The Wind Caves Of Logan Canyon
Field Notes: Logan Canyon, Utah
Date: September 19, 2020
Hiked up to the Wind Caves, where the canyon air never really sits still and rock formations feel like something out of a dream. The trail winds through thick pine and aspen groves, sunlight flickering between the leaves, the smell of earth and resin filling the air. The higher I climbed, the quieter everything felt, just the rustle of trees, the wind threading through the branches, the distant rush of the Logan River far below.
Then, just as my legs started protesting, the caves appeared! Massive openings in the limestone, carved by time, wind, and water. They aren’t caves in the deep, dark, endless tunnel sense. They’re arches, sculpted by thousands of years of erosion, shaped by the very forces that move through them. The softer rock wore away first, carried off grain by grain, until all that remained were these delicate, wind-carved chambers. And they’re still changing. Wind funnels through the openings, smoothing edges, shifting loose rock, slowly but steadily reshaping the landscape.
Stepping inside, the temperature shifts instantly. The rock, sunbaked from the afternoon heat, is warm to the touch, but the wind cools the air, wrapping around me like a steady breath. The view from here is unreal, layers of rolling hills covered in deep green, the Logan River snaking silver through the valley, cliffs stacked like the pages of an open book. Standing at the edge, looking out over it all, I remembered something my colleagues at Utah Diné Bikéyah, Tom Chee, once said about the land: It holds memory. It breathes. It knows who we are.
I thought about that as I traced my hands along the limestone walls. These formations hold stories in ways we don’t always see. Every layer of rock is a record of time, of seasons passing, of wind and water slowly shifting what once was. This place isn’t still, it’s alive, always in motion, always listening.
Standing in the wind, inside something both solid and temporary, I felt small in the best possible way. The land is patient. It shifts, adapts, remembers. And if we pay attention, it teaches.
