Day 4: The Narrows

We were going back! Planning our trip a month before, I had set aside two days on our itinerary for the two quintessential Zion hikes I knew we couldn’t pass up. The first was Angel’s Landing, the notorious muscle-stretcher we had already conquered. The untraditional Narrows trail was the second. We wouldn’t have to contend with elevation gain on this one because we would be at ground level the whole time, but there was a catch: The trail involves hiking upstream in the Virgin River. When I first read about the Narrows, I asked myself why on earth someone would want to trailblaze through moving water which undoubtedly concealed slippery rocks. Today, I would find out.

The challenges seemed evident: How do you keep your footing? Where do you relieve yourself? Occasionally, flash floods send torrents of mangled limbs and muddy froth surging down the tight canyon. Where could you escape to safety (or avoid claustrophobia) in a river squished between two nearly sheer rock faces hundreds of feet high? Despite my concerns, I had noticed many excited hikers toting walking sticks and wearing water shoes on the tram the day before, some of them families with small children, who undoubtedly were riding up to the trailhead. I wasn’t sure what we might experience on a river hike, yet I couldn’t wait to return to Zion after the euphoria of climbing Angel’s Landing the previous day, even if my sore body only begrudgingly consented.

Around noon, we arrived at the visitor’s center as before (using the bridge this time) and walked into Springdale for lunch, a small community tucked into Zion’s mouth just outside protected land. An artsy café provided us with a panini apiece and a smoothie to share, and then Heather led the way to a local outfitter across the street to see if she could buy some water shoes to avoid ruining her sneakers in the water. It seemed no one could decide what kind of footwear to use in the Virgin: I had already spotted folks on their way upcanyon wearing everything from old tennis shoes and cheap pool shoes to clunky black and yellow high-tops which appeared to be made specifically for the Narrows. Inside the outfitter, I discovered where the latter had originated.

Inside the shop, racks of heavy-duty water boots lined the walls, interspersed with informational signs declaring they were essential for river hiking. The shoes vaguely resembled the ones Matt Damon wears as an astronaut in The Martian: A thick rubber exoskeleton functioned to absorb the shock of riverbed rocks while a mesh covering allowed water to flow through the shoes rather than become trapped inside and weigh them down. The science behind their construction impressed me, but the $80 figure did not. Just outside the shop’s front window, however, Heather spotted another row of boots. These were an older generation of the model and had been well used, but they were also discounted to $25. So, Heather picked out a pair in her size along with a pair of neoprene socks to complement. The latter looked like the feet of a wetsuit and prevented chafing against the river’s sediment, but I was surprised to find that, rather than lie neatly folded on the table, they retained their filled-out shape and stood straight up as if they were shoes themselves. Heather’s feet would be well-protected.

In the midst of her shopping, I looked down at the low-cut Merrell hiking shoes on my own feet. Sorry guys, I thought. You’re going in. I hadn’t included a line item in my budget for footcare. While Heather checked out, one of the workers realized I wasn’t going to purchase anything and turned on a marketing documentary which might have been called “Death in the Narrows, Unless You’re Wearing Water Boots.” After watching a scene where a flash flood sweeps horrified hikers off their feet and carries them downcanyon, I told Heather we better go and catch a tram. At least one of us had the snazzy shoes; if mine failed me, perhaps I could float on my back and Heather could pull me along.

Once we arrived at the Temple of Sinawava stop twenty minutes later, we replenished our water supply and started down the path to our trailhead. Before you reach the Narrows, you stroll along Riverside Walk as the main canyon slowly closes in around you. Evidence of the power of water amazed me: Precipitous stone walls were gradually being chiseled away by the modest Virgin. Ferns somehow found a way to cling to those vertical surfaces and take in enough H₂O to thrive. Even water bubbling up in tiny pools at our feet told the story of rainwater soaking through hundreds of feet of sandstone above us and eventually being pushed out of tiny cracks in the rock, similar to what was happening at Mossy Cave in Bryce. This oasis also boasted a vibrant community of squirrels that had taken up residence along the path. Bold signs instructed visitors not to interact with or feed the wildlife, but the squirrels obviously ignored these; food was more easily obtained by harassing passersby for a bit of granola or apple than scavenging in leaves and dirt. A half mile along, I had to sidestep one such squirrel as round as a Pringles can who was sitting on his haunches and looking up at me for a handout.

All at once, the conventional trail descended a half-dozen steps and terminated on a sand bar beside the Virgin. Visitors milled about, chatting and leaning up against trees while kids splashed in the shallows, but it was clear that to go any farther we would have to leave dry ground behind. I walked across the stones lining the edge of the river and then, before I could think about it, stepped right into the current, the water slithering down into the toes of my shoes and inflating my socks. Usually, I tried to avoid getting wet, but soon, I knew, I would be up to my waist in a river flowing through southern Utah. Well, I thought, there’s only one way to see the Narrows.

For the next few hours, we explored the riverbed, navigating water shallow and deep, fording minor rapids, and clambering over stones and boulders. Not knowing what you might step on made the hike difficult. My ankles grew sore as they were forced to pivot in all directions to maintain my balance on the cobbles, but I rarely looked down for a foothold; my eyes were constantly captivated by my surroundings. The contours of the walls around us rippled and followed us upstream, mirroring the river which had molded them. Sometimes it seemed like a giant ice cream scoop had gouged the tanned stone or sewing scissors had taken a snip at its edges. Yet the surface was smooth enough that four climbers were able to rappel down the side from somewhere high above and join the rest of us in our slog upriver.

Occasionally, Heather and I stopped to rest on sandbars still holding their ground against the current. On one where small trees and bushes had taken refuge, a couple sat on a log to take off their swollen boots and pull Ziplocked sandwiches out of a backpack. Though we had only trekked about a mile into the canyon, I knew how they were feeling. When I had first done my research on the Narrows, I read that you could hike sixteen miles in just one direction, but now that we were actually here, I couldn’t imagine tackling more than a couple miles at a time in the pebble-strewn stream.  The number of hikers had petered out after the first half-mile or so as families with small kids stopped to play in the water before turning around. I figured the rest of us were calculating how much longer we could continue before turning around to face the downstream hike.

Heather and I wound our way yet farther, down sections as straight as an Arizona highway or filled with innumerable twists which never allowed you to see more than a few hundred feet ahead. Finally, we rounded one of these turns and arrived at a large gray boulder which situated itself in the center of the coursing stream. With its layered and organic form, in another setting it could have been a ton of melted chocolate dripped and hardened onto wax paper. Though the rock rested in deep water higher than my waist, I decided to test my dexterity by climbing it. I kicked off the slick, submerged base and crawled up, hugging the surface, until I reached the top. For several minutes, I sat cross-legged on this island in the golden haze of late afternoon, silently thanking God for this respite in the midst of life’s turbulence. Then, I slid back into the water and took our shared backpack from Heather so she could scramble up as well, ensuring our cameras would function past this venture.

The stones were so plentiful at this bend in the river, I tried my hand at rock-skipping with the smoothest stones I could find in the transparent stream. Unfortunately, I discovered I have a better arm than I thought. One of the rocks I chucked bounced right up to a fellow with a professional-looking camera and gave him a light splash. I acted oblivious to hide my embarrassment, but then I strode over to locate the rock once he had left. It was oblong but slender and silver with a lightning bolt the color of earth cutting through its center; even after it had dried in my hand, its coolness felt like water rushing through my fingers.

We decided we should begin retracing our steps, so we turned away from the natural landmark and began trudging along with the natural flow of the river, Heather now with a walking branch in hand which she had scavenged from one of the sandbars. Within an hour, we met up with Riverside Walk again and were soon sitting down on a tram for the ride downcanyon. I fished in my pocket for my sunglasses since the sun now reflected brightly off the canyon walls. When we had been hiking in the Narrows, I hadn’t needed them since the towering walls had blocked out most of the direct sunlight. But putting them on as we wound past Angel’s Landing, I found my vision blurred. I let my shirt dry the watery smudges, but tiny scratches were now etched across the center of the lenses. Because they had been in my pocket during the hike, sand carried by the Virgin must have filtered through my shorts and begun its trademark erosion on the lenses; in short, my ebony, horn-rimmed shades had met their demise. I was sorry to see them go, but at least the sun would be setting soon.

The Zion Lodge came into view, and we were deposited at a rustic, historical building nestled into the folds of the red canyon walls. A wide lawn in front invited visitors to play frisbee or lie down on blankets against the soft earth; deer even meandered across the grass at times, nibbling the green blades as they went. A large patio looked out onto this setting and offered two rows of rocking chairs for weary hikers, so I sat down in one of them to breathe in my surroundings. When I gazed at the mountains facing the lodge, I found that they were so high I couldn’t see the sky unless I leaned down past my knees.

After resting for a few minutes, Heather and I both knew it was time to replenish our energy after another successful day of vacationing; but first, we perused the giftshop in the building behind us and purchased a colorful mosaic tile depicting Angel’s Landing as a tribute to our most daring hike. Then, we returned to Springdale for supper and came across Whiptail Grill, a hipster café specializing in Southwestern cuisine. The place was run out of an old gas station, so a waitress seated us at a metal table outside next to where a pump had once been, and chips and salsa arrived at our fingertips. The taste of fresh tomatoes and the titillating feeling of salt on my lips after a long day on my feet left me pleasantly intoxicated even before our taco salad was ready, and I knew I would be ready to collapse into a deep sleep the next chance I got.

As night settled in around us at the grill, the mountain ridges stood out as charcoal against the dark blue, purpling sky. Though we were in a fairly large town, I felt like I was sitting alone in a wilderness untamed but inviting, drawing me in to explore its wonders and get lost in its beauty. I lingered as long as I could—I didn’t know when I would return to Zion, if I ever would—but with our hotel more than an hour away, we bid the eatery goodbye and drove back through the park. Just before we exited the east gate for the second and final time, I asked Heather to pull over on the side of the road. We sat in the now tangible darkness, devoid of any human presence other than our own, and looked up out our windows in wonder at the sky arranging its glinting diamonds into mysterious patterns.

When I was a kid, we would sing a hymn at my church called “We’re Marching to Zion (Beautiful, Beautiful Zion).” I pray I will always follow these words back to the hallowed southwestern corner of Utah.