Michelle and I stumbled into the world of canyoneering a couple years ago on a trip through Utah’s National Parks. We’d borrowed a rope, practiced some techniques at the local crag, then dropped over the edge into Zion’s Spry Canyon. The experience was totally unforgettable. The canyons inspired wonder, offered endless challenges, and rewarded us with some of the most uniquely beautiful scenery we’d ever seen. Their technical nature made them feel exclusive, the privacy and quietude welcome after the crowds in the valley. At the heart of the experience though, was the newness and exhilaration of trusting to the systems that made it all possible. Earlier this summer we returned to Zion in search of some of that same magic.
I’m writing this trip report because of how much our experience evolved. At some point during the last few years of climbing, regrettably, the thrill of being on a rope must have worn off some. Rappels were fun no doubt, but often felt like more of a chore than a highlight. By the time we reached Birch on Saturday, the technical aspects of that canyon felt, well, casual. It failed to define the experience as it had before. It certainly didn’t register emotionally the way Spry had. As a whole, the trip failed to be as progressive as many of our other ventures. And It’s taken a while to make peace with that, since the rewards of this trip were so much more subtle.
The in-canyon problem solving has always been one the most satisfying parts of the adventure to me. Because of the simplicity of the canyons we’d selected and our familiarity (rehearsal even) of the technical aspects, few rappels qualified as “problems.” Instead, the focus shifted almost entirely to other technical aspects like sequencing, efficiency, meat anchoring (my new favorite technique), and, the mother of them all - downclimbing. A couple years ago, I dreaded downclimbing sections; this trip I relished them.
One of the real standouts was Fat Man’s Misery. Rachel Behmer joined us and we made a day of it ( a long day of it!). The narrow sections were nearly full, and it seemed like there was an obstacle around every bend. We pressed through with some teamwork, a little bravery, and myself as meat anchor for whenever the bravery ran out. The sun would disappear, the pools would deepen, and the familiar subterranean chill would set in. But around the next corner would be hint of sunlight that would grow wider and more insistent as the canyon walls fell back. And that would repeat, over and over through the most beautiful little slots - It was great! Just when the downclimbs were beginning to get more serious (the pothole section), the canyon offered escape and easy bypass.
The last section of narrows was truly unforgettable. A long, deep wade through a very special chamber of arches and light. Whatever sunlight found its way in became trapped as it bounced and reflected endlessly from water, to ceiling, to walls, until the whole place almost seemed to hum with it. It was so cold that we rushed through and didn’t get a single photo, but I don’t need one to remember it. We kept slithering from pool to pool, until I dropped into one that felt like a warm bath. A dozen frogs were gathered there and thin wisps of sulphurous vapor rose from the surface. Below the springs the canyon flora changed too, favoring the strange blue and pink algaes that could handle the new chemical environment. Really magical down there at the junction with the Barracks.
Shivering through Pine Creek on Monday was the low point for us both. We were each suited up, but gosh that little canyon gets cold. After Michelle made the first full swim, the mission became startlingly clear - we would get out of the water and into the open as soon as possible. No time for pictures, no time for fun, no time to linger or savor. It was strange to recognize places we’d easily walked through as we swam over them now. We moved quickly and with urgency until we reached the sun for some lunch. It was a good exercise to race downcanyon with numb hands and brains, but we had so much more fun on the last two rappels in the sun. I’m not sure if an hour spent racing hypothermia constitutes a rest day or not.
The next day we were both adamant that it hadn’t. Everything hurt and we were happy to shuffle our itinerary around some more. We packed up our BLM camp, and joined the long line of other earlybirds trying to get a spot in the park’s South Campground. We made coffee and had leisurely breakfast out the side of the car, but still hadn’t budged in line. I set up a mock belay station on the trunk and we talked through some multi-pitch techniques in preparation for the afternoon. If breakfast hadn’t been a spectacle, I’m sure that breaking out the ropes and harnesses was. Eventually we got a spot. We slapped together some sandwiches then headed up the tunnel towards our first summit, Aires Butte.
The route is known as “Led by Sheep.” It’s about 800 feet of less-than-vertical slickrock, most of it barely fifth class, but with the occasional blank section that climbs at 5.6 - 5.7 friction. These cruxes are protected by bolts, but that’s about the extent of protection available on the smooth rock. 4 pitches, bolted belays, 3-4 bolts per pitch. This one had been on my mind for while, that last detail giving me fits. I was nervous wreck on the way up. Imagining sandbagged 5.7 slab moves above horrendous runouts was making me sick. Having not yet laid eyes on the climb, my imagination made due with the subjects at hand - namely the spectacular, sheer walls of the East Temple. No longer beautiful, the valley’s big walls felt fearsome and threatening as I imagined taking that fall from each of them. Neither of us were in a good place.
Despite our state on the approach, the afternoon turned out to be such a highlight and marked a huge step forward for Michelle. A cold wind was whipping up when I started up the first pitch, but we were each psyched and went for it. The climbing was secure and I felt silly for all the scardiness I’d felt in the car. I brought Michelle up and, without hesitation, she took the lead. The first 30’ of her pitch was probably some of the headiest, but she held it together even amidst the swirling wind, sand, and raindrops. By the time I’d gotten to the top of P2 the weather was really nasty. It was colder and much windier, but the sky didn’t look terribly threatening either. We talked it over and pressed on, swapping leads to the top. On the summit we found the register and little place out of the wind to sit down with it. Very cool to read how different the experience had been for other parties. We signed, took the necessary selfies and panos, then started the double raps back down to the car. Great day of “up-climbing”, as I caught myself saying later that evening.
Still psyched on summiting and lacking a canyon permit for next day, we started up the old trail to Lady Mountain. From the valley floor it’s utterly inconceivable that such a steep peak can be climbed with so few technical challenges (hats off to the early trail engineers!). Nerves were pretty high as we started the first chimney. Our last scramble in the Rockies had involved a dangerously shifty boulder field that really did some work on Michelle. Gradually though, the rock quality and Moki steps won her over and scrambling was fun again. The trail was not difficult to follow: well worn and sandy on the benches, deep Moki steps up the exposed spots, and painted arrows or cairns where the trail changed direction. We roped up for the two technical pitches and I set a couple nuts because wasn’t about to carry them all the way to the summit in my pack. The technical climbing was far from special, but an appreciation of “trad hiking” did begin to grow on me.
The summit was terrific, with sweeping views both up and down canyon and the famous view dial to help name it all. It’s amazing how a simple matter of perspective can change everything. Up there it was just us, the canyon wrens, and views you’d want, but never get from a picture post card. Down below was the usual hustle - only half a mile below, but a world away. We took in a as much as we could before pointing our boots downhill. Michelle was apprehensive about a couple exposed sections, but I’d lead and she’d follow closely enough that I’d obscure most the empty space. We rappelled the two technical sections, and though I’d promised a rope for a couple of other spots we never used it. A great outing that I would heartily recommend.
On Thursday we hiked the West Rim Trail, then over the pass to the first rappel of Behunin Canyon. We were apprehensive about the weather and had been paying close attention to the dark skies and to any increase to the morning’s gentle rain. We were waiting for things to improve when a tremendous clap of thunder shook the canyon. Hail and big fat raindrops began pelting the the rock. We dashed for cover, but got thoroughly soaked in the process. Soon water was pouring down the slickrock runnels and waterfalling onto our heads. Disheartened, wet, and chilly, we bushwacked and climbed our way back out to the pass. I was grateful that we’d spent the last few days on steep slickrock and had gained our slab feet. A couple moves were tenuous, wet, and high above the canyon floor. Michelle’s mantra “I am a slab queen, I am a slab queen” seemed to work, because more than once she dashed past the place where I’d frozen, too scared to move forward, unable to retreat back. It got better though and by the time we reached the final slabs, even the wet rock felt secure enough to enjoy the exposure climbing out. The canyon looked beautiful its stormy grey palette of colors, but smelly fleeces and defeat soured the long hike back down.
We limped into the showers the next morning. Feet hurt, quads hurt, pride hurt worse. We used be athletes, I thought. I picked up some 3.2 and we headed for the hammock with the book we’d been reading out-loud all across the plains. We would not be shivering through Echo Canyon today. This would be a real rest day: espresso at the cafes, Springdale souvenir shops, afternoon siestas, and visitor center video courses. We got out to the emerald pools in the evening, but it almost too crowded to think about much else. We began to realize just how spoiled we’d been so far.
Saturday morning we were up early and on the North Fork road for the sunrise. It was a good 10 degrees colder up there and it took a while to warm up as we dropped into Birch Canyon. I found it really strange to hike through the shallow uglies of Birch knowing such a spectacular system of canyons was just around the bend. Before the first sections of orange sandstone I couldn’t have told you we were in Zion. Definitely not Missouri, but not Zion either. Michelle braved her first fiddlestick rappel and we were on our way down.
Birch was a funny experience for me. I loved pale colors of the rock and the smooth scalloped cuts, but desperately missed the obstacles. Canyoneers love to say how our sport isn’t just rappelling, but Birch really was just rappelling! There was nothing to discuss, nothing to deliberate, no question about how to best proceed. I didn’t realize that those elements meant so much to me until we reached Orderville without them. Oh well, our day was just beginning. We turned downstream and headed for the the river.
Orderville began as a slog under relentless sun, but soon enough the canyon narrowed and the water turned on, creating the most magical playground. We suited up and played through the drops for the next few hours. The walls soared, the water bubbled and frothed, there was something fun around every corner: balance beams, water chutes, chilly swimming holes, slippery portages, you name it. The perfect narrows experience, we realized, once we reached the Virgin River and the Memorial Day crowds.
Sunday we’d spend on the road but not before one last hurrah - Keyhole! I absolutely loved this canyon. Being unencumbered by packs and logistical worries allowed us the freedom to wholly experience the place we were moving through. What a pretty little canyon, too! Such great striations and narrow, curvy walls. Cold water, favorable stemming, some exciting wetsuit friction on the downclimbs, just great. All the magic without any of the hard work.
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