Finally Getting My Havasupai Permit
For years, I've tried—and failed—to snag one of those elusive permits to hike Havasupai. Every February, I'd sit at my computer, refreshing the website with the same hope as a kid trying to grab a golden ticket. And every year, the permits would vanish in minutes. But this year, luck was finally on my side!
You might be wondering, what exactly is Havasupai?
Havasupai refers both to the Havasupai Tribe and their stunning homeland—an isolated paradise hidden deep within a side canyon of the Grand Canyon in Arizona. The name Havasupai means “People of the Blue-Green Water,” a fitting description. The turquoise ribbon of Havasu Creek winds through red rock walls, laden with lush foliage where it cascades into a series of waterfalls that seem almost too beautiful to be real.
The Havasupai Tribe has called this region home for centuries. Their reservation spans over 188,000 acres along the western edge of the Grand Canyon's South Rim, with the village of Supai resting some 3,000 feet below the rim, accessible only by foot, mule, or helicopter. There are no roads into this hidden world—just a rugged trail and the promise of an unforgettable journey. For those lucky enough to get a permit, reaching Havasupai isn't easy—but that's part of its magic. It's one of those rare places that reminds you just how vast, wild, and sacred the world still is. The permit I was lucky enough to obtain was for two people, and I was also fortunate enough to get the most prime time of year to visit. The beginning of November. Seventy-degree days and the hopes of spying autumn leaves.
As soon as that golden permit hit my inbox, the wheels started turning.
First things first — who's coming with me? Not just anyone can handle a 10-mile trek into the canyon, plus all the extra miles winding between those incredible waterfalls. I needed someone who wouldn't just survive it, but who'd love every dusty, exhausting, awe-filled step. Next came the gear checklist. I've got a pretty solid stash of camping essentials, but this trip is no casual weekend campout — it's a 4-day, 3-night backcountry adventure where every ounce you carry matters. No cars, no coolers, no creature comforts — just you, your pack, and maybe a pack mule if you're lucky enough to snag one. As for the campground? Let's just say it's minimal. There's one natural spring for fresh water and a handful of Phoenix composting toilets scattered along the mile-long stretch of campsites hugging the river. That's it: no amenities, no frills — just raw, wild beauty. So, who did I call first? My go-to adventure partner, nature junkie, and photography rival — Lindsay. We've been on countless expeditions together, and when I texted her, she didn't hesitate for a second. "I'm in." And just like that, the real planning began.
Travel Day – Nostalgia on Old Route 66
The journey always begins long before the trailhead. For us, it started with a rumble down the faded asphalt of Old Route 66, the Mother Road that once carried dreamers westward and still hums with that same restless spirit. We were headed toward the Grand Canyon Caverns, our check-in point before the hike into Havasupai. The landscape around Peach Springs is a time capsule of classic Americana — weathered gas stations, old neon motel signs clinging to life, and rusting firetrucks, sunburnt and crusted by desert dust. I could practically hear the echoes of road trips from the 1950s — engines revving, radios crackling, the faint smell of gasoline and freedom. Lindsay and I rolled into the iconic motel and hopped out into the dry Arizona air. The low sun cast long shadows across the road, turning everything into reddish hues.
As twilight fell, the Caverns Motel came to life — glowing softly like an oasis for travelers who still believe in the magic of the open road. After checking in, we grabbed a bite to eat at their café, a short drive away. We noshed heavily, bulking up on protein and carbs for the next day’s hike. What’s that special I see? A beer and a shot of any liquor for 5 bucks! Wow, this is nostalgic, yes, please.
Back at the hotel, as night falls, night photography is one of our shared obsessions, and this place was a dream. Old signs flickered in yellow and blue, a vintage gas pump stood guard under a canopy of stars, and the desert silence was so complete that even the click of a shutter felt loud. The darkness stretched across the sky above as I framed up the line of hotel doors with white lights shining, and as I shot the old gas station across the lot, Lindsay smirked at me, a competitive spark in her eyes. I knew right then — this trip was going to be a photographic duel.
Descent into Paradise
Morning came early, with coffee in hand and an hour drive to the Hualapai Hilltop. The road wound higher into the cliffs until suddenly, it just stopped — an abrupt edge overlooking the canyon. Beyond that rim lay eight miles of rugged trail and a world that seemed untouched by time.
The first steps down were steep; just had to navigate the rocky trail, the morning light soft and golden. The trail snaked through layers of red sandstone and dusty switchbacks, the cliffs rising like ancient cathedrals on either side. Every turn revealed a new color — ochres, pinks, and deep reds glowing in the sun. The desert seemed alive with quiet detail: lizards darting across rocks, cactus clinging to ledges, ravens riding the thermals. We couldn't get enough of the black iron streaks flowing down the face of the red sandstone walls, Nature Tattoos!
By mid-morning, we dropped into the heart of the canyon, where the walls closed in, and the sound of footsteps echoed off the stone. Just before the village, we heard it — a faint, rhythmic rush of water, then louder with each step until it filled the canyon. That sound always stirs something in me. The water here begins as snowmelt on the San Francisco Peaks in Flagstaff — my home. It seeps underground, travels through limestone caverns, and reemerges here in this sacred place. In a way, it's like following a familiar thread across miles of desert, from my mountain home to the canyon. We entered Supai Village, where time slows down. Horses grazed under cottonwoods, dogs slept in the shade, and the turquoise creek wound its way through the heart of the community.
Two more miles down the trail, and we came upon a Frybread hut. We ordered one from the elderly Supai woman to split between us. She slathered it with Nutella, and I drizzled it with honey–Oh god, what a treat and much-needed calories! After we licked our fingers, we started down the trail and heard the unmistakable roar — Havasu Falls. We turned a corner, and there it was: water exploding off a 100-foot ledge into a turquoise pool, framed by orange cliffs. The color looked unreal, as if someone had turned the saturation all the way up on nature's palette. Yes, shutters clicked away as we moved about framing in every angle as we inched our way down the long hill.
Another mile down the trail and we found our perfect campsite tucked beside a small stream, hidden among cottonwoods and pressed up against the canyon wall — quiet, private, and shaded. After pitching tents and stringing up my hammock, we hiked back to the falls for sunset. That night, under the full Beaver Moon, we set up for long exposures. The moonlight transformed the water into silk, the canyon glowing silver-blue. Lindsay and I worked in silence, each lost in our own rhythm. Every few minutes, I'd glance over to find her crouched behind her tripod, her red lit headlamp glowing like a firefly. In moments like this, photography feels like meditation — two people in sync, chasing light in the dark.
Down the Chains to Mooney Falls
The next morning, we set out early for Mooney and Beaver Falls. The trail begins harmlessly enough, then without warning, the world just drops away. The descent is infamous — a twisting, wet, near-vertical crawl through two claustrophobic tunnels before you’re spit out onto a sheer rock-face. You cling to everything slick, ice-cold chains, feel for shallow footholds carved into the soaked slippery limestone, and trust creaking wooden ladders that look like they’ve seen too many seasons. In that moment, you’re half mountaineer… half daredevil. The roar of the falls grows louder with every downward step, a low, thunderous warning vibrating through the rock. Mist pours over everything — the walls, the ladders, our clothes — until we’re drenched and the air is thick enough to swallow. From below, I assisted Lindsay with foot placements when needed and we worked in tandem down the obstacle course.
When my feet finally hit the wet, compacted sand, I was greeted by one of the most surreal sights I’ve ever seen — Mooney Falls, plunging 200 feet into a turquoise amphitheater, mist swirling like smoke. The sound was deafening, the scale barely captured in a single frame.
After an hour of shooting, we continued downstream toward Beaver Falls, a 3-mile hike that wound through hanging garden-of-Eden-like groves, and golden vines just starting to turn for autumn—the turquoise river twisted through red rock terraces, each one a little paradise.
It felt like another planet — part desert, part rainforest. The air was cool, the water warm, and the light filtered through leaves the color of honey.
Beaver Falls
I'd been saying all morning that I am going to see a ram. "I can feel it," I told Lindsay. She just rolled her eyes, "Yeah, yeah." And wouldn't you know it — on the hike back, a full-curl bighorn ram appeared not more than 50 feet in front of me. Munching away on the vines without a care in the world. I pulled off my pack and grabbed my other camera with a medium-sized zoom lens. My shutter started to click away as I looked out for Lindsay lagging on the trail behind me. He stood there, watching with calm authority, as if to say, You earned this one. I turned to Lindsay and grinned. "Told you I'd will it into existence." She just stood there, her eyes wide with amazement, her hand on her camera snapping away.
The Photographer’s Solitude
The Next Morning, we decided to part ways for the day — not out of competition, but out of respect for the art. Sometimes, solitude brings a different kind of inspiration. Lindsay took off toward the top of Mooney Falls, intent on capturing the scene from above. I set out in search of 50 Foot Falls, following faint trails and the sound of rushing water. Hours and miles of dead ends passed as I scrambled over boulders and wandered side canyons. Each bend revealed new light, new reflections, and fresh compositions — but no sign of the falls. And honestly, I didn't mind. There's a strange peace in not finding what you set out for — it forces you to see what's already around you. I shot abstract patterns in the rock, reflections in the pools, and dragonflies suspended mid-air.
By afternoon, I found a quiet bend in the creek and just sat there, feet in the turquoise water, camera beside me. Sometimes the photograph isn’t the goal — it’s the excuse to wander until you’re fully present.
Later, I set out and look who I happened across... She had no Idea I was behind her, shooting this photo. Reflecting the same was how I was feeling. In this moment at Havasu Falls, I captured my friend in a quiet pause—completely immersed in the kind of wilderness calm you only find after miles on the trail. Perched on a sun-washed rock above the canyon floor, she sits facing the waterfall as beams of light cut through the trees like nature's own spotlight. The rainbow-tinted rays, the turquoise pool below, and the soft roar of the falls all come together to frame a scene that feels almost sacred. It's one of those rare instances where the landscape doesn't just surround a person—it elevates them, folding them into the story of the place.
Deep down, I knew the real victory wasn't in the images — it was in the experience itself: two photographers chasing light, sharing silence, and capturing beauty in every step of the journey.
Check out my friend Lindsays photos on Instagram
To view more photos and blogs, venture onto my site by clicking EFlattVisualart.com
Credits:
The State of Arizona, The Havasupai Tribe, The Grand Canyon