Marvelous. I don't think I've ever seen so much water in the desert. It flowed in sheets down the cliff and followed the trails along the path of least resistance as gravity forced it toward the bottom of the canyon. I'm sure, whenever I get a chance to see Zion National Park again, I won't see nearly as much water as I did this winter. It rained almost constantly during my stay in the canyon, which left everything soaked through and shimmering with waterdrops. In the higher elevations of the park, the rain froze into snow, and ice coated everything in sight. My hike to Hidden Canyon started right near the Virgin River, at the very bottom of Zion Canyon, and took me up to the snow line and beyond. It is one of the absolute best hikes I've ever had the pleasure of trekking.
My hike can be summed up in one word: wet. I started above Weeping Rock, just off of the main road through Zion Canyon, and the waters that fed Weeping Rock cascaded down onto the switchbacks that steadily took me up the cliff. Often, I found myself picking my way along running water that flowed down the trail, or jumping across overflows that cut right across my path. Rain and mist swirled around my face, creeping under my hood and soaking my face and hair. It wasn't too long, though before the water on the trail started to turn slushy, and finally gave way to ice as I noticed snow lingering above me. I turned a corner in the trail, and found myself in a whole different winter world.
Sleet showered the trail in front of me, and I knew I'd reached the point where upper elevation snow mixed with the lower elevation rain. Ice clung to the canyon walls and every step needed to be tested for stability and grip before fully lowering weight onto it. It was around this point that the few people who had been on the trail with me peeled off, either on to a different trail, or turned back to return to the warmth of their cars. I had the whole trail to myself, and I headed off to find Hidden Canyon, a slot that more than lives up to it's name.
Soon, I found myself walking in the slushy bootprints of one other brave soul, and I couldn't help but think to myself that at least I wasn't the only crazy one to be on the trail. I saw only one set of prints leading up toward the canyon, but none coming back down, so I knew the person was still ahead of me, and would have no choice but to come back down eventually. It was around this time that my steps became a little more treacherous, and I slowed down and took great care where I put my feet, mindful of the ice that hid under the surface slush on the rocks. I was thankful for the waterproof boots and double layer of wool socks that kept my feet warm and dry, and I maintained enough speed to keep myself warm through movement; otherwise, I'm sure I would have been freezing. Instead, I marveled at my surroundings, at the towering canyon walls and the sporadic ponderosa pines that became more frequent the higher I climbed. I reached a set of stairs that took me up and around a huge boulder, and jumped a few small streams that probably ran dry during the summer but currently were full of icy water rushing to meet the river far below.
Rounding yet another corner in the path, I stopped short at the sight that greeted me: a series of steep, narrow "stairs" cut right into the cliff with a iron chain handrail bolted into the sandstone. To complete the vision, each of the stairs was covered in slush and ice, and the handrail looked wet and frozen to the touch. It wasn't exactly an inviting sight. My only comfort lay in the bootprints I'd been following, and I could see they had safely reached the bottom of the stairs and the relative safety of a wider rock ledge tucked into the mouth of a small side canyon. It took me several calming breaths before I plucked up the courage to descend those stairs, and I don't admit that lightly. Heights and ice and snow and peg-bolted iron chains don't bother me in and of themselves, but put them all together, coupled with the fact that nobody knew exactly where I was and that if I fell, I would fall to my death, I was a little apprehensive. But I gathered my courage and my guts, wrapped both arms around the chain, and side-stepped down the stairs, hugging tightly to the cliff wall and only looking at the six inches of space I needed to put my next step.
Can you imagine my relief at getting to the bottom of those stairs? I tried really hard to not think about having to go back up them, and instead focused on continuing on. However, when I turned the next corner my heart sank. I was faced with an even steeper set of stairs, this time climbing up and out of sight around the canyon wall with no end as far as I could see. As a matter of fact, from my vantage point the stairs looked like they dropped off the edge of the cliff into a dizzying fall. It was as I stood there, deliberating with myself about the advantages of continuing the hike despite the serious risks (including but not limited to the ice-covered stairs and the hundreds of feet of open air between myself and the canyon bottom) that the owner of the bootprints I'd been following came around the very corner I was dubiously contemplating. I waited until he reached the same landing I stood on before greeting him, knowing he needed to concentrate on his footing and making it to solid ground safely.
I'm not even sure he saw me at first, not until he was relatively close. Once he found relief, we greeted each other and commented on the thrill of the trail, before I bombarded him with questions about the trail ahead, which he had obviously just come back from. He was a solo hiker as well, and informed me that the trail really only got worse as it climbed higher, and into Hidden Canyon itself. More stairs waited, unseen around the next corner, and the heights only got higer. Hidden Canyon was amazing, he said, but getting there was not worth the very real risk of falling. Without microspikes, the trail would be impassable, and even with them he didn't recommend it. Well, I had microspikes with me, but hearing his warnings against continuing on, at least with ice and snow covering the trail, convinced me to save the grandeur of the slot for another day. For the second time in my life, I turned around on a trail before I reached my destination.
Often times on the trail I am faced with making the decision to turn back, or to acknowledge the risks but push on; usually my stubborn streak wins out and I continue on. Was I disappointed to turn back? Sure, of course I was. But the risks of that trail were not worth the reward, no matter how amazing the slot canyon was. I'll make it back to Zion soon, and that hike will be the very first thing I do in the park, but this winter was not the time to do so. Instead, I enjoyed the companionship of the only other hiker on the trail as we descended together, trading stories of our adventures and recommending other parks and places. I hardly even acknowledged the apprehension as I wrapped my arms around the iron chain and side-stepped my way back up the narrow stairs, and once we reached solid ground again we sped along without hesitation. This hike still lands itself on my list of most amazing hikes ever, even though I didn't finish it. It promises to be a fantastic adventure, and I can't wait until I get the chance to go back and conquer it myself.
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