was neighbors with the only RV around running a generator. That and my reserved site had not a patch of flat earth to park on.
Unwilling to settle without at least seeing if I could potentially relocate to a quieter and flatter spot, I found the campground host and explained the situation. While he couldn’t officially move me to another reservable site, he did offer an alternative: a quiet administrative lot tucked into the woods, far from the generator and closer to what I’d hoped for when I booked a campground inside a national forest.
Manny, if you happen to see this, thank you!!
That night, I lay in the van still unsure whether this was my final night or just another chapter. Cell service was spotty, and my extension request had gone in after business hours, leaving me suspended in a maybe-yes-maybe-no limbo.
Either way, I told myself, this trip had already been something special. This day as special as they had come.
Day 8: Prescott to Grand Canyon National Park(!!)
I woke up to the confirmation from Roadsurfer I’d been waiting for: I could keep the van one more day. Relief washed over me immediately. My mind had fully latched onto the idea of seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time, and now it was actually happening. I lingered a little longer that morning at my quiet, generator-free campsite in the forest, letting the reality of the extension sink in.
This trip wasn’t over yet.
Because the entire reason for extending was the Grand Canyon, I decided there would be no stops along the way today. I’d gun it the two hours north to the park’s pearly gates, giving myself as much daylight as possible to explore. For the first time in eight days, the destination mattered more than the journey to get there. Not my usual ethos.
I stayed true to the plan, however, stopping only once for gas—because I had no idea how much driving I’d be doing once inside a national park this big. I had no real sense of scale yet. I did have a campground reserved—one of the last available sites at Mather Campground, with only two loops open in winter—so there was no rush to get there first.
I parked at the Visitor Center, made a quick lunch in the van, and assumed I’d be gone for maybe ten minutes—the short walk to Mather Point and back. Instead, I didn’t return to the van for four more hours.
Mather Point offered my first glimpse of the Grand Canyon: vast, layered, and impossibly deep, its scale almost impossible to process at once. From there, I kept walking—along the South Rim Trail to Yavapai Point, onward to Grand Canyon Village, and eventually down into the canyon itself via the Bright Angel Trail. That short stroll to one viewpoint turned into a spontaneous three-mile hike, every step outdoing the one before it in views.
Earlier, I’d learned that Hopi Point was one of the best places to watch the sunset, and that one required driving. So around 4 p.m., I hopped on the free shuttle back to the Visitor Center, retrieved the van, and headed west—still buzzing from everything I’d just seen.
By the time I arrived at Hopi Point, a crowd had gathered, but I managed to find a quieter spot just off to the side. As the sun dipped lower, the canyon walls transformed minute by minute—the reds in the rocks deepening, their shadows stretching, more layers revealing themselves in new ways with each passing moment.
This, I thought, is exactly how a Southwest road trip should end.
Day 9: The Return to Phoenix
Grateful to have had the extra day, I didn’t even mind that the end of this road trip had arrived. Sure, I still had the three-hour drive to Phoenix to complete, but my adventure had ended with that unforgettable sunset at Hopi Point.
I used the morning to prepare the van for its return, a final sweep of every surface, a final dump of the cassette toilet, a final empty of the grey water tank, a final fill-up of gas and propane. My home on wheels was gradually returning to its original state, not a mark of desert sand from Saguaro National Park on its floor, not a pebble from Joshua Tree, or a red wine stain from Kingman to be found.
Despite how it looked and certainly felt, this was no dream. This was real life. All that I’d seen. All that I’d done. Everyone I’d met along the way. It really happened. I’d treasure this, just as I have the last one. This isn’t the end. Not really.
It’s just the beginning. The beginning of my road trip / van life era.
And with that, I cranked my Southwest road trip playlist one last time and drove off into the sunset. ;)
I hope you enjoyed this road trip travelogue series. If you’re finding this post first, definitely go back and read part 1 and part 2 for the full re-telling of this 9-day adventure around the American Southwest. I’ve also put together a more practical road trip guide that has all of the details for how you can follow this route yourself, with information on campgrounds, park passes, day hikes, and other roadside goodies that are guaranteed to turn the drive each day into the destination. Find that here.
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