The Fear of Falling Rocks

From my base airbnb in Kanab, Utah, I entered Zion via the eastern portal. What this meant in practice is a harrowing drive through moderately icy defiles and a long, winding tunnel of darkness and nerves. I came back a couple days later for a second round.

Actually, I came back because I hadn’t realized the first time that you needed to reserve shuttle tickets in advance to really see Zion, so I had to postpone the sightseeing. By the end of the week, I had made the drive back from Hurricane to Kanab at least three times (it’s not short).

So, while I was waiting to see Zion’s main valley, I went to Kolob. Not the planet, the canyon - although it certainly looks extraterrestrial, with ziggurats of rusty stone looming at impossible angles over canyons plunged in gloom. While there I walked a couple of miles along a frozen creek, which the trail crossed innumerable times. Each ford was a bet that the ice - carved and knitted into writhing fibers - would hold firm underfoot. I turned back a little while past an old settler cabin, because I could look up and see the boulders perched loosely hundreds of feet directly above me, ready to fall - now or in a hundred years or so.

The next day I made my way up the narrow canyon of the Virgin River, avoiding the toxic water full of cyanobacteria. This meant sticking to the trail that hugged the cliff base, so once again I was confronted with the fear of falling rocks. Water dripped from overhanging ledges, and icicles clung to concavities, reminding me of the forces of winter prying away at the rock, all while thousands of tourists constantly cycled by below, many with small children in tow. It’s an interesting calculation in probability the National Park Service has made, or maybe we all make it for ourselves. I spent the whole time thinking, what happens if today the face detaches and the rocks fall?

Still, it was incredibly beautiful to visit the canyon in winter, with snow filtering down between the walls.