Recognizing that the birthday numbers are getting larger, body parts are locking up or falling off with disturbingly increased regularity, lately I’ve been finding myself paying more more attention to those “one of these days I’d like to…” kinds of things.
One of those was hiking through a portion of Zion National Park known as The Narrows. I’d seen it on different nature shows over the years, for whatever reason it was a source of constant fascination for me. It isn’t exactly climbing Mount Everest, but it’s not a normal hike either. It’s actually a trek through a slot canyon that’s been carved out by a river, what makes it so unique is that for most of the way, you’re walking in the river itself.
So, when we found ourselves headed toward southern Utah on a vacation recently, the stupid idea hit that I really should give this hike a try before any more anatomical pieces gave up the ghost making the attempt went from the mere ridiculous to the completely impossible. We made it to Zion National Park, on the appointed day, I tossed a few things into a backpack headed to an equipment rental place.
“Good morning,” I told the impossibly young lady behind the counter, who had probably hiked 30 miles to work that morning just for fun. “I’d like to rent some equipment for hiking The Narrows.”
“Of course”, she said as she gave me a quick glance then programmed her phone for the local Search Rescue number. “We have a Narrows Package that includes neoprene rubber socks, river shoes, a hiking pole for balance in the current. We also rent fleece tops for warmth, dry bags for your equipment.”
Trying to sound casual, like I rented rubber socks dry bags every day, I told her to fix me up with the whole package. At least she didn’t say anything about body bags.
“Great! While I get everything together, we have a short orientation film about The Narrows for you to watch. It’s required”, she added ominously.
I sat with a few other people watched a film that just about sent me back out the door. I learned about the risk of flash flooding. Hypothermia. Slippery rocks. Deep holes. Rapids. Strong currents. And even what to do if nature calls (no – you don’t just go in the river). But somehow, I hung in there.
An hour later, I leave the outfitters in an odd blend of terrified ridiculous. I’m wearing black rubber socks black yellow rubber shoes, with a bright yellow rubber pack on my back a big wooden pole in my h . Between the hiking gear all the rubber, I felt like Heidi the dominatrix.
Thus conspicuously attired, I board a park shuttle for a 40 minute ride to the river. Halfway along, I realize I’ve stupidly forgotten to bring anything dry to change into after the hike, so I hop off at a gift shop try to look casual as I drag my 5-foot wooden pole rubber bag inside to buy a tee-shirt for later. I consider one that says “I Hiked The Narrows”, but it seems like that would be bad luck. They don’t have one that says “I Rented Rubber Socks And Then Chickened Out”, so I settle for plain old “Zion National Park”.
Finally, I depart the shuttle begin a 1-mile hike down to the river itself. From the trail, I can see the water below, I keep telling myself it doesn’t look too bad. Not a single person in black yellow shoes has floated by screaming. I can do this.
The trail peters out in a set of steps leading to the edge of the river. There are several people st ing around, a few dressed as stupidly as I am, preparing to enter the water. Others are waving to those that are leaving, as though they’ll never be seen again. Another great confidence boost.
No sense waiting. With no one to see me off, I feel a bit like Lewis without Clark. And without Sacagawea, or that really cool Newfoundl dog they had. So, I schlep on into the water.
Okay. I’m really doing it. I’m living out the dream I’ve always had. I’m hiking The Narrows! And….I’m Cold. And wet. Water’s filling up the shoes. Was that supposed to happen? I don’t remember if they told me anything about that. And now for the first time, I see why I’ve been lugging this big stupid stick around with me all morning. Even though the water’s not very deep yet, I try to remember all the stuff they mentioned, about walking carefully, planting the pole, something about not drowning. Maybe I said that last part.
After a bit, I start to get the hang of it. My feet start to thaw a bit, some semblance of balance returns in the rushing water. I cross to the other side, where three feet of beach beckons, then it’s back into the water. Eventually, I actually pause look around me.
Wow.
Canyon walls rise up for hundreds of feet on both sides. Water rushes by around my legs. The hikers ahead of me round a bend, for a moment I’m all alone. I stop to consider how incredibly awesome this is. Then reality hits again, I wonder how long I have left to live.
I push on, eventually catch up to a pair of hikers who’ve paused knee-deep on one side of the river. Assuming they’re awestruck by the natural beauty, I realize instead they’re watching three others ahead of them, who are now chest-deep in the water.
“That’s far enough for us,” one of the pair says. “That looks too scary.” She turns to me. “Are you going on?”
I muster up lots of false courage. “Yeah, I guess. I’ve waited too long to try this, so I think I’ll keep going. Besides, we’re camped several miles down along the river, I told my wife to be watching for me around dinner time with a grappling hook.”
They turn back. I plunge on. It’s a weird feeling, walking into rushing, ever-deepening water. Thankfully, it eventually gets shallow again. No need for the grappling hook after all.
In the end, I successfully make it all the way to the turn-around point back without drowning. I only stumble fall in the river once, so the day results in one skinned knee, lots of sore muscles, a dream successfully lived.
But I’m not going to miss the damp rubber socks.
Paul Bianchina can be reached at paul2887@ykwc.net for comments.