On the road out of Flagstaff, the sides of the road are dotted with cattle grazing peacefully in grey green pastures overshadowed by the snow-capped San Francisco Peaks. But as you cross into Navajo lands, the landscape changes. Flushed, rosy rocks; a drifting clump of tumbleweed; a stunted cactus.

Beautiful but heartless. Perfect, the early Americans thought, for their vanquished Navajo foes. More fool them. While the tiny townships aren’t especially exciting, the Navajo have managed to not only survive but thrive. Trading posts selling everything from fry bread mix to tomahawks dot the roadsides, while tourism is booming thanks to the spectacular panoramas.

And nowhere is more striking than Antelope Canyon or Tsé bighánílíní as it’s known to the locals, where we were met by the improbably named Ryan Redshirt, a Navajo guide with plenty of stories to tell. A slot canyon, Antelope looks unimpressive from the outside but it is a different story within. Every few metres, beams of sunlight illuminate the vermillion stone, creating rich, glowing geological displays.