Waist-deep in the Virgin River, Rob and I paused to assess our way forward through the Narrows. The water on both sides of the massive boulder before us was tinted azure, a sign of increased depth, and we were averse to actually swimming. I looked over my shoulder at Daniel trudging along, leaning heavily on his rented walking stick.
“We can’t cross here, it’s too deep. Daniel will get even more soaked.”
Rob glanced up at the couple perched on top of the boulder, calmly eating their picnic brunch and spectating as we prevaricated. We delayed our decision a few moments (while I secretly hoped they would finish and cede their boulder-top to us) but finally called an end to our upstream wading. It was a bittersweet end to our magical hiking foray through towering canyon walls, as we had been trying to outpace hordes of our fellow travelers since embarking on our journey before sunrise, and we never quite made it to solitude.
But Daniel's sweatshirt was wet from an earlier stumble and our feet, in their rented neoprene socks and fluorescent orange boots, were edging towards numb. Our legs were tired but dry, encased in grey waterproof drysuits. We had immersed our gloved hands in river water on several occasions and it would take hours before I could feel my fingers again.
We retreated to a bend in the river where no one else was visible, and we ate our snacks in peace, scanning the green ferns and mosses growing out of the pink rock walls across from us, reaching toward the faint ribbon of light above. As sunlight glinted off a waterfall and my eyes traveled up, I spied a jet trail tracking the blue heaven, an exclamation point on the knowledge that our escape to Zion's wilderness was far from a complete withdrawal from civilization.
Most of our fellow National Park-goers were friendly, non-rabble-rouser types. When Daniel lost one of Rob's hiking gloves in the river, we gave it up for lost after a quick search. But a kindly fellow hiker rescued it and propped it up on a big rock, where it waved to us on our return journey. We met a French couple taking a year off work to travel the world with three young children in tow. Their five days in the American West hyphenated two months in French Polynesia and a long stay in Mexico.
"What's the connection?" Rob asked them.
"Nature," said the young father in a classy French accent.
Most travelers were like this, but people could also be loud and intrusive. We tried to beat the fall crowd by arriving before daybreak and hitting the trail hard the first two mornings. On our hike up to Angel's Landing, our altitude training kept us in good form and we passed many breathless (and quiet) hikers. Some had sloganned t-shirts and hats that spoke for them, but we looked past these and hoped others would overlook our exhortations to Daniel - either "hurry up!" or "wait!" depending on his mood.
Rob and Daniel followed the chains for the last, death-defying half-mile of the Angel's Landing hike, while I stayed behind and walked around the more broad section at the top. Rob dragged me out to the end about twenty-five years ago and I was crying then - my fear of heights has only intensified with age and I couldn't make my body walk through that sheer drop. So I caught sight of a huge California condor on a nearby cliff and shaded my eyes with my hand to take in the rare sight. The scores of hikers around me also chatted quietly about the bird, on the endangered species list and subject of several National Park signboards throughout the hike.
Suddenly, a lunatic in blue jeans, backward baseball cap and white t-shirt ran toward the point where the condor was peacefully sunning. Waving arms wildly in the air, this idiot yelled at the bird until it raised its enormous wings and soared away, casting a broad shadow and an awed silence over the assorted tourists. As the condor disappeared into a slot canyon across the valley, a discontented murmur erupted.
"Someone always has to ruin it."
"Why would anyone do that? No wonder they're endangered."
"I just can't believe it."
It seems that even though people are part of Nature, kindred spirits to condor and craggy rock and flowing river, we fail to embrace that close relationship. Or if we get close, other humans get jealous and try to break our connection. On the way back down the narrow switchbacks, Daniel ran into a girl from his current English class, and despite their kind exchange of greetings we felt a need to get farther from our fellow humans.
One of my favorite moments of the trip came on our last day, when we drove up to Kolob Canyon in the northwest corner of Zion. The magnificent rust-red cliffs were off the beaten path and few drove the scenic route with us. Pine forests, manzanita shrubs and other golden hardwoods flowed over the rolling canyon bottoms while unique rock layers rose seven thousand feet in the air. The flora was different from the still-green cottonwoods and grasses of Zion canyon, and we enjoyed the quiet and the spacious view on a trail to the canyon overlook. Until we reached the destination, of course, and then still air carried the conversation of two women in yoga pants who thoroughly dissected each other's dating lives while sitting at the best viewpoint. *Sigh.*
On our nature vacations we try to get outside of our human box and go farther afield on the longer trails, the paths less traveled. This time the popularity of the parks, even into chill October, thwarted our efforts. I am grateful that parks and open spaces are so popular in this post-pandemic world and I pray that the increased numbers people who see our natural treasures will want to protect them, and create more of them. But I'm eager to store up moments of peace where I can feel my connection to the non-human natural elements and quietly revere them. Just incentive to get out the map and plan another trip.
