Why is Sedona Interesting?

On vortexes, energy, and geology

Stephanie Balzer (SB) is a writer, coach, and founder of Mission. She recently wrote the Organizing edition, among others.

Stephanie here. I had to write several drafts of what is interesting about Sedona to slough off or at least temper my conviction that the local experience, or the way it used to be, or what it’s really like is a more authentic story.

I grew up in Flagstaff, thirty miles north of Sedona. And like many people from places that attract tourists, I seem to have a complicated relationship with them.

Visitors to northern Arizona spend money and fuel the economy. Of course, we know this. But we don’t necessarily like our dependence on them. We don’t like the traffic they bring, or their big-city attitudes and privileges and complaints. We don’t like when they post photos of their marriage proposals or yoga poses or epic hikes on Instagram. 

And yet a tourist’s experiences are not entirely unlike my own. As a kid, my family would take summer guests to Sedona and the neighboring Village of Oak Creek. We’d spend the day at Slide Rock State Park or Grasshopper Point, suntanning and eating sandwiches out of coolers, then driving to town to get ice cream and browse the shops that sold metaphysical books, crystals, and real scorpions embedded in resin.

I remember the electric buzz of the cicadas at Tlaquepaque, an arts and shopping village built in the 70s and modeled after small town markets in Mexico. Cicadas are so goddamn loud, by the way. 

And before it was an overrun destination, we would hike West Fork and eat sour blackberries off the bushes, then scramble up the creek bank to where we’d abandoned the car on the shoulder of Highway 89A as if we were never coming back.

I asked my northern Arizona people what they like about Sedona today: “Yeah I don’t actually know that much about it anymore. I know there’s a bunch of legit mountain biking there these days.” “It’s super crowded and the traffic is horrendous.” “I try to go to places with as few people as possible so not sure that’s what you’re looking for.”

West Fork, photo by my dad

It’s not only that our Sedona felt undiscovered and under-developed, but it also seemed more honest, and I am stubborn about this. Even now I’ll sometimes describe it as a place with a rainbow trout farm and a Dairy Queen to people who I know want to be enchanted.

In fact Sedona was a sacred place and home to Indigenous Americans for centuries before white people colonized the land and commercialized their culture. And while this shame-fueled welter underlies all of the Southwest, it seems particularly acute here with the abundance of kokopelli t-shirts and dream catchers for sale, off-road jeep tours, shamanic retreats, 10,000 residents, and 3 million annual visitors packed into 18 square miles.

Films brought Sedona to the wider world. The intrigue accelerated in the 90s though, as travel photographers published images of monsoon clouds brewing over Cathedral Rock or dustings of snow covering Devil’s Bridge, and writers included it in almost every list of the most spiritual places on the planet, along with Jerusalem, Machu Picchu, Tulum, and Mecca. It boasts high-end resorts and spas, award-winning restaurants, and multi-million dollar homes nestled in the cliffs as a result.

Chapel of the Holy Cross, completed in 1956, also photo by my dad

And yet it does feel mystical. It is stunningly beautiful. The whole of Sedona is considered to be a vortex swirling with spiritual energy, but there are a few spots that vibrate at an even higher frequency, whatever that may mean to you. Healers, guides, and psychics from all traditions descend to pursue enlightenment, start businesses, or both. 

The region’s geology is unique in the world, and that is not hyperbole. It is the only place you can see the Schnebly Hill Formation, a 800-1,000-foot-thick outcrop of dark red sandstone at the edge of the Colorado Plateau. Imagine the sandstone is like an artist’s medium that has been worked and reworked by wind and water over 270 million years, forming spires and buttes and cliffs. (I meant to invoke the artist to explain how the land looks sculpted, but it also sounds like I’m referencing a higher power. Given the context, maybe that’s apt.)

Then there’s the sand itself, a fine dust that stains your socks, sticks to your sunscreen and hair, and coats the lenses of your sunglasses. No need to buy cheap trinkets, you will be taking it home with you. But if you want a more valuable treasure, my recommendation is Garland’s for traditional Navajo, Hopi and Zuni jewelry. It’s one of my favorite shops anywhere—not just in Sedona—and you can hardly go wrong with any purchase. 

Oak Creek from L’Auberge in December 2017, and that man on the far right in the hat is my dad

Another thing about Sedona that may interest you: it’s the only place where McDonald’s golden arches are teal blue. The city has strict signage requirements to maintain its dark skies and particular outdoor aesthetic, so McDonald’s, in turn, markets the branding anomaly as one of its most iconic locations in the U.S. 

If I could wipe the slate clean and pretend Sedona were new to me today—and let’s also say that money is no object—here’s what I would do. I would eschew the newer luxury resorts and book a month-long stay at L’Auberge de Sedona, now a vintage property having opened in 1984. I would want a casita with a view and a cedar-lined outdoor shower, and I would use my time to write. 

I imagine this would be a solo retreat but then I’d also make friends with fellow guests. We’d dine at Elote and hike the Brins Mesa Trail during the full moon. I’d know the baristas and bartenders by name. I’d take yoga classes at sunrise and meditate at sunset. I would become a tourist and a local. And I’d probably post it all on Instagram. (SB)

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Thanks for reading,

Noah (NRB) & Colin (CJN) & Steph (SB)

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