Leaving Zion

Today was my last day in Zion before relocating to Ruby’s Inn, just outside of Bryce Canyon. I spent the day checking out several areas I hadn’t seen before, and then drove the 70 miles or so to Bryce. I have a lovely room in the most remote building of this sprawling hotel and hikers’ gathering place. My windows look out on a lake and at the western sky; mule deer were running across the meadow by the lake at sunset. I’m so glad I asked the desk clerk for a room with some sunshine.

I think Zion may be my favorite place in the world. Well, along with New York City, Paris, and Mt. Desert Island in Maine. Just like Acadia National Park, I can’t imagine ever getting tired of Zion. I’ve barely scratched the surface: I’ve hiked many of the well-known trails once and visited numerous spectacular overlooks. I’ve explored both the Zion Canyon side of the park and the eastern side, which are very different. I haven’t yet gotten to Kolob Canyons, a section of Zion several miles west of the main park. And the best trails on the east side are remote backpacking trails. But at least I’ve gotten a good start.

Here’s the thing: Zion is a place where the scale is indescribable, and where animal, vegetable and mineral seem to merge. Well, not animal, maybe, but definitely vegetable and mineral. The petrified wood looks like rock. The monoliths, as they are rightfully called, often look to me like organic vegetable forms. Looking up at an immense orange and brown-stained mountain, I am reminded of a skinned, roast sweet potato. Many of these massive rocks remind me of root vegetables. I mentioned this to a lady on the path today and she seemed rather surprised, but take a look at those Zion pictures and tell me you don’t see a mammoth yam. These are the biggest sandstone cliffs in the world, and they’re curved and rounded and puffy.

The ones that don’t look like potatoes may look more like swirled sand, embedded with whorls. Rock walls rising above the rivers, like at Weeping Rock or at the Temple of Sinawava, are porous enough that water trickles through them and hanging plants emerge from the rocks along with the waterfalls—hanging gardens. Where have you ever seen ferns, moss, and cacti growing in the same glimpse of land?

The east side of the park feels like a tidal wave of rock. It took tens of millions of years, of course, but it looks as if the rock formations rolled in on a tsunami and just settled there. They dwarf you as you drive by, and seem about to spill into the narrow, winding road. Some of them look like melted goo that dripped down and hardened. Others have incredibly delicate ridge patterns, like the veins of a leaf.

The Zion Canyon, on the other hand, is much more verdant. The Zion River, which today looks like a rather demure burbling brook, was once a roaring river that carved out the whole canyon. And even today, during heavy rains, water rushes into the narrow slot canyons as high as twelve feet above its normal level. This is why there are warning signs everywhere: don’t go into the slot canyons if you think it might rain, because there will be no getting out. The walls rise far above you and the riverbed is narrow and slippery. Just a few months ago, a flash flood in the area deluged Rosa’s school, which sits on the Virgin River about ten miles west of the park. The entire campus was evacuated to nearby St. George. Normally the river looks too shallow even for a dip on a hot day, but during the flood, the school’s horses nearly drowned in the corral, cars were swimming, and the school’s air conditioning system (and lawn) were totally destroyed. The girls’ boots, which are kept in a cabinet by the corral, floated out across the pasture or filled with mud and got buried.

Today I walked the Riverside Walk, which is at the top end of the canyon. The Temple of Sinawava, a rock formation there, is the last place in Zion Canyon where you can walk on land. When you get to the end of the trail, the only way to proceed up the Narrows is to walk in the river, which many people do. Hiking the Narrows is a popular summertime activity, since the park gets so hot but the narrows stay cool, shaded by the high walls of the canyon. People rent special shoes designed to withstand the rocky river bottom along with “river sticks,” big wooden wading staffs that hikers hold to help keep their balance on the slippery rocks. The Narrows is passable for about 15 miles when the weather is warm and there’s no threat of rain. Today I saw several brave backpackers returning from upriver. The water is getting cold now.

I arrived at the end of the Riverside Walk, found a rock and sat down to eat my lunch. An older fellow and his wife walked up to me and the man asked, waving toward the path, “Is this trail one-way or two-way?” I figured he was yanking my chain, since some of these retired guys are always fishing for a chuckle. (Another silver-haired guy stood next to me at an unbelievable panorama atop an 8,000-foot high mountain, and said, “Not too shabby, huh?”)

I looked at him, trying to decide if he was kidding. “Sorry,” I said, “what did you say?” His wife looked disappointed that my comprehension was so poor. “I mean, can you get out of here thataway?” the man asked, pointing upstream to the dark narrows. “The only way to go up the river is to walk in the water,” I replied. “Well no way am I about to do that!” his wife said indignantly. The man was persistent, though. “But what I’m asking is, can you get back to the car that way?” He looked a little sad when I shook my head, and they trudged off back the way they'd come.

I’d brought a cloth with me and spread it out so I could lay down next to the river and look up at the cliffs and the yellow leaves floating against them in the breeze. Several children came over to make sure I wasn’t actually dead, but otherwise it was very peaceful.

*****

When I checked out of the Thunderbird this morning, Gordon, the owner, came over to shake my hand and say goodbye. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay til the end of the year?” he asked.

Checking into the Ruby’s Inn Best Western this evening, I asked the clerk for a single. “How long are you staying, one night?” he asked. “No, a few nights. Probably through Saturday,” I answered. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay til the end of the year?” he asked. “We’ve got plenty of room.”

*****

The drive up to Bryce from Zion was beautiful. The day was clear and the late afternoon sun lit up the mountainsides and pastures. I was surprised to see a dozen or so horses running madly across a plain, since they usually seem to just stand around contemplating. But then I noticed the little shepherd dog running along behind them, and a cowboy with a lasso just behind the dog.

I’m convinced that the municipal revenue for many of these tiny hamlets is generated by fining tourists for speeding. You go from a 65-MPH speed limit on the highway to a sudden 30-MPH as you pass a few scattered houses and a store that rents chain saws, and inevitably a sheriff’s SUV is sitting calmly on the shoulder like a spider in a web. So far I’ve been careful and lucky, but I’ve seen a lot of people pulled over.

My route took me through a tiny town called Hatch. I was wondering how it derived its name—perhaps there was a Mr. Hatch?—when I passed a sign that said “Hatchery Closed.” So I’m guessing that’s my answer. I don’t know what Hatch hatches. Chickens?

Driving north, I noticed a startling disparity in the weather in different areas of the sky. In some places, the sun was gleaming and the whole landscape looked like it was under a magic spell. But in other spots, the clouds were dark and menacing; I could see shafts of rain driving down. Generally the weather out here is not that spotty, and as I was trying to figure it out, I passed another telling sign: “Prescribed Burns. Do Not Report.” So it wasn’t rain or clouds, it was smoke from managed fires, which apparently have been called in by numerous alarmed tourists.

After solving that mystery, I was nearing Bryce and utterly enjoying the scenery. I could see for what appeared to be hundreds of miles, and I was lulled into a reverie. Until I came to a sign that said, “Escalante, 39 miles,” which meant that I’d passed right by Bryce. I could not believe I had done this. I mean, you can hardly miss Ruby’s Inn. There is a huge red neon sign out front, kind of a Bryce Canyon version of Times Square, a colony of buildings, thousands of cars. But I must have been looking at the other side of the road. Some of you will not be surprised by this lapse. I wasn’t. Fortunately, I’d only overshot my mark by ten miles, and retracing my route gave me the opportunity to see the landscape from the east rather than the west. So that was fine.