There are more than 2,000 documented stone arches here, the densest collection on Earth, and every one of them is falling down; dozens have collapsed in the past half-century. The Park Service does not consider this a problem. Erosion built the arches, erosion takes them, and the park is simply where you catch the process mid-act.
Arches is one of the 63 national parks in ParkStamp, and every park in the app gets original stamp art drawn in the WPA poster tradition, each design an illustration of a specific, real place inside the park.
Recording your visit costs nothing. Check in from the park itself, log a trip from years back, or let the app read the dates and places off the photos already on your phone.
The whole park stands on salt. Around 300 million years ago an inland sea evaporated here, over and over, leaving salt beds thousands of feet thick in places. Buried under later rock, salt behaves less like a mineral than a liquid: it flowed, domed upward, and cracked the overlying Entrada Sandstone into long parallel fins. Water and ice have been picking the fins apart ever since, and where a soft layer fails before the harder rock above it, an opening forms. That is why the densest arch field on Earth is here and not somewhere else: not better scenery, better salt.
A prospector sold a railroad on it. In 1923 Alexander Ringhoffer, a Hungarian-born miner working nearby, wrote to officials of the Denver and Rio Grande Western hoping arch scenery would put tourists on their trains. Railroad men came, were persuaded, and pushed the idea up the chain; Herbert Hoover proclaimed Arches National Monument in 1929. It took until November 12, 1971 for Congress to make it a national park.
Edward Abbey was a ranger here. He spent the seasons of 1956 and 1957 in a trailer at the end of a dirt road, back when the monument saw a trickle of visitors, and turned his journals into Desert Solitaire in 1968, a book that argues, at length, against paving the place. The road got paved anyway. About a million and a half people a year now drive it, and the book stays in print, still making its case.
Everything here is temporary, on a schedule you can almost watch. Wall Arch, a landmark on the Devils Garden trail, collapsed overnight in August 2008; nobody saw it go. In 1991 a sixty-foot slab dropped from the underside of Landscape Arch in front of hikers. The park inventory counts an opening as an arch once it spans three feet, and new ones are opening as old ones fall, so the count above 2,000 is a snapshot, not a fact about a permanent landscape.
Do not step on the black crust. Much of the ground between the fins is biological soil crust, a living skin of cyanobacteria, lichens and mosses that cements the sand, soaks up rain and fixes nitrogen for everything else. It is the foundation of the desert food web, and one bootprint can take decades to heal. The rule in the park is simple: walk on rock, trail, or wash.
The rattlesnake here is small, pale, and stronger than it needs to be. The midget faded rattlesnake is a Colorado Plateau specialty: a rattler the color of weathered Entrada sandstone that rarely reaches two feet, hunts at night, and carries venom more potent, drop for drop, than nearly any other rattlesnake in North America. Almost nobody sees one. It would prefer to keep it that way.
Potholes are timed events. Rain pools in bare-rock basins and starts a race: spadefoot toads go from egg to toadlet in weeks, fairy shrimp hatch from eggs that may have waited dry for years, and everything must finish before the water does. A pothole that looks like a puddle is an ecosystem on a deadline, which is why you should never wade or stir one.
Desert bighorn are back. Gone from this stretch of canyon country by the mid-20th century, they were reintroduced in the 1980s and now hold the cliffs along the park's southern edge. The highway corridor near the entrance is one of the more reliable places in Utah to see one standing on rock that looks unstandable.
The park's largest freestanding arch, and the one on Utah's license plate. It stands alone on the lip of a sandstone bowl with the La Sal Mountains behind it; cowboys are said to have called it the Schoolmarm's Bloomers. The trail is three miles round trip across bare slickrock with no shade, and the arch stays hidden until the last turn.
A 306-foot ribbon of rock, the longest natural arch in North America and among the longest on Earth. In September 1991 a slab sixty feet long peeled off its underside while hikers watched from the trail below; the path beneath has been closed ever since, which is honest advertising. It hangs at the end of an easy walk through Devils Garden.
North Window, South Window and Turret Arch stand together in one of the densest clusters of big openings in the park, reached by a short walk from the road. Photographers come before dawn to shoot Turret Arch framed inside North Window. From a distance the two Windows read as a pair of spectacles, nose and all.
Open ParkStamp inside the park boundary and check in. The app confirms you are actually there and logs the date.
Already been? Pick the date yourself. Trips from decades ago count the same as last weekend.
Let ParkStamp read the dates and locations off photos already on your phone. Most people find parks they had forgotten.