Phoenix – A sky full of sand and stars
The desert has a way of holding its breath right before sunset.
That late December afternoon in Phoenix, just a few days before the New Year, felt like that. The city had its own hum, with all the glass reflections and winter sunlight bouncing off the towers downtown. We stayed right in the heart of it, surrounded by coffee shops and murals, where even the sidewalks seemed to glow warm in the fading light. It was one of those spontaneous trips we promised ourselves we’d take more often; short, unscripted, and just long enough to remind us what wonder feels like. The kind that sneaks up quietly and stays forever.
Our day started early, a soft blue morning with the crisp chill of desert winter. By early afternoon, a van pulled up to the hotel, our ride to something I had always dreamed of: a hot air balloon flight over Phoenix. They picked us up with quiet efficiency, the kind of people who’ve seen a hundred faces light up at the sight of a balloon basket. As we drove north, city towers gave way to open plains. Saguaros stood like tall sentinels on either side of the road, each one catching the golden hour differently.
When we arrived, the balloon was already unfolding like a giant sleeping creature awakening; the fabric rippling in the breeze, colors catching light. The hum of the burners filled the air, a low roar that felt both thrilling and ancient. And then, with a gentle tilt and a rush of warm air, the ground began to fall away.
There’s no sound quite like the silence inside a hot air balloon. The city became a miniature. Roads curved like threads; rooftops looked painted in soft pastels. As we rose higher, the desert opened up below us, endless sand, rippled hills, and the faint memory of the sun sliding west. You don’t feel movement up there, just the air holding you, as if the world has paused to let you look. The pilot would fire the burners every few minutes, and the sound would echo through the basket, then fade again to silence. Below, the shadows stretched longer, the sky deepened from gold to lavender to soft, impossible blue. I looked down and thought: This must be what peace looks like when it finally stops running.
When we landed, the sun had already dipped below the horizon. The world was tinted in twilight, a color you can’t quite name, only remember. Our pilot handed us each a certificate, declaring that we had “ascended into the sky.” It sounds simple, but in that moment, it felt like proof of something larger, not just that we had gone up, but that we had let go. A table was set nearby, right there in the desert. Lanterns flickered against the sand. Two dozen of us, strangers just an hour ago, gathered for a light dinner and champagne. Plates clinked, laughter rose, and for a while, it felt like the middle of nowhere had become the center of the universe.
There was no sound but wind and conversation, and then, as the last bit of daylight surrendered, the stars appeared. At first one, then ten, then hundreds. The kind of night sky that only deserts can offer, endless and untouched. We toasted to the year that was ending, to the one just about to begin, to the moment itself. The world felt vast and small, all at once. If you’ve ever stood in the desert at night, you know the kind of silence that settles there. It’s not empty, it’s alive. You can almost hear the sand shift under the cool air, the whisper of your own breath. The champagne sparkled under starlight. Someone joked about spotting satellites; another told stories about their first flight. We were just travelers; no backgrounds, no schedules. Bound only by that shared moment of magic. I remember looking toward the distant city lights of Phoenix and thinking how close they seemed, yet how far we’d gone in spirit. Maybe that’s what travel does best: stretches your sense of the world just enough to remind you you’re part of it. Back in downtown Phoenix, the world returned to its usual rhythm. Coffee cups clinked, light rail trains hummed, and the city woke up again. But we carried something quiet and golden inside us: that suspended feeling from the sky, the soft laughter from the desert, the smell of champagne and sand. I tucked the certificate carefully into my journal that morning. It wasn’t just paper; it was a page from our own story. And later, when I returned home, I captured the memory, as I do all my favorite moments, in art.
A large postage stamp wall art now hangs in my studio: a balloon caught midair, desert below, the same hues of red, gold, and endless sky.
If Phoenix calls to you like it did to us, there’s a kind of wonder waiting in its skies.
Explore art from this Collection
This story is part of our Dry heat Collection, a series of large postage stamp wall art celebrating Arizona. Each artwork captures the colors, textures, and spirit of Arizona through a lens of travel and memory. Discover related pieces like Dry heat No.1 and Dry heat No.2, or explore all works in the Dry heat Collection.
Each piece is designed and printed in large-format detail; a postage stamp for your walls. View all collections or learn more about Ana.
