Travel is a political act. Where we spend our money matters. For the past several years, my husband and I have chosen to spend our vacation time and money investing in our National Parks. During our stay in Moab, Utah, we joined our neighbors in Swanny City Park for the “No Kings” mass protest on June 14, 2025.
Moab is a small town, even with the lines of cars funneling in and out towards Arches National Park and Canyonlands National Park (Isle of Sky Section). In every restaurant and shop we visited, we were asked where we were visiting from. Our response of “Pittsburgh” is followed by the usual remarks about Steelers football, cousins that live in a small town near-ish to the city, and the question, ‘Do you really put fries and coleslaw on your sandwiches?’. I love this kind of small talk and how it reminds me that in many ways, people think alike.
Following instructions from social media, we gathered with over 530 of our newest neighbors clustered in the shade trees of a beautiful park right off the main street. The park had a small pool, a big playground, well-appointed restrooms, and a pavilion where organizers and speakers were sharing information and sign-making materials. We practiced chants that I knew from home, “This is what democracy looks like,” and some that were unfamiliar to me, “From Cane Creek to Bears Ears, No Profiteers,” and “Public Lands are under attack, stand up, fight back.”
The opening remarks included reminders about peaceful protesting, the resource wagons available with water, and a reminder to stay on the sidewalks and not block traffic. (It is too expensive to block the main street in Moab.) The organizer added that the police were supposed to be here to keep the protestors and counter-protestors peaceful, but they hadn’t shown up. There was a knowing chuckle in the crowd; it seemed none of the locals were surprised by the lack of police presence.
And it’s no wonder: This was the politest protest I’ve ever attended. Because we were stopping at every crosswalk and patiently waiting to cross at the appropriate moments, the chants died down and faded quickly. Shop owners and workers came out to give encouragement and high-fives. One restaurant used its loudspeaker to restart the chant on their block. When they completed the chant, someone near me yelled, “Thanks, John!”
The community solidarity made me wonder if I would like to live in a small town. In our 45-minute loop around Main Street, we only encountered one counterprotester in a MAGA hat yelling at us and one white pick-up truck with a Trump flag that circled the block twice. Many of the cars, RVs, and even big rigs blew horns and waved in solidarity with the protest. One police car drove by. This small town didn’t really need them.
Instead of traffic cops and blocked streets, this protest had organizers and community members directing the crowds. I was in awe of the neighborliness I witnessed around me. I thought I was here to view the landscape and buy a refrigerator magnet, but the best souvenir was witnessing a diverse community coming together to protect democracy.
After the march, the speakers included: leaders from Indigenous tribes that have been protecting this land since before the United States became a nation, the League of Women Voters, who had been working in Moab for decades, and a new Moab mutual aid group. No one said a harsh word. All the speeches were hopeful about what we could do together. A local politician reminded us that peaceful protest and collective action do work. White Mesa Council Representative Malcolm Lehi said that after we leave the park, the wind will blow, and our message will be carried all around, a message of protecting the land and each other.
Suddenly, I felt as if I were on a pilgrimage — not to a distant shrine or ancient temple, but to this very patch of earth beneath my feet. This public park, with its sun-worn benches and juniper trees, had become sacred ground. Not because of stone altars or holy relics, but because of the space this group created together. We gathered here with a purpose, drawn not by tradition but by conviction. This was sacred work: to defend our Constitution, to protect each other, and to stand watch over the places we call home.
Public land is sacred not only because it belongs to all of us, but because we belong to her. She holds our stories – picnics, protests, quiet moments under sunlit trees – and reminds us that we are stewards, not owners. Her soil is rich not just with roots, but with the memory of footsteps that marched for justice, knelt in grief, danced in joy.
Democracy is not just a system of governance — it is an act of collective love
In that moment, I understood: democracy is not just a system of governance — it is an act of collective love. It is how we listen to our neighbors, how we fight for the vulnerable, how we honor the dignity of each voice and each vote. It is how we turn shared space into sacred space. And in defending democracy, we are not just protecting rights, we are performing a ritual of belonging, of care, of hope.
So yes, this ‘No Kings’ protest was a pilgrimage. And yes, this park was holy ground.
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