Which would you rather? To be a little bit happy each and every day or experience the zenith of euphoria one day only to fall into an endless abyss of darkness the following?
I, myself, do not know if I can play this round of the classic game, Which Would You Rather? Yet it has become a question that toys with my emotions and pulls at my thoughts in the wee hours of the morning. I think I tend to naturally fall in the latter category. Fortunately for me, I’ve been enjoying the peaks of happiness here in Utah.
By day two I was snowboarding down the 9500+ foot mountains of Park City, pumping out my calves and laughing when I made a wrong turn and found myself lost, thereby missing my bus. Despite yet another unforgettable experience, I was unprepared for what lay ahead…
Zion National Park is officially my favorite place in the last 23 states, 10k miles, and 3 months that I have been exploring - or as I like to call it, “Vanventuring.”
Zion Day One: All of the campgrounds were full, thus creating a problem for future Megan. Current Megan decided it was time for a hike. Eyore and I waited in what appeared to be a line for a Disney roller coaster but turned out to be only the wait to board the park shuttle. We slid into a two-seater and settled in for the 40 minute drive to The Narrows, an impromptu decision made only 10 minutes into the drive. We walked along the paved trail that paralleled the Virgin River before coming to the mouth of fire colored canyons. Meet The Narrows. Unprepared and without a second thought, I walked into the Virgin River with nothing but shorts, a tank top, and my water-resistant hiking boots – resistant being the operative word.
At 46 degrees, I lost most feeling in my feet in about 5 minutes. The rest of my body followed shortly thereafter as the river rose to my hips and Eyore casually lay in my arms unaware of the sliding rocks and building rapids beneath us. I’m not sure why Zion decided that walking – and swimming – in a river warranted a hike whereas other parks simply call a river a “Caution Swim At Your Own Risk,” but I’m sure glad some lunatic decided to walk chest deep in icy water and call it a stroll. After seeing a waterfall spew off a golden ledge, Eyore and I turned back, deciding he had enough swimming lessons and I had enough of an arm workout for the day.
Back on the shuttle, future Megan contemplated where we would be sleeping for the night. Cue Anthony, one of the nicest people I’ve come across on my journey. After hearing my dilemma, he offered me a registered spot in the parking lot of a nearby hotel. With clean bathrooms and a complimentary apple turnover the next morning, I was ready to hit Zion bright and early.
Day Two: Eyore was to remain with Honey as I attempted to trek one of the most revered hikes in all of the National Parks: Angel’s Landing. I soon discovered why the destination was labeled as such since you may not be able to reach the top of this 1500 foot hike until you are an actual angel. As I sat in the shuttle bus for the second day in a row, I couldn’t help but worry that my Nike sneakers were not going to be doing me any favors. Unfortunately my hiking boots were still water-logged from the previous day’s shenanigans. Seconds before departing the bus, the intercom reminded us that people die from falling off the cliff every year only to be followed by the bus driver cautioning slippery conditions after last night’s thunderstorm (which by the way closed The Narrows, reminding me of the beautiful synchrony that has become my trip).
As my hands told the story of a recovering alcoholic suffering from Delirium Tremens, I took a few deep breaths to manage my nerves and headed up the first of countless switchbacks. I fell into a groove and began enjoying the majestic views and drop-offs that seemed easy enough to avoid so long as I hugged the inside curve of the rock. I made it. I got to the top. Easy peasy lemon squeezy what was all the fuss about? I double checked with a group of women that we were in fact at Angel’s Landing:
Me: This is the top, right?!
Women: Um, no that is. Points to an enormous pointy peak littered with bolted chains
Me: You’re lying.
Me: I have to pee so bad right now.
Getting a kick out of my shock and full bladder, they distracted the hikers below as I told the gentleman in front of me to not look back, and I eagerly found a bush. With one less thing to worry about – because how embarrassing would it be if they found my body soaked with pee – I urged forward. Heaps of sand laughed as my Nikes slipped like they were seeing a banana peel for the first time, and I clutched the chains for dear life. No exaggeration. Behind us was 1000 feet of air and below that, the unforgiving ground.
Me: This can’t be legal.
Me: This can’t be legal.
Me: This would not be legal on the East Coast.
Guy: That’s because the East Coast sucks!
When the chains finally ended, I thought for sure I had made it to the holy landing. But alas, I was told to walk along an edge until I found the chains again. This time, the 1000 foot drop-offs were on either side of us.
Me: This can’t be legal.
I finally surrendered to the fact that I was cheating death and began to pick up the pace. I figured this way if I fell, maybe some people would think I got close enough to the end and tell the newscasters that I fell from Angel’s Landing. It would be a much more romantic article than if I was half way up and tripped on a tree root.
After what seemed like a medieval torture trick, I discovered what all the hype was about and enjoyed my lunch among the soaring birds and audacious chipmunks. At these altitudes, the little buggers fear nothing if it means they can steal some granola. One even kissed my finger in hopes of a benevolent return of goods.
The downwards scramble was less frightening since I knew what to expect, but at that point my legs were so pumped from the hike up that they seemed to be listening to the Harlem Shake while the rest of me put all our confidence into my arms and the chains. As you can see, I lived to tell the tale of Angel’s Landing. Would I do it again? Yes. Would I do it tomorrow? I’m sorry, but Bryce Canyon is calling my name…
