Letter from Utah: Part 7 of 12

This post is part 7 in a series of 12. You can download the entire essay by clicking here, or you can read the serial installments as they appear.

The drive from the east into Zion National Park begins with a winding, precarious road that hugs the side of the mountain, dips through gullies, and then disappears into the 1.1-mile long Zion-Mt. Carmel tunnel—the longest tunnel in the world when it was constructed. We park at the visitor’s center, stroll through the shop, read about the area’s history, and then set off into the canyon itself, which extends for fifteen miles and is nearly a half-mile deep.

Zion feels like it’s name: like home, safe, sacred and timeless. The canyon is spotted with lofty-named formations—The Three Patriarchs, Angel’s Landing, The Great White Throne—who all live up to their glorious descriptions. Zion is also grayer than the rest of the state, and greener, with leafy trees along the valley floor where the Virgin River passes quietly by. Trails extend on either side, climbing up the rock faces, to algae-rich pools of glowing green water, weeping ceilings of stone, and tiny streams that split, disappear, and meet again below you. Compared to Bryce Canyon, which is constantly shifting and changing shape, eating away at itself from the canyon rim, Zion feels like a testimonial, an elaborate shrine that suggests remembrance, vastness, and time.

We scurry up a short, steep trail of hard red dirt, past cactus and lizards. A few hours later, sweaty and wide-eyed, we emerge at the other end, and then walk another mile or so back to the parking lot, along a soft sandy path near the riverbank. I’m tired. Five days of this already.

Here’s what I learn: I don’t really care about hiking. I like to meander across the slickrock, climb up the trails, and gaze out across the valley. But a couple of hours are enough. I want the television, I want a warm bed—a good bed with my cloister of pillows—and a blazing hot shower with pummeling water pressure. What does this say about me? Does it say anything?

Our time spent in Zion feels rushed. The air there is heavy, almost holy; somehow, everything is meaningful, everything has a dense affecting weight. Do I sound crazy for saying this?

The sun is setting on our way out of the canyon, but it isn’t dark enough for the datura to bloom.