Zion and Me: Happy at Last

I first visited Zion National Park in 1992. My husband and I went there for our first married vacation. Because we had no money, we camped. We were terrible campers. We borrowed all the equipment, packed it up in Sam’s ancient Mercedes diesel sedan, and drove from our home in Southern California to Utah. We had trouble setting up the tent (thanks for rescuing us, kind neighbors) and ate disgusting freeze-dried food. I got in over my head hiking and cried all the way up the chain path to Angel’s Landing. In short, we had a great time! Why? Because we were young enough to endure discomfort and embarrassment, and to enjoy seeing more of God’s green earth and having fun together.

I arrived at Zion for the second time in my life after 24 years, and found that some things had changed. Park visitors had increased by the thousands. Cars were banned and people had to take a shuttle bus around the park. Infrastructure had improved, and paths and sidewalks widened. There were lots of signs telling you to stay on the trail and stop feeding the animals. The town near Zion, Springdale, increased its tourist business and began renting hiking equipment and increasing hotel and restaurant opportunities. Heavy rains once stranded park lodgers, and the Parks Service had to scramble to rescue them and build new roads. There are other changes that tourists can’t see, such as procedures to deal with noise and water pollution, and wildlife preservation. Then, there are the daily challenges of dealing with nature in a mountainous region: landslides, mudslides, erosion, floods, heavy rains.

​It looked like these upgrades during my second visit to Zion would really cramp my style. No more driving right up to the trailhead. No more feeding squirrels. No more going offroad. Safety conditions improved on Angel’s Landing. Then I realized that I didn’t really want to go offroad, and squirrels are just rats with better tails. The shuttle bus ride was fine because I had packed plenty of lunch, spare shoes, and sunscreen.

Wait a minute. It seems like Zion and I have been doing the same thing over these years: learning to take care of ourselves.

In 1992, Zion let anybody in her gates and hoped they’d take care of their surroundings. Now, to protect herself, Zion has regulated car traffic and put other new regulations in place. She’s not being mean, she’s just trying to make sure there’s enough high-quality Zion to go around.

In 1992, I hiked the Narrows in my swimsuit, wearing plastic K-Mart sandals. I have no recollection of carrying food, water, or sunscreen. We slept in a borrowed tent that flapped all night because we couldn’t tie it down properly. I felt guilty when we ate in a restaurant instead of eating that last freeze-dried dinner. I was a carefree mess.

These days, I carry enough provisions to feed my family plus a couple more. Instead of wearing a swimsuit hiking the Narrows, I wear moisture-wicking shorts and shirt, mesh hiking shoes with wool socks, a hat, and sunscreen with zinc oxide. I packed enough food and water for lunch and a snack, and we ate dinner in a steakhouse after hiking, no guilt.

Granted, I have more money now than when I was a newlywed grad student. That really does help. However, I’ve also learned to work with my body instead of taxing its limits. I’ve learned to anticipate problems and prevent them instead of being surprised by them and having to clean up the mess.

What Zion and I gave up in spontaneity, we gained in experience, confidence, and safety. Now, we can both go the distance and feel triumphant (and pain-free) at the end of the day. We’ve both learned a few things.

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