Tucked away in the depths of the Grand Canyon lies Havasu Falls—a serene oasis of cascading turquoise waterfalls and crystal-clear pools. Come along on a journey through this hidden paradise, where rugged trails, vibrant canyon walls, and awe-inspiring landscapes await every step.

It was still pitch black when the sound of my alarm pierced the still silence of the campground. I rolled over on my sleeping pad, stretched across the folded-down back seats of my rental suv, and groggily hit snooze. I closed my eyes for another minute before deciding not to waste any time. I wanted to wash my face in running water—one last time. 

I drove hurriedly down the unlit, mile-long stretch of dirt and gravel that separated the campground from the motel at Grand Canyon Caverns. All hikers are required to check in here the night before to pick up their wristbands, and since it’s the closest lodging to the trailhead, many, like us, opt to spend the night.

My group was already at the motel—they’d crammed in four to a room, while I had opted for the solitude of my makeshift camper. We gathered, bleary-eyed but buzzing with anticipation, around a large table in the breakfast room, where we devoured cold breakfast burritos and hot coffee while figuring out how to squeeze 12 people and all our gear into the three cars we were allowed to park at the trailhead.

The sun was already up and we were well past our intended 5 a.m. departure when we turned west onto Route 66 from the motel parking lot. We had an hour’s drive through the lonely desert before reaching the trailhead where we’d begin our descent into the canyon. 

Havasu Falls—one of the most coveted backpacking destinations in the U.S.—lies at the end of a strenuous 10-mile trek from Hualapai Hilltop into a remote section of the Grand Canyon. A permit, which costs $455 per person, is required and grants access to the Havasupai Indian Reservation for a 4-day/3-night stay. Visitors can camp in the campground near the falls or stay at the Havasupai Lodge in Supai Village (for an additional fee). The permit allows for hiking, exploring the area’s iconic turquoise waterfalls, and experiencing the sacred land of the Havasupai Tribe.

The Havasupai Tribe, or Havasu Baaja — People of the Blue-Green Waters — have called the Grand Canyon home for thousands of years. But in 1919, when Grand Canyon National Park was created, the Havasupai were stripped of their homeland and confined to a remote side canyon — just 518 acres of the place that had been their home for generations. Cut off from their traditional hunting and gathering grounds, many were forced to take low-wage jobs at the canyon’s South Rim, where they lived in makeshift housing and faced systemic exclusion from the land they once freely roamed. The tribe endured decades of injustice and displacement. It wasn’t until 1975 that a measure of justice began to take shape. After persistent advocacy and resistance, 188,077 acres of their ancestral lands were finally returned, forming the Havasupai Reservation that exists today — land the tribe continues to generously share with visitors from around the world.

The village of Supai, home to around 200 Havasupai tribal members, lies 8 miles from the Hilltop along the trail to Havasu Falls and is the most remote community in the continental United States. Accessible only by foot, horse, or helicopter, it’s also the only place in the country where mail is still delivered by mule.

Everything we needed for the trip had to be carried in and out of the canyon, so our group had hired a mule ($400 for up to four bags weighing up to 32 pounds each) to help carry some of our heavier gear. Even with that help, my pack—loaded with food, water, camera gear, and my tent—still weighed 28 pounds, which may not sound heavy, but after 10 miles, it’s no picnic.

We began our descent around 7 a.m., which was fine for April. We started out wearing fleece, gloves, and hats, which were quickly shed once the sun was on us. In warmer months, hikers typically begin hiking before 5 a.m. to beat the heat and avoid trekking in the dangerous Arizona sun.

This was my first time seeing the Grand Canyon, and for the first few hundred yards, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I was so mesmerized by the vast, layered landscape that just five minutes in, I slipped on a patch of loose rock, the weight of my pack pulling me backward onto my rear. As a naturally clumsy person, this wasn’t exactly unusual, but the sting in my backside was a sharp reminder to keep my eyes on the trail—at least until we finished descending the switchbacks: a narrow, cliff-hugging, mile-long section that drops hikers 1,000 feet to the canyon floor.

Although long, the rest of the hike turned out to be easier than I had anticipated. Only the first and last couple of miles involved much elevation change—the rest was surprisingly flat. What caught me off guard was how dramatically the landscape changed every mile or two. As the canyon walls narrowed and blocked out the sun, the familiar reds and browns gave way to bursts of lush greenery. About a mile before reaching Supai Village, the trail began to follow the most iridescent turquoise creek I’d ever seen. 

Supai is a small village, its outskirts dotted with modest homes and even a home-based frybread stand to tempt hikers as they arrive. At the center of town, you’ll find a school, a clinic, a market, post office, church—everything needed for daily life, just on a smaller, more rustic scale.

Between the village and the campground, the trail leads past three waterfalls—Fifty-Foot Falls, Navajo Falls, and Hidden Falls (which, true to its name, isn’t visible from the main path)—before revealing the show-stopping beauty of Havasu Falls.

Looking down onto the falls, the sapphire water at the base shimmered with an almost unbelievable hue—so vividly blue it seemed unreal. The intense color comes from the water’s high mineral content, particularly calcium carbonate, which reflects light in a way that creates that iconic turquoise glow.

After descending the final hill to the campground, I paused at the base of the falls, unable to resist taking a moment to admire the iconic natural wonder before continuing on.

The campground is spread out over the mile-long stretch between Havasu and Mooney Falls. The gentle, turquoise waters of Havasu Creek wind their way through the middle, dividing it into two sides. 

We wandered along the path, keeping an eye out for an open camp site. After crossing the creek on a makeshift bridge, we found a beautiful spot, close to the water and large enough to fit all our tents and hammocks. It had begun to rain on our way in, so we set up quickly, taking cover in our tents before a brief thunderstorm rolled overhead. 

It had taken us just under 5 hours to hike in and set up the tents. The rest of that first day was for resting, relaxing and exploring Havasu Falls. 

The weather the next morning was perfect—clear skies and warm enough for shorts and a T-shirt, despite the forecast having called for snow! Thanks to the soothing rush of the creek and my sheer exhaustion, I had fallen asleep quickly and slept soundly for a full nine hours. I woke up feeling rested and ready for the adventurous day ahead.

The recommended itinerary for day two of this trip is to hike to either Beaver Falls (8-miles) or the Confluence (16-miles). We chose the shorter hike to Beaver Falls and after fueling up with breakfast and coffee, we headed out just before 9 a.m.

A short walk from the campground brought us to the top of Mooney Falls. Towering at nearly twice the height of Havasu Falls, Mooney plunges 200 feet over the cliff’s edge, its thunderous cascade crashing into a brilliant blue pool below. The only way down is a narrow path carved into the cliffside,  which leads you through two small caves before reaching a steep, harrowing descent down the rock face, with chains and ladders bolted into the rock to help steady the climb.

Gloves are highly recommended for the climb down, as the constant spray from the falls makes the chains slick. Not being a fan of heights, I took it slow, carefully navigating each foothold without daring to look down. We descended single-file, the most surefooted at the front, each person helping the next with guidance on where to place their feet. Slowly but surely, we all made it down safely—though, unfortunately, we’d have to climb back up on the way out.

The next three miles were among the most picturesque I’ve ever trekked. The trail winds alongside the creek, weaving past serene pools and small tumbling waterfalls. It crosses the water three times, with each crossing ranging from ankle to waist deep. The cold water was both refreshing on our sore limbs and captivating to look at. The crystal-clear blues shimmered like liquid gemstones, and much of the surrounding greenery felt almost tropical—a true oasis in the desert.

Much to my quiet dread, the latter half of the trail was far from flat. In several spots, we had to scramble up, over, and through narrow openings in the rocky cliffs. At one point, a hardware-store ladder—secured to the rock face with ratchet straps—served as the only way up and over. Farther along, a weathered wooden ladder with missing and broken rungs led us toward our final descent to the milky-blue pools of Beaver Falls. 

Rather than plunging in a single dramatic drop like Havasu and Mooney, Beaver’s falls spill gracefully over the edges of several tiered pools in wide, flowing curtains.

The sun was directly overhead when we arrived, making the pools shimmer and warming us just enough to jump in. The falls were alive with fellow hikers, all savoring their reward after a strenuous hike. We spent a leisurely hour swimming in the pools and enjoying a well-earned lunch by the shore.

When the sun dipped behind the canyon wall, casting a shadow across the water, it was time to begin the journey back. Once again we clambered up and down the ladders, through the creek and along the trail, to the base of Mooney Falls. I mustered my courage and fixed my gaze skyward for the dreaded climb back up the cliff—which I’m happy to report was far less scary than going down. 

Feeling accomplished and, thankfully, unharmed—aside from a few scrapes and bruises—we made our way back to camp. We spent the evening chatting, eating, and playing cards. After sunset, we hiked up to Havasu Falls to finally use the heavy camera gear I’d lugged into the canyon to capture the falls in the starlight. It was a good day.

Our final day in the canyon came with a mission—to find and enjoy some frybread. The Havasupai Tribe’s frybread is famous among visitors, but so far, we hadn’t managed to catch the stand at the top of Havasu Falls during its sporadic opening hours. As luck would have it, our last day coincided with Easter Sunday, so we didn’t hold out much hope of finding it open.

Sure enough, when we reached the stand, it was closed. Discouraged but not entirely defeated, we continued the two uphill miles to Supai. We had another errand in the village anyway. The information sheet we’d received at check-in mentioned that horses could be hired to ride out of the canyon, and we wanted to ask about the details.

At the tourist office in the village, we were told that yes, we could hire horses for just $200 each. Taken aback by the price, we second-guessed our decision. But after some careful consideration—and a desperate plea from my battered Achilles (my boot had not been kind to me)—two of my companions and I decided to throw frugality to the wind and enjoy the ride. Our horses would meet us at the campground the following morning.

We were happy to find the store in the village was open and stepped in to grab some refreshingly cold—though pricey—beverages (but what do you expect when they’re delivered by helicopter?). Still, there was no frybread. We heard a rumor that the stand on the far side of the village, which we had passed on the way in, might be open, so we headed that way. Our determination was rewarded, and at long last, we sat down to an Easter Sunday feast of sweet and savory frybreads—well worth the wait. 

On our way back to the campground, we had just enough time to explore two of the three waterfalls along the trail: Navajo and Hidden Falls.

Navajo Falls offers the best of both worlds—a spectacular blend of wide, cascading sheets of water spilling from the cliffside and a series of tiered pools gently flowing into one another. We spent most of the afternoon swimming and lounging in the cool, clear pools, soaking in the scene before continuing on to Hidden Falls.

True to its name, Hidden Falls is, well—hidden. If it hadn’t been for a few hikers emerging from their successful search just as we reached the end of the trail, we might have missed it entirely. The path appears to dead-end at the edge of the creek, but in reality, it continues underwater. A short, five-minute trek through the creek and along a narrow ledge carved into the cliff led us to the elusive waterfall. We celebrated the discovery, took a few moments to admire its secluded beauty, then retraced our steps, eager to make it back to camp before twilight.

After dinner, we packed up what we could and turned in early. Those of us who were hiking out intended to leave by 5a.m., and those of us riding out would be just behind them. 

The sky glowed with soft predawn light as we waved our walking companions off on their journey. “See you at the top!” we called out in farewell.

We remaining three sat around our campsite’s picnic table one last time, sipping our coffee and chattering with excitement for the ride ahead. Our gear, which had once filled the space around us, was now reduced to our three packs leaning against the bench. Our time in this magical place had come to an end. Our final walk to the top of the campground passed quickly, and our horses and guide appeared right on time. With our packs secured, we mounted up and rode toward the sunrise and out of the canyon, for now.