While Dan wrapped up the last vestiges of work (God bless him), Moff and I filled our water from the Tropicana bathroom sink. I'll say now, nothing mentally purifies sinkwater like necessity and by the final day of the trip, water from that bathroom was a luxury item. Such a shift in perspective was still to come, though, and I didn't even know how long we'd be able to go on our supply. All in all, it was 17.5 liters across three 100 oz Platypus reservoirs, seven individual water bottles hovering around 1L each, and one 50 oz reservoir we dubbed the "safety sac" as our last resort. After filling, the bladders and bottles found homes in our three packs and with that, our hermit crab shells were complete. Dan finished up and we slung everything we had across our backs and checked out.
Vegas in daylight is always a bit jarring, so we gladly took I-15 out of town, laughing at billboards for strip clubs and sleazy lawyers (knowing Vegas, that Venn diagram has to cross somewhere to hilarious results). Of course, beyond the gaudy ornamentation lies the beautiful Mojave, and after thirty minutes or so, the mountains and sky no longer had to contend with the Vegas simulacra. Moff took the musical reins, Dan had the helm, and I navigated, a job made simply by the raw, unadorned Southwestern interstate. Unlike the suburbs queued along the metro Atlanta highways, I-15 ran from Nevada into Arizona and on into Utah with mostly bare shoulders and its only signs of civilization meted out like morse code, with solar-powered billboards for dots and oasis towns for dashes.
Mesquite, NV was one of the latter and we stopped briefly at its Wal-Mart for a few odds and ends we still needed. Dan collected cured meats, Moff searched fruitlessly for long underwear, and I decided I needed a day-pack more substantial than the meager soccer bag I'd brought. As Dan and I browsed the outdoors section, we saw an older couple scanning beside us, clearly bound for Zion as well, and so the first set of kindred spirits we happened upon.
We continued onward, debating the proximity of the visible mountain ranges and reading through the park regulations to refresh ourselves. While Moff read about flash flood warnings and proper human waste disposal, my brain continue humming along, refusing to convert the information into nervousness. These were just the realities of the undertaking, I thought. Then, even the small vestiges of concern vanished as we rode headlong into beautiful canyon stretches of the highway. Great gouts of stone began forcing the road this way and that, while other times, the nearer ridges pulled back like a curtain, revealing again a vacant landscape and the painted quiet of mountains farther off. We even caught glimpses of white-capped peaks framed beneath by clouds so that they seemed to hover in the air.
Dan kept his eyes on the road while I leaned over the dash and murmured appreciatively at the brushstroke striations of the hills on either side. It was terrain that would warrant its own protected park in Georgia, but in Utah, it was pedestrian majesty, seen and passed by at speed on the way from here to there.
After we'd passed through Hurricane, UT, a small city with a big name, we saw a sign for a Zion news radio station and switched over to hear a broadcast that was about 1 part trail advisory to every 6 parts endorsement of the free shuttle from nearby Springdale to the Zion Visitor Center. We only needed to stop at the center briefly to get our permit and a more detailed map, so we coasted through Springdale, admiring the cozy, boutique infrastructure that seems to pop up around a destination National Park like Zion. I'm actually a little envious of the Springdale residents, as they get to walk out their door to a beautiful view every day.
After Springdale, we had finally arrived.
From the moment one drives into Zion (and arguably before), the experience begins. The landscape leaps up on either side into walls of layered stone, with great blind arches carved out into unattainable amphitheaters hundreds of feet above the canyon floor. The guys had to remind me to save some camera battery, as we'd seen all the same scenery coming out, on what we hoped would be a nicer day, and with the perspective of how these initial looks compared to what we would see from the thick of our trip.
At the Visitor's Center, we all scattered. Moff looked for the map, Dan sought out the permit he'd applied for, and I split time refilling water bottles we'd worked on the drive out and shopping for souvenirs. Ultimately, Moff and I rejoined Dan as the park official ran down the rules again. Our plan had two potential wrinkles: a landmark spring in our route was currently dry (which we had known for a week or two), and there was a flash flood warning for the Narrows. The latter was a bit of a hit, as we had all been excited about the prospect of hiking through the river bed, the canyon more of a corridor on either side of us, but we certainly didn't think ourselves impervious to a flash flood, so we determined to keep an eye on conditions and see if it was possible. It's almost hilarious in retrospect how disappointed I was, given the intensity of the hiking we DID do.
From the Visitor's Center, we struck out on the road to the East Entrance, marveling along the way at the rich reds and bleached whites of the giants all around us. The road dipped through a pair of tunnels, the first bearing a man-made infrastructure broken up with windows out into the grandeur of the park and the second a rock-hewn arch straight out of a Roadrunner cartoon. Mesas swelled and sank around us as we continued east, still in the touristy mix with campers and selfie sticks to be seen at every overlook. When we finally reached the East Entrance, however, the reality sank in that we weren't just visiting with the terrain; we were taking advantage of its hospitality.
It seems an appropriate time to bring a map into the equation, considering how important maps (and there were several) were to our trip. We were going to be hiking the East Rim of Zion Canyon, which has its own feel to it with some significant changes in elevation and conditions...all of which we certainly enjoyed.
On the map below, we parked off the right side of the area shown, at the East Entrance labeled about halfway down. Our first day would be traveling the 6-7 miles from the entrance to Stave Spring, the dry water source we'd been warned about. Despite being dry, it was still a good landmark for all of the various East Rim trails, so we planned to camp nearby and start the next day from the heart of the area.
I should also mention, as I did NOT to my traveling companions, that I had never been camping before. Ever. I can't think of a night I ever slept in a tent before this trip. Sleeping bags, sure, as there had been everything from sleepovers to Catholic mission trips, but never actually at the mercy of the elements (aka without A/C). I do have some hiking experience, as our family trips to the Adirondacks usually involve 2-3 day-hikes over the week. So I'm not new to the hiking game...just the camping...and the packs...and the limited water supply...and the lack of modern or any facilities to speak of. I add all this context and suspense now and, looking back, the concern in the eyes of close friends makes more sense, but once again, at the time, I didn't think twice. Instead, sunscreen was applied, bandanas were cinched, our canvas carapaces were hoisted, and the car was abandoned. It was time to take on Zion.
The first mile or two of the hike was a trail climbing slowly off the canyon floor from the road. A sign welcomed us to the Zion Wilderness as the wilderness itself crashed down from the mesas in waves of stone and hearty trees. Dirt paths gave way to rock faces that seemed spooned out in dollops over the trail which turned into stone staircases and at one point even a manmade bridge across a thin stream that did not seem capable of wreaking the kind of monumental change that created the surrounding terrain.
The path switched back on us and rose more swiftly, hugging the sides of the mesas and bringing us out onto one overlook after another, including Jolley Gulch (sic), one of the first stop-and-stare moments of the trip.
We stopped frequently for pictures, a Powerbar break, and a chance to throw on our rain jackets for the occasional spitting rain that followed us along the way. We also passed a handful of day-hikers who surely belonged to the cars we'd joined in the East Entrance lot. Their loads were naturally much lighter and one woman with walking sticks spotted our packs and called out:
"How many nights are you staying in?"
"Three."
"Oh...well, may the sun shine down upon you!"
Half a blessing, half a genuine hope for us that I'm sure all three of us shared beneath the looming black clouds you can see in that panoramic shot above.
The hike itself wasn't as strenuous as I expected, though as we reached the crest of the hillside trails, my knee began showing signs of a weakness I'd contend with throughout the trip. Thankfully, at the same time, the trail leveled out into the Ponderosa pine forests atop the mesa and we strolled through the fading light keeping our eyes peeled for signs of our telltale dry spring.
Finally, the trail between the trees began descending as we knew it to do just before reaching the spring (thanks topographical maps). Having sighted a high ridge we liked, we decided to make camp, have dinner, then stroll down later to confirm our location near the spring. So ended the first day's big hike, one of the longest we'd have with our big packs, which would also lighten as the days went by.
It felt good to drop the packs and I even changed shirts as the heat of the hike left me and I found myself hastily pulling out my new EB fleece. Another first, this rapid layering, and another process I'd grow very used to. We strolled around the campsite we'd chosen, picking out spots to cook, to hang up our food, and to pitch our single tent that would be very cozy each night.
Setting up camp was yet another division of labor. After we all set up the tent and the rainfly, Dan took to cooking us dinner while Moffet hung up the rest of the food. I meandered between the two of them, grabbing stuff from the packs when requested and cutting up summer sausage to complement Dan's warm, delicious couscous. I liked couscous fine before, but to have it piping hot at the end of a long hike, in the middle of the woods, with dark clouds overhead and shelter just nearby...that was an experience I didn't know I was missing.
Unfortunately, freezing rain set in soon after dinner, so we cleaned up quickly, then walked through the sleet down the hill from camp. We found the spring where we expected, marked with signs, and as expected, it was dry. What was NOT expected were the two groups we passed on our short walk up the hill, still chuffing beneath their full packs, on their way to set up camp. It was a shock to see new people, as we'd left the day-hikers behind hours before. Still, there were hellos and nods and wishes of good luck as we passed. The trail is a very friendly place.
All the way up the hill to camp, my knee proved troublesome, particularly a dull pain when I bent it while it bore weight. Considering it was a hiking trip, I had no intention of being a hero, so I told the guys of the issue and they said I could do whatever I was comfortable with. I have to hand it to Moff and Dan; from that point forward, not an hour went by when they didn't call back or forward to ask about the knee. I know it directly affected them, but it was a comfort to know that they had no intention of letting me power through anything.
We returned to a considerably whiter camp than we'd left and it seemed there was little option but to get in the tent and get some rest, especially considering the short night's sleep we'd had all the way back in Vegas.
And so in we went, elbow to elbow, our gear slung in the various pockets of Moffet's tent, our shoes outside (something I had to be told to do after tracking some dirt in earlier...oops), and our bodies huddled into our sleeping bags against the cold just a few layers away. Thankfully, the sleeping bag I'd purchased was a rockstar and kept me very warm; in fact, I was warm enough to fall asleep at a gentlemanly 7pm or so.
Of course, at 9pm, I awoke to the sounds of movement. Moff and Dan remained asleep, so I stared at the tent walls and listened as branches snapped, leaves rustled, and clear, definite steps were taken around the campsite. My mind did me the unkindness of serving up various explanations: bears, mountain lions, crazed meth-heads. I decided to unzip my sleeping bag, not wanting to face any possible attack with the mobility of a grub. One zipper tooth at a time I went, hating alike each cacophonous click and the silence that followed. And of course, there was the frantic town hall in my head:
Where is my big f****** knife? What about my headlamp? Wait, light would be a terrible idea. Oh, god, it it getting closer? Stop unzipping! It can't be a bear, right? If it was a bear, it would be making those ambient, rumbling bear sounds. Oh, God, what if that's all movie and TV magic and I die screaming at the paws of a non-canon quiet ninja bear? Wait, is that breathing right behind my head? Calm down, it's probably just the other guys. Ok, I hear three breaths...that's Dan...that's Moff...and that's m-...wait, I'm holding my breath to listen....NOOOOOOO.
And suchlike for about an hour of panicked stillness. The breathing was in fact outside of the tent, just behind my head, and it continued for a while. It was deeply troubling, but ultimately I decided that it was even and placid enough to probably just be a deer. Strangely enough, that decision made a difference and with no change to the sounds outside, I finally fell back asleep.
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