I had assumed reclining the passenger seat wouldn’t be too far off from sleeping on a first-class flight. I had no idea what that was like, but I knew that I woke up from my lower body going numb throughout the night in the car. I stepped out to relieve myself and stretch, being mindful not to lock myself out. I already mentally played out the scenario several times. I wouldn’t survive for long at 2am on this dirt road wearing only my long underwear. I slipped back into my sleeping bag, which lost half of its warmth from my short absence. I lay down again, staring up into the white windshield, coated with a heavy dusting of snow, til I fell asleep until the my tingling legs woke me up again for the third time.
In the morning, I drove down the mountain road heading east, looking over the mesas collecting the morning sun. At this height, I had a clear view of Zion National Park. I thought about the abandoned hike up to Signal Peak, which I had my back to. I wasn’t prepared for the fresh winter conditions at that elevation from the night before. Still, I thought about what it would’ve been like: ascending higher and higher, seeing Zion in the slowly distance reveal more of itself from a rare angle with each step I’d kick into the snow.
A dream for another day.
On my drive to Zion I stopped by River Rock in La Verkin for breakfast. River Rock had a balcony overlooking the a canyon, bent into a horseshoe by the the Virgin River. It all seemed far enough from the tourist jam of Zion, but it was just a Tuesday morning. With my change in plans, I was several hours ahead of schedule, and my plan was to soak in the area.
Leah and I had been planning our great escape out West for some time. Taking some time to slow down, appreciate, and study the scene was a good use of time, even if it was my backup plan.
I took note of the homes that were dotting the hillside on my drive down. I wondered how many of the people who lived there were climbers, and whether any of them were projecting routes on weekends given how close the massive desert walls of Zion were. I wondered how many times they’d practice trail running up Signal Peak in various conditions. I drifted off into a fantasy land where big adventure trips would be simple weekend excursions, or even early morning workouts before clocking in for work.
The forecast called for on-and-off light rain, so when I checked into Zion’s Watchman Campground I wasted no time heading to the trailhead for Mountain of the Sun. Normally, when choosing a climb or trail, I would spend hours researching, poring over maps, photos, conditions, descriptions, and recent reports. I didn’t have the same luxury this time. I wasn’t supposed to be in Zion yet, so out of necessity I improvised over breakfast in La Verkin.
The hike would involve 3rd class scrambling in the backcountry, which didn’t concern me even in my stiff hiking boots. My main worry was the weather; Zion has a long legacy of fatal flash floods. I was drawn to the remoteness of the trail in addition to the exposure. The lack of any trail markers appealed to the part of me that wanted to “just figure it out” using terrain signals, not unlike what trad climbing provides.
I followed a creek that was coated in damp sand from recent rainfall. The route description indicated that I should go up a wide gully about a mile in, which looked fairly reasonable, but polished and slicked over.
I started up, making quick work of the bottom, finding small edges to stand on with my hard-soled hiking boots. Halfway up, I hesitated. I was standing on a wet, dime-sized groove and the next move above me was a high step up close to my chest. At this angle, I knew I could make the move, but I paused. I thought about what the movement would be like on the way back, especially if the rain started and I was bailing. I thought about the likelihood of the foot I’d be standing on slipping off, so I gripped harder onto crimpy edges with my fingertips. I considered alternatives to my left and right, none of which seemed any better. I even wished for someone else to be there to just confirm that I was going the right way, which I had no real reason to doubt. After about five minutes, I committed to the move. I had no problem getting up. I continued scrambling up, thinking about how much time I wasted.
The terrain flattened out eventually, and I moved more quickly to make up for the time. Although I moved fast, I did stop for minutes at a time to reflect on the scene. I was all alone in a basin of sandstone, trees, distant cliffs, and my own breath. Although I had been in the desert before, something about this experience felt wholly new.
I periodically turned around to take mental photos of where I made decisive turns. I kept an eye out for unusual trees and boulders, giving them names and stories to help remember them better for my way back. I didn’t forget to look up: the clouds overhead were moving faster and building up thicker. Just as I was settling into a rhythm about an hour in, I felt the first drops of rain hit my cheek. This time I didn’t hesitate. Within seconds I pulled out my rain shell and did an about-face, pulling back on my recent memory to identify the “thunderbolt tree” where I made a left and the colorful, striated “bacon boulder” which hid an easier descent on it’s other side. Eventually I made my way down to the gully. Even the sections that I easily walked up now felt a bit more committing on the descent. The polished gully I came up was now thinly coated with rain, so I resolved to butt-scoot my way to the bottom.
I made my way down to the creek just as the rain picked up. I was in safe ground now. I didn’t consider the hike a failure. My goal was to make the most of the day; I was alone in a remarkable place. That’s all I needed to tick off my list.
Down in the valley, the rain was falling more steadily. Less than an hour away was Kolob Canyon, located on the northwest side of the park. It was several thousand feet higher than where I stood, and I figured the weather would be a bit different.
When I pulled up to the overlook, the viewpoint sign was my only clue as to what was on the other side of the clouds obscuring the cliffs.
The Timber Creek trail was a short walk, only a half hour round trip, but I had hours until sunset. I walked slowly to stretch my time. My pants weren’t waterproof, so I improvised a skirt out of a large trash bag. There wasn’t anyone else on the trail to marvel at my ingenuity.
When I finally made it to the end of the trail, I saw nothing. That realization should have been obvious to me because of the weather, but for whatever reason, I felt betrayed by my plan. It had taken me an hour of slow movement to reach this point and I had built up expectations without realizing it. For better or worse, I had cell service and called Leah. I told her about how my day had gone, and my current feeling of being deflated. The forecast had been wet for the last few days, and it was going to continue being wet. In theory I could make backup plans, but in practice I was left feeling like I was making the most of a sub-par circumstance. Saying all that out loud made it clear to me that complaining wasn’t going to make me feel better. I needed to just appreciate being here.
Once I hung up, I decided that I was lucky to be on this trail instead of at my desk. I was lucky to be warm enough to enjoy this snow and rain for hours on end. I was grateful for my surroundings and for my health. I made it a point to spend the full next hour focusing on enjoying only the 100 or so feet around where I stood. Immediately, I saw the snow as a gift. This was a gift that not everyone had the means to experience, but I did. The forecast for the next few days wasn’t ideal, but I couldn’t change that; all I could do was keep a warm and open mind to whatever came my way.
