When I first learned about canyoneering, it seemed like the perfect way to get away from the crowds and a more exciting way of experiencing the most popular trails in Zion. To me it was exactly like hiking, except at certain points I would use basic climbing gear to rappel anywhere between 10-100+ foot cliffs throughout the day. Experienced canyoneers would scoff at my reductionist view on their sport, but it made sense to me.

I did my homework in advance by memorizing the each leg of the trip, how much rope I would need for each rappel, and applied for a permit which I’d pick up the day before. I read countless trip reports and pored over YouTube videos, pausing them to take notes on any nuances in the trail.

The ranger assigning permits quizzed me on my knowledge and asked if I had been canyoneering before. I answered honestly, noting I had experience climbing and mountaineering, and was more than comfortable with rappels. He didn’t seem overly concerned with me being alone, but reminded me that no one else had applied for a permit. I was on my own. Before I left, he noted that there’d be an 18-foot swim in near-freezing water.

I picked up a drysuit rental from a local gear shop and tried to gather more intel about the trail. No one had been there in over a week since the rain had been so heavy. It was my first time wearing a drysuit and I tried to ignore the body odor from the previous renter. The drysuit came with a thick set of overalls that I was required to wear for protecting the suit from abrasions in the canyon. Besides making me look like a rodeo clown, it all weighed me down heavily. I started to feel less stoked about lugging my new suit around for miles.

That night, I sat in the back of my car cramming “just the essentials” into a pack. The essentials in this case included a 200ft climbing rope, harness, and other gear for descending. I reluctantly removed my camera to reduce more weight. When I lifted my pack, it felt like a lead ball. I unpacked and re-packed, trying to think of what else I could shave off. I went to bed feeling uneasy about my plan.

I woke up before sunrise, just before my alarm. Throughout the night I had dreams of the 18ft swim, and sinking like a stone with my heavy pack. Over and over, my mind played out the scenario of me entering that cold, still water and helplessly fighting to stay above the water as my backpack dragged me under. I took that as a sign that I should cancel my plan. Before sunrise the next morning, I went back to the gear shop and returned the equipment that I never used. I didn’t bother explaining why.

I still had the full day ahead of me, so I figured I’d try the normal hike bottom-up to Subway, ending just before the final technical section of the top-down canyoneering route.

There weren’t any signs to follow. The only instruction I knew of was to continue following the creek. After hours of pushing forward, just before I became suspicious I might have missed a turn, I saw a couple ahead. I came up to them and started to see the cavernous features of the Subway begin to reveal themselves around me. I entered the mouth of the tunnel and tried to walk as far in as I could carefully.

I could see clouds moving in, and I wanted to get out before the weather worsened. Once I was back on dry ground, I sprinted the several miles back to the trailhead, happily enjoying the solitude and comfort that came with being able to move swiftly.

I thought about how I avoided this trail initially, opting for a more technical and committing route that would guarantee my isolation. I listened to my instinct that morning by bailing, and still got exactly what I wanted. I hopped into my car just as the rain started and drove off to spend the next few days in Red Rock.