To Zion

A pile of rubble from a rockslide blocks the road through Zion National Park.  All the parking lots are full so I turn around and find a spot near a Subway restaurant a short walk from the park’s entrance.  You can only drive past the checkpoint beyond the parking lots if you are staying at the hotel, which I am not.  I hop on a shuttle bus that takes me along the Zion Canyon Scenic Drive. 

After driving for nearly three weeks, I initially object to giving up my independence behind the wheel, but eventually I relish the break from constantly putting my foot on the gas, as my cruise control is broken.  Then it dawns on me that a virtually car-less national park is a wonderful idea.  This means more park and fewer parking lots.  Not to mention that I can gaze out at the cliffs without the risk of driving off the road or hitting an animal.

I made a vow to see as much as possible on this road trip by choosing one hike that captured the essence of each national park I visit.  Angel’s Landing is perhaps one of the most well-known hikes in the country and certainly would have made for a more thrilling story because the hiker must balance on a thin sliver of rock overlooking the canyon floor thousands of feet below. From my vantage point on the bus, the chalky clifftops are dotted with ponderosa pines, and the splotches of blood-orange on the cliff walls remind me of a poison ivy rash on pale skin.

I hear the bus driver’s voice through the speakers.  She is pointing out hikers on the ridge and climbers halfway to their destination.  I can see a smidge of contrast from the climber’s shirt, and I can see the hikers’ silhouettes against the sunny sky.  It took me a while to spot the people, and I only managed this because a couple in front of me pointed and expressed amazement that somebody would be crazy to put themselves in a such a position, but this is exactly where people go to do just that.  Those specks were summiting Angel’s Landing.

 

As much as I would have loved to be one of those specks that bus-riders point at with bewilderment, I was one of the bus-riders. I thought I was already putting myself at risk by driving across the country into very remote areas by myself.  I kept in touch with Erin every day, but sometimes I drove into dead spots and I couldn’t reach her for a day or two. Before I went for a hike I texted her where I was going and mentioned the trail name, but I didn’t think hiking alone on a narrow ledge near a Looney-Tunes-esque plummet was such a bright idea.  Instead, I choose to hike into the Narrows and slosh through the Virgin River that cut through the rock to create Zion.

I get off the bus at the Temple of Sinawava and walk along the riverside path amidst a sizeable crowd of hikers of all ages.  The heat of the sun is intense.  I see men walking in the opposite direction.  Their shorts are wet at the knees, and their footprints leave watery traces on the dusty ground.  The silty river is a mere trickle as it gargles through the desert swamp.  I follow the path to the point where the walls close in so tightly that the river becomes the path, and I can’t walk without getting wet. 

On the stony embankment, hikers take off their shoes and set them down on the ground and start wading into the ankle-high river.  They trust the shoes will be there when they return, and I don’t blame them because this place isn’t exactly a hotbed for criminal activity. I step into the cool water of the Virgin River as it winds serpentine-like around bend after bend.  Sunlight slants into the canyon and makes the slick walls glisten.  If the angle is just right, the sun strikes the underhang and makes the walls glow an iridescent orange.  In the shade, the green leaves of the pinon trees contrasts against the charcoal cliffs.

I am struck with an urge to keep going and to see what is around the next corner.  Waterfalls on steep slopes add to the growing stream which is up to my knees.  I see the shadow of a man against the white water and take his picture with my iPhone. 

This is exactly the kind of image I’ve been searching for:  a person dwarfed by the immensity of this wilderness and amazed by a beauty that can turn deadly.  The river is getting faster now.  If there were to be some faraway storm that raised the river only by a few feet the water would rage inside these walls and crush us against the stray boulders and trees ripped from their roots causing us to drown in a violent torrent, but there is no threat of that today.

The water’s depth is uneven.  A line of hikers choose the easiest path through the shallows, and I venture to the opposite side and sink up to my stomach.  There’s a reason everyone else is using that particular lane.  I join the line and trip over a submerged rock.  A woman returning to the parking lot offers me her walking stick. She says she doesn’t need it anymore but it’ll be a huge help, so I thank her and take the stick. I grow impatient with the traffic because I want to take photographs unhindered by human presence, but I’ll have to go farther to achieve this. 

An hour goes by, and my progress is slow because I have to move tactfully to avoid the rocks, the rapids, and the deep end.  The frigid water combined with the shade is starting to make my feet feel numb.  I feel assured that soon I will be able to touch both walls simultaneously and I’ll find solitude.  But I never reach that point.  Each time I round the next bend I expect to be alone.  Surely, I think, nobody else will have gone this far, but someone already has.

I shouldn’t be surprised that so many people ventured this far.  Like me, their curiosity led them farther than it does on an average hike.  Each stretch of the river promises new contrasts of shimmering water against the red cliffs and another opportunity to photograph the peek-a-boo fashion of the light filtering into the slot from a sky that seems engulfed by this rocky fortress.

I keep hearing people say, I want to keep going and going.  I see an old man with white hair under his ball cap walking next to someone who could be his son.  I pass a German man holding the hand of his young daughter who could be no older than five.  The water is so deep at certain places she could dive for quarters, but here she is walking in the shallows of this cold river and not making a fuss.