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November's Beaver Moon waxed toward full, draping spires and pinnacles in phantom light. It was Thanksgiving week, and I was just where I wanted to be - a dark quiet place, far away from my neighbor's barking dogs and the relationship drama of friends.

Valley of the Gods looked ideal on the map, ringed by a lonely dirt road about 20 miles west of Bluff, Utah. It was far from a major population center, had just one access road, no power lines and was out of cell-phone range. Perfect! - one of those places that was on the way to someplace else. It didn't hold the sex appeal of its larger sister 40-miles down the road, Monument Valley. There I sat. And hiked. And photographed, wrapped in an enthralling landscape of Cedar Mesa Sandstone, where monoliths rose skyward from the desert floor.

The Navajo perceive the weather-sculpted rock as warriors frozen in time - beings they call upon for protection. Especially those on their way to war. Carved by water, wind and erosion for 250 million years, the power of the place cast a wholly different energy for me. Dwarfed by the immensity of spire, vast sky and pounding quiet, they loomed as sisters of mercy.

There are no hiking trails. One is left to her own imagination and cunning to set forth up canyons or across open land. Expanse is studded with rabbit brush and four-winged salt brush. Skunk weed, indicator of over-grazing, prevails. It happened to be in seed, and feisty ground squirrels snapped, collected and piled the stems by their holes.

To take off cross-country appears as a fairly level excursion, but quickly turns cheeky with a spider-veined network of arroyos of every shape and size. Wide, stone-lined washes with smooth shale bottoms prevail in this place where sudden waters make the map. I was surprised to see frequent salt-studded pools of holy water. The pre-solstice low-light world served up few birds beyond ravens and juncos. A few cottonwoods hung onto their golden leaves and rabbit brush still bloomed lemon-yellow along a wash.

A hike into the canyons enfold you in massive red rock walls, giant heaves of stone and yes, the occasional tamarisk. (How does it do it?) The canyon network is vast, and you could walk and explore for days.

This valley is a lusciously lonesome place. Even the few cars that drove by during my week's stay did just that - drove by. Hardly anyone stopped, and only two vehicles pulled over for an extended hike into the canyon lands. The pace picked up a bit on the weekend. Say, an increase from a half dozen cars a day to a dozen.

Calm, sunny days prevailed for the first few days. Then I got a taste of how the "Sisters" came to be, as winds whipped and snapped their way down canyon. Camper beware, stake down, tie down, lay down tight. A-ha, the answer to "why are all of these fire rings so tall?"

Valley of the Gods: rock made for the dawn. Vast, oceanic sky. Venus rising into ebony. It is a landscape rich with shadow dance, where night pushes against the soul, and song dog chorus fills the air.

Author and photographer Christina Nealson sold the house in Taos three years ago, moved into a motorhome with her husband, Tom, her Bengal cat and chocolate lab, and hasn't looked back. You can visit her and her books at christinanealson.com.