My Zion
By Gordon Smith

Breakfast at McDonalds is always a good idea. The glowing golden arches guided my car to the magical drive-thru. “Two bacon-egg-and-cheese-biscuit sandwiches and a medium orange juice, please” would be the only 13 words I spoke all day. They got me what I wanted and I drove off, leaving my hometown St. George. Though I could not see them, towers of Zion National Park lay ahead as I drove through the small towns of Hurricane, La Verkin and finally Virgin. Virgin is really not much more than a speed trap: forty-five mph or a hefty fine. I slowed and searched for my turnoff.

A north road leads away from Virgin. This section of Zion National Park is a twenty-mile drive from the main canyon. My destination was a smaller corner of this spectacular wonderland. Its official name had so many words and titles to make it difficult to remember: the Right Folk of North Creek of the Virgin River. It’s sister canyon, the Left Fork, sees plenty of visitors and has been dubbed “the Subway”. But the Right Fork has no such distinction, no fame, no name recognition.

I parked my car. The lot was empty. In September the sunrise happens about 7 AM. The light of dawn made the trail visible but not bright at 6:40. Slurping the last drops of orange juice, I contemplated this moment. There is always a pause at the beginning of a journey. Questions run through my mind. For me, this moment has transformed into a mental checklist. Does my wife know where I am? How much water and food do I have? GPS? Camera, tripod, cable release cord, extra memory cards and batteries? Wide-angle and telephoto lenses? My last internal query was whether or not to wear my jacket or leave it in the car. It was so cool that my jacket felt good but when the sun came up I’d be packing it around the remainder of the day. I kept it on and walked away from the car.

A smooth trail of packed dirt ran through lava rock, between clumps of cacti and desert brush. I was on the top of a mesa, above the river, and this trail carried me easily along. Reaching the rim, the trail dropped with an irregularity and sharpness that comes from lava rock itself. Before I’d reached the bottom, small rocks had rolled out from under my feet and I’d suffered my first fall . . . on my hands and butt. Nothing serious.

The river below the confluence of the two forks (Left and Right) flowed smooth and quick. North creek is about 35 feet across. Crossing dryly required a few long steps from boulder to boulder. I found my trail on the other side and climbed out the small gorge. Knowing the stream would be part of the trail, I assumed this was a shortcut across flatter land. I made excellent time until the trail descended again and then followed the stream. Now I was above the confluence. The stream narrowed to 5 feet across. It looked ankle or knee-deep in most places.

Small animal prints scattered along the stream banks intrigued me. These resembled a toddler: about an inch across with five human-like fingers. Each time I came near or crossed the stream, hundreds of prints covered the sand. Some animals certainly lived here and had been recently walking my same path.

The Right Fork cuts through wide valleys and through deep sandstone gorges. Into one such gorge the steam now took me. Brown rough walls narrowed to the width of a one-lane road and boulders stood randomly littering my way. Desert varnish on larger boulders proved they’d stood here many years. There is no direct path through a rocky slot: going around one giant rock, another stands in the way. Each obstacle differs from the previous ones in angle, shape and sharpness. Water pinned me on one side or the other. The opposite bank always looked easier. I decided to cross.

As I made a giant stride over the water, some creature moved, ahead on my left, something big, something dark. A bear? My body froze as my mind raced. I was in a slot, I was alone and there was only one direction to go. I could not go around it nor could it go around me. We must unavoidable meet. But what was it? Movement from one rock to another gave me more information: it was definitely smaller than me. Taking courage, I un-froze my stance and took several steps forward. A masked face, whiskers and black nose peered at me: a raccoon. We stared at one another, neither one able to predict what the other would do. I had to go forward but with each step my raccoon friend ran further ahead. His prints resembled the small toddler’s handprint. He must have thought I was chasing him, but I had no way to avoid him. Steadily I walked forward. In quick jaunts he would turn and dart, showing his huge bushy body and tail. His girth told me that he was ready for winter. After playing this game of pursuit and escape several time, he found a shallow cave, merely a crack, which allowed him to retreat into darkness while I passed.

Looming ahead, a wall of sand and boulders blocking the whole canyon. These rocks had no varnish, no lichen, no smooth edges. This sand had no cacti, no desert paintbrush, no cheatgrass. This was a landslide. Climbing up this rocky jumble, the canyon opened up on the right where a steep embankment had collapsed. Tons of debris had fallen and slid from two hundred feet above. It must have been so sudden and so recent. Instead of a small streamside trail, a small lake lay before me, formed when the landslide dammed the stream. The trail was under dark, filthy water. One-hundred-fifty feet across the lake, I saw the trail continuing up the canyon.

To my right the landslide, really a rocky sandslide, went up 200 feet. To my left was a sheer cliff. Water filled everything between these two barriers. Scanning the left- hand cliffs for a seam to carry me easily around the lake, I found none. I could certainly go up the sandslide and then find my way down later but did not welcome that idea. Swimming the dark waters appealed even less. I could give up, go home, but that would make this day a total loss. Sandslide, here I come.

I have never liked hiking through loose sand. Sand is inherently unstable. The loose sand pushed down under my shoe created a vacuum for more sand to fill: a slow- motion sandslide happened with each step, bringing down more loose debris and unsettling the rocks higher up. It filled my shoes. Panting like an old man, I stopped every few feet. Sweating all over, I shed my jacket and drank more water. I measured my progress in inches. This took forever. Finally stepping onto the top of the mesa, I found flat, stable land. This high mesa overlooked the newly-formed lake. My eyes followed the stream further up into a wide valley. I took the high route, keeping the stream in sight, until the mesa ended and I found my way back down to the stream and trail. This unexpected obstacle had slowed my progress by an hour.

The next mile was easy, flat, wide and quite pleasant. More springs added to the stream flow. Some springs came from channels on my left and other even came straight out of sandstone! Miniature waterfalls and slides delighted my eyes. Time to stop and enjoy: my toes wiggled happily in the clear water while my gaze drifted from mesa to butte. I took a few pictures.

After leaving the valley behind, walking the trail now required more amphibian skill. Walls again drew closer. The canyon narrowed. Water became more plentiful than land. I had kept my shoes and socks dry so far but that would now end. A natural pool stretched from wall to wall and there was no way around. I ate an apple, then a protein bar while studying this pool. It had an underwater shelf on the left which led to a moki step and then to level ground. If I slipped off that shelf, a much-deeper plunge lay in store. I tried it without a backpack, walking along the ridge: only my ankles submerged. Going back for my pack, I tried again. Moss, moisture and sandstone make a slippery combination. Halfway along this submerged shelf, my right shoe slipped. Nothing happened fast. This was all in slow motion, slow enough for me to flail, drop on my knees and scamper wildly to avoid the deep plunge. I successfully avoided a swim but I would receive no style points. My knees, hands and legs had all tasted water. Thankfully no one witnessed that graceless display. I moved on.

This trail of surprises had me guessing what would come next. Thus far I’d faced lava rock, 2 slot canyons, a raccoon, a fresh landslide, miniature waterfalls and a very slippery pool. Unlike the prior narrows, this slot had no boulders. Only inches deep and running over flat sandstone, my little stream became pleasant company. Small islands of sand and stepping-stones permitted dry passage through this section. No landslides. Opening up, the stream now asked me a question: left or right?

Having studied up on this hike in advance, I knew I should turn left. I did so without more than a brief glance to the right. A few minutes later, I checked my GPS to verify I had chosen correctly. On I went, anticipating my destination any minute. Alas, this last section took longer than expected. Sandy banks overgrown with brush and willows swallowed the trail. My arms gathered scratches and marks in dozens as I literally plowed through section of thick brush. A clear path became indistinct and I often crisscrossed the stream to see if the trail might be better on the other side. Large cottonwood trees spaced at regular intervals gave increasing shade. Their leaves were just beginning to yellow with the coming autumn. I had to be near by now.

Falling water murmured through the trees.

Thick brush hid Double Falls from view until I came within 50 yards. Suddenly I had arrived in a paradise beyond my most placid dreams. The photos I’d seen hardly did it justice. Encircled by cottonwood trees, a clear pool of water shimmered. Small willows on the near bank grew out of soft sand. About the size of a large swimming pool, light moss at the bottom gave an emerald color to the liquid. Across the pond, twin waterfalls dropped straight down into the pool from a slickrock shelf twenty feet up. Above this shelf, another waterfall could be seen before disappearing amongst trees. The pond’s center had a small sandy island with a few willows and one flat rock poking above the waterline. Everything felt green and perfect, clear and cool. I got down to business, retrieving my camera and tripod. I circled around this beauty and took pictures from all angles. I knew I had something special here, something that even a great photograph could not accurately communicate . . . but I would try. Underneath the double waterfall, another sandstone shelf spread from right to left around the pool. This cleft permitted me to walk behind the falling water. The two falls were 6 feet apart. Spray and mist cooled my face and arms. I wiped droplets off my camera, concluding my photographic quest.

I needed to eat. Sitting in the sand, I mechanically ate some gorp, a protein bar and an orange. I drained the last water from my camelback. I’d consumed 2.5 liters in 7 hours. A clear spring about a mile back seemed like a good place to refill. I’d do that on my way out.

I sat thoughtfully. After hiking 6 miles in 7 hours, I’d taken photos for 30 minutes and now faced a long hike back to my car. A few surprises had slowed me down but I knew I could get back much quicker if forced. I would have a long journey back. Estimating my return trip would take 4 hours, I figured I could stay here until 3 PM. Any longer than that would leave me on the trail in darkness. I had one hour.

Having worked so hard to visit this gorgeous site, I wanted more than just a photograph. I wanted a memory, an unforgettable experience. Seeing this perfect pool was not enough: I wanted to touch it. I wanted a swim. Leaving all my things on shore, I waded until I was waist deep and then plunged forward, swimming toward the island and waterfalls. About 5 or 6 strokes brought me to the island and then the waterfalls. A submerged rock allowed me to stand and shower between theses two downpours. Intensely pounding water forced me back to the sunshine after a few second. On the island, I contemplated the two waterfalls dropping just 10 feet away. Cold water warmed my soul. What could be better? I rotated between swimming, showering and sunshine. A reverent feeling of wonder filled my naked chest.

At moments of intense joy, time mercifully slows down. It seemed like a single minute here lasted as long as each hour I’d spent on the trail. All the effort, falls, slips, scratches and labor melted away. Only two things existed in the universe: me and this magical place.

Although time had given me such a precious gift, I knew the hours would speed up again. My watch read 3:15. I needed to leave. With great sorrow I gathered my things after lingering as long as possible. After one last view for memory’s sake, I was off.

There are two ways to hike: careful hiking and clumsy hiking. I chose the clumsy hiking method on my way out, taking long, fast strides. I was thirsty but had no water. In one mile I’d refill at the spring. Parting bushes and hopping streams, I marched rapidly. As expected, I reached the spring in less than 30 minutes. My water filter and camelback came out. Pumping from a clear spring, I filled my reservoir. I could finally drink again. The taste surprised me. Although clear and very cold, it was bitter on my tongue. I needed to drink. Bitter or not, this water was all I had so I drank seven gulps heartily.

Water flowing over sandstone formed a waterslide right where I’d stopped. I sat down and slide right down. It only took 10 seconds but the memory would stay forever. This got all my clothes wet but that no longer mattered. I guessed I’d be getting wetter before long.

I continued on, replaying my morning journey in reverse. I came to the round deep pool with an underwater shelf on the side. I had decided beforehand that I’d just plow right through and if I got wetter, what would it matter? Instead of trying to stay mostly dry but risk slipping on the wet sandstone, I stepped into the deeper water for more sure footing. Lifting my pack above my head, I efficiently got around this obstacle while wading in waist-deep water. I hurried on.

The next section was easy, wide and mostly flat. I was going downstream, hence gravity aided my way. The stream kept me company. I made another brief stop to eat. Hiking does require energy. I ate my third protein bar and second orange. Sitting there, I spotted a coyote trotting down the riverbed. He did not see me but was headed my way. Not wanting to surprise a wild animal, I stood up and hollered some nonsense. That got his attention. He turned back, vanishing in some bushes.

My own shadow, a personal sundial, stretched long behind me. Time sped up. In my mind a debate raged on how best to pass the lake and landslide. Bypassing the lake had already added an hour to my journey and would slow me down again. That seemed distasteful, but what was my alternative? Going through the lake, either by wading or swimming was the only other way. The murky waters did not reveal their depth. Could I keep my pack dry if forced to swim?

The moment of truth arrived: murky water extended between the landslide and me. The lake was about 150 feet across. Striping to swim would only take more time and I did not want my toes to sink into this slimy stuff. Some things are just too disgusting. I’d rather get my clothes wet and keep my shoes on. Besides, I had already waded up to my waist earlier. I lifted my heavy tripod overhead and stepped into the soft, slimy, sandy bottom. One step after another lowered me deeper into the water. About midway, I was up to my neck and extending my toes to prevent submersion. Taking quick steps, like a swimming stroke, I propelled forward and felt an incline. I passed the deepest point and was on my way out! My head was dry. My tripod was dry. I laid it on the rocky debris and turned back for my backpack. This second crossing, with my heavier pack and a hydrophobic camera, made me more nervous. As I crossed, I must have deviated from my previous line because I found a deeper section where I lost all contact with the bottom. I kicked and lurched forward, finding my footing before panic set in. I ascended from the water, my shirt, pants, socks and shoes all saturated. My pack stayed dry. I made it. The extreme wading also cooled me off.

From here, there were no major barriers. I bounded through the slot, followed the river and reached the confluence at sunset. The light-giving sun went below the lava- rock cliff. Following the sun, I climbed this cliff, using a zig-zag trail. My clothes had now dried. Just a few more steps, I thought. Those last lengths dragged on, taking twice as long as I expected. Darkening dusk guided my footsteps.

My golden 4runner rested in the parking lot, just like I’d left it 13 hours before. Fishing in my pack, I retrieved the keys and opened everything up. I loosened my boots and sat behind the wheel. The car started. I smelled like the river in a bad way. I drove home and stiffly walked inside. I took a long bath, ate ice cream and went to bed.

Just before slipping into unconsciousness, my heart reflected back on what I had seen, touched and tasted. A smile spread slowly across my face, like sunshine warming my soul.  

[box]This post is one of the winning entries in the Z-Arts 2013 Writing Contest and has been reprinted here with permission of the author, who retains the copyright. Opinions expressed in this piece are not necessarily those of the Zion Arts and Humanities Council.[/box]