90 minutes to conquer Zion National Park.
There was no one else on the trail and no time to waste.
There was no one else on the trail and no time to waste. I'd been drifting in and out of a dream state for a couple of hours already.
It was day two of our drive from San Diego to Salt Lake City. My first experience of the Great American Roadtrip™.
We'd spent the previous night in Vegas, wide-eyed at Cirque du Soleil's watery extravaganza "O", and emptying our pockets onto the roulette table in the MGM. Collecting death stares from casino security as I flashed my film camera sporadically to capture the moment.
Vegas is a strange place. A 72-hour kind of place.
Enough time to get hammered beyond recollection, make some money, lose some money, and repeat until your adrenals are fried and you're falling asleep at the blackjack table.
The labyrinthian layouts, the fake sky on Fremont Street, and the mechanical repetition of pensioners caressing buttons until their hard-earned wages were syphoned from their bank accounts were all delightfully dystopian.
One night was enough of a taste for me.
Crossing state lines into Utah, we rolled into St. George for lunch, Cracker Barrel enticing us with a warm siren song for our sleep-deprived souls. I'd never eaten there, but could immediately feel myself drowning in sentimental Americana before I even stepped inside the front door.
The interior was pulled straight from the TV set of an old black and white sitcom. With the smell of home-style comfort food pouring steadily out from under the kitchen door.
As I sat hunched over the table trying to figure out the triangle peg puzzle for the fifth time, CJ mentioned we'd be passing through Zion National Park, "I wonder if we could do Angel's Landing today," he mumbled. I perked up.
You see, I'm pretty impulsive when it comes to The Great Outdoors.
If there's a mountain to climb, it's sunny, and I'm bored - we're going to the top.
Living next to the Peak District for the last five years, I'd built up a bit of a misguided belief that all of this outdoor schmuck was easy. Rocking up to almost every hike in yesterday's clothes, totally unprepared and still conquering it anyway.
"You think I can't handle some hills and a light scramble, on a whim? Get outta here."
With a new target acquired, we jumped back in the Chevy considerably heavier than when we left it.
The conversation had been dancing around LDS (The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints) for a few hours as I bluntly peppered CJ with every skeptical teardown I could. Pulling apart the origin story, the foundational texts, and my preconceived notions about the many wives he could have had if he had stayed.
He was my resident (ex)Mormon after all, and couldn't escape my conspiracy-driven mind whilst driving.
Mormons are generally lovely people, in my experience, by the way.
I just think there's some questionable beliefs knotted up in the rat king of Christian spin-offs they're running with. "The Millennium" being one of them - kooky is an understatement.
Rock formations began towering over us as we entered the park. True jawdropping mountains burst from the horizon in every direction. I felt like a wind-up toy car ready to be fired at any one of these trails. Getting itchier by the minute to kick dirt and run up hills.
Two hours before sunset, we pulled into the Zion Canyon Visitor Center, shiny faced and raring to go, as almost everyone else around us was packing up their bags to go home.
Hiking poles, big boots, and more Arc'teryx gear than you could feasibly burn in a barrel overnight was perched in front of us. They sat observing CJ and I like a flock of hungry seagulls, as we flailed around with unearned bravado, attempting to figure out which bus we needed. Our casual gym gear an assault on their finely-tuned gorpcore sensibilities.
Clearly we missed the outfit memo.
Confidently stepping onto the first bus we saw, we made a grave mistake. The bus we actually needed was pulling up in one minute over the bridge crossing in the other direction. Typical. I'd like to blame our sleep deprived, overly dopaminergic, Vegas brains but no, we were simply illiterate.
Barging our way back through the queue for the bus, catching my foot on multiple hiking poles from more seasoned adventurers, we ran across the bridge.
I hated running. In fact, I still hate running.
Stitch ripping through my abdomen, I dragged my feet onto the correct vehicle. The driver reminding us over the crackling intercom that this was one of the last buses up the mountain today.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention this.
We had roughly 90 minutes to get to the trail, hike Scout's Lookout, and get back down for the last bus. A hike that takes an average of 2-3 hours. Remind me, why did we choose this particular sidequest again?
As the bus bounced from side to side I sat watching a piece of chewing gum on the floor, mesmerised. A man stood a few inches away from the minty glob, his foot lifting to balance himself on the uneven valley roads. Each time we went around a corner he readjusted his leg, barely missing a fatal plunge into someone's half chewed piece of plastic.
I don't know why I didn't just tell him.
It became a game of will he or won't he. A gamble if you will. Maybe Vegas still had more of a hold on me than I thought.
Stepping off the bus, the reality of our situation began to sink in. Everyone was coming down off the trail. There was no one going up ahead of us.
Although the trail was largely concrete-d (thanks 'Merica), it didn't make any of the inclines pleasant. Not even the name, "Walter's Wiggles", could provide me with some comic relief in these dark self-inflicted times.
CJ was plowing ahead, I think something in his mind switching back into army bootcamp mode. The man has always surprised me with his unending positive attitude and energy. A stark mirror to the cynicism of my British upbringing, where complaining was the ideal form of communication.
Every so often confused and mildly terrified hikers would pass us in near silence. Uttering a brief, "Hello?" before putting one pole in front of the other to steady their descent. I'd look at them with disgust for even hinting we might not make it, whilst also hiding an increasing sense of inward terror.
Maybe we won't make it.
Climbing higher we entered an open tunnel carved into the side of the cliff. A pure panoramic vista over the entire canyon. The scale of everything was breathtaking. Monumental.
Black and white film loaded in my Olympus OM-10, with an orange filter and polariser on the lens (a little overkill I know), I attempted to channel my inner Ansel Adams.
The last group of hikers we had the misfortune of passing were sat tying their shoelaces preparing for the descent. Three guys in their late 20s head-to-toe in heavy gorpcore. The cutoff zipper trousers, the light almost open-toe trail shoes designed for "breathability", oil slick Oakley sunglasses, and those repulsive little neon sling bags. I had no time or mental bandwidth for this visual assault.
Yet, there we were in Vans, just grinding up the route with a mild hint of pretentiousness, totally out of our depth.
45 minutes remained. We were cutting it close.
I'm shirtless at this point, sweating through all my layers. My chino shorts taking a particularly brutal beating. My brow was covered in salty sweat that is now steaming up the viewfinder on my film camera. Fogging it up every time I attempt to frame a composition.
Approaching the crest of the route, we scrambled over some rocks and fallen trees. Every cloud casting icy cold shadows, turning our hot sweat into a portable cold plunge.
We squat for a moment gazing out over the valley. Laughing at the absurdity of what we'd just done. I shot a couple of celebratory photos to capture the moment.
By this point I'd largely given up on taking "cool" pictures and was just documenting. My hands were shaking from the unrelenting thump in my chest and seeing straight enough to focus the lens was a fool's errand.
The sunset was accelerating. 35 minutes remained.
Taking a leisurely stroll back into the cliffside tunnel, I caught a flash of white and orange between the trees in the valley below.
It was the last bus. The last bus of the day was heading back up the mountain.
We started sprinting.
Our feet sliding out from underneath us, half squat with every step to save time, we pounded the trail descending as quickly as we could.
I should have probably invested in proper hiking shoes. The grip on my Vans had completely worn through from the last few months of adventures. I was feeling every single bump in the trail and slipping on every polished stone.
Sweating profusely we could only focus on the mission. It's get this bus, or walk home - in the dark. And to add insult to injury, we had no idea if the bus would wait at the stop until the scheduled time, or just go on if no one was there.
Tendons on the outside of my knees were on fire, my calves entirely lactic acid. An old injury from a failed attempt at Scafell Pike a couple years prior began to flare up again.
I couldn't shake the feeling we weren't going to make it. That I was the one who was going to hold us back. My Peak District resume coming into question with every near-miss ankle twist from a poorly judged step.
Walter's Wiggles was now my sadistic enemy.
The switchbacks were far more daunting on the way down. Small rocks scattered out from under our feet like schools of fish darting away from a ravenous dolphin. Rolling over the edge and shattering on their way down.
One false move at this pace and we were definitely not riding a bus back to CJ's car.
CJ and I didn't speak until we hit the long straight passage of Refrigerator Canyon.
Concrete sections broke underfoot in the final switchbacks, and some familiar pieces I thought were stable on the way up, decided now would be the best time to dislodge.
As the final section came into view I shouted to CJ.
I'd stopped on a corner, bluntly grinding to a halt. There was a chipmunk perched about 4 feet away from me munching on a seed. I'd never seen one before. Yet it was so close I could practically touch it (and stuff the little critter in my pocket).
Despite my spiritual encounter and newly found connection with an animal 5,000 miles from my home, CJ was less than impressed. The mission clearly on his mind. He smirked and kept diving down the stairs, half-squat and panting.
Crossing the final river bridge, I hopped the knee-high fence and dove into the bathroom. I'd been bursting at the seams for the last 20 minutes. Each step down shaking my insides like a tight water balloon. Whipping my belt open, I pressed my forehead against the wall above the urinal, my whole body leaning forward, and attempted to catch my breath.
Relief briefly passed over my entire body, my shaking hands struggling to adjust my zipper.
"CONNOR THE BUS IS HERE. WE HAVE TO GO NOW!"
CJ was already bolting across the road as the bus pulled into the station. Nearly tripping over the fence I'd so gracefully hopped only moments before, I crashed into the bus as they started to close the doors.
The gentle psst of the door hydraulics closing and the shuttle started to roll its way down the hill.
A Chinese family sat opposite us as we panted like wild dogs. Their young son, who must have only been 12 years old, looked at CJ and I with great confusion. Two loud, shirtless men, sweating all over the plastic seats. His nose wrinkled at the sight (and smell) but he couldn't seem to look away.
I'd also gained a faint orange tan, not from the sun but from canyon dust sticking to the sweat on my chest like hot glue.
Adjusting our shirts back into place, we knew we'd made it.
Having started the day with no plans, sleep deprivation, and a couple of Red Bulls each, we'd conquered one of Zion's most recognised trails in record time.
That night I crashed on an air mattress, recounting the story in my mind. Every rock that almost made me lose my footing, the pristine silence at the top of the lookout, and the way the clouds danced around each of the peaks. The compact basement walls around me a far cry from the pure expanse of wilderness I'd experienced only a couple hours ago.
I want to go back to Zion one day and do it properly.
Knowing full well I will be humbled, once again.
Connor x
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