Zion National Park/The Subway - Day 3
The Subway
Zion National Park
The Subway in Zion National Park is a three-part gorgeous affair. The initial approach and the exit boast an intense descent into and, later, exhausting ascent out of the striped canyon. You hike a few miles upstream through boulder gardens and beside shallow pools, along mostly well-beaten trail that suddenly splinters often into smaller trails, looping over boulders and sometimes petering out atop them. No longer a stranger to my rented canyoneering boots, I found myself playing parkour through the crops of rock.
Our party had hikers of varying ability and, apparently, varying desire to spend time together (see my blog entitled “A Character Study” for my heavily-biased appraisals of the rest of our crew). An add-on we met online, Jaclyn, set an awkward tone at the beginning of this hike by popping in her earbuds—both ears, for goodness’ sake—and hiking superfast away from everyone. She didn’t stop when we did to chat or reconvene, and her huffy aloofness and clear desire to hike alone eventually led to us all spreading out on trail, though I spent a good bit of time hanging with the hikers moving more slowly and chatting them up. Her behavior sucked, and I did what I could to make up for it so we could ignore the snooty sanctimony seething from so far ahead of us.
We did catch up all together a few times throughout the hike, though, each time ignoring Jaclyn’s toe-tapping annoyance. At the onset of what I consider the second stage of the Subway saga, we met up for a snack and to wander around admiring the change of scenery.
The main approach is a shallow river of gilded red shale-like waterfalls. Shallow enough, in fact, to walk its ankle-depth almost the entire way. The way the stone lays reminded me of pancakes, layers and layers of them, building in their slow but steady way up toward the slot canyon above.
The thousands of small waterfalls cascading down the pancake-like red shale made every step precarious but satisfying.
I genuinely loved this portion of the hike. The thousands of small waterfalls cascading down the pancake-like red shale made every step precarious but satisfying. I wish we had a picture of my favorite portion, the steepest subsection of this second stage. The rest of our crew took the trail. I couldn’t help myself. I needed to climb this gorgeous stack of red rock. I needed to touch it, be a part of it. I felt the implicit peer pressure pulling at me, but the pull of the falls was stronger. Much stronger. I made the right choice.
The payoff for that short climb is an opening up to the first section that gives the hike its apt name. The walls close steadily in, and the base of them begin to curve out into the telltale striated wormhole shape, carved by wind and water.
Josh’s crazy ass jumped straight into a hole, embracing the freezing cold like the maniac he is sometimes.
The final show ground is a winding, enormous worm hole seemingly hand-painted with gorgeous weathering that continues to wear it smooth over the untold millennia. The waterfall floor is pocked with deep holes of swirling water. Navigating between them becomes increasingly important as the temperature drops the further upstream you go. At least, I thought avoiding those potholes was important. Josh’s crazy ass jumped straight into a hole, embracing the freezing cold like the maniac he is sometimes.
Stage three, the pinnacle of the bottom-up hike, is a deep pool that marks the end of the most spectacularly odd section, after which we would have needed to swim. Seeing this amazing view, it finally made sense why people take the much more strenuous and longer top-down approach. We had planned to rappel and hike it top-down ourselves, but one of our vehicles got stuck in the snow on the way to the trailhead. The hours-long delay made starting the top-down rappel and hike problematic. We knew it could take up to twelve hours to exit the canyon, and once the first rappel rope is pulled down, the commitment is made.
Standing at the little natural bridge, the last place our feet could hold us, we craned our necks to try to see deeper into the slot canyon, but in vain.
Josh’s admonition: “Stop running from the cold, Shanna.”
Our group chose the still tough but hiking-only bottom-up approach, meeting this end and wishing like hell we had gone top-down instead. It is truly beautiful, otherworldly even, and from bottom-up, you can only see the beginning of the winding, colorful wormhole. Standing at the little natural bridge, the last place our feet could hold us, we craned our necks to try to see deeper into the slot canyon, but in vain.
As we hung out at the little ledge, I became increasingly cold and terrified of falling in the water. When Josh suggested we use the ledge to do an acroyoga pose we had not practiced in quite some time, I may have freaked out a little. Or a lot. I gave in, though, but the tension in my body from fear of the cold water is, sadly, clear in the photographs.
We were back in the heat before long, on the way back down canyon. As soon as we reached the sunshine, I had to shed the layers again. There must have been a twenty degree difference between the slot canyon and the open air! Josh and I also stopped for a hug and kiss to celebrate having been in such a fabulously strange place together. Again. I am pretty sure I asked him to pinch me to make sure I was not dreaming.
On the way up canyon, I had totally missed these enormous dinosaur footprints in the rock, but on the way out, I spent probably too long enthralled by them. How I could have missed an entire wall of dinosaur footprints, I don’t know! I am sure it had a bit to do with being so excited about the red shale waterfalls and the wormholes. Dino footprints, though? SO. COOL.
The first impression she set was that of a permit leech. Obviously that sort of mindset is unwelcome in any adventures we go on.
There are not many pictures of the hike back up to the rim. Both Josh and I, separately, decided to show Jaclyn she was not as superior of a hiker as she appeared to believe. I caught up with her and paced her for a long time on the way out, chatting her up all the while. Josh out-hiked us both, all but running down the stream bed then up the incredibly steep terrain. I eventually fell behind in the boulder field, taking those splinter trails and getting stuck atop boulders again. I definitely was not the best at pathfinding there. Still, I reached the rim a minute or so after she did, but Josh had already unpacked his gear and changed clothes by the time reached him, so we both proved our point. Josh later told me that he got the sense, as well, that she was misinterpreting our wanting to enjoy hiking with the others that we had traveled with as some sort of weakness. In his words, “That sort of immature attitude is short-sided because it inhibits group management and brings a selfish negativity to an otherwise beautiful experience. She needed to be put in her place, and in doing so on her own turf, I can only hope she questions her preconceptions about what serves as the underpinning of a good hiking partner. Unfortunately, she was all but that. The first impression she set was that of a permit leech. Obviously that sort of mindset is unwelcome in any adventures we go on.”
She isn’t invited on our hikes anymore, but that is not the biggest takeaway. Not by far. God really has created an awesome world, so diverse and odd and unexpected. How we cannot help but bring our petty dramas into it is as amazing as the glory that beckons us into these wild and remote spaces.
I definitely want to go back, and next time, we’re going top-down.
Joshua Forester loses his pants--literally--before heading up The Subway in Zion National Park.
Shanna Irving is a guest blogger here. She is also a mother, a lover, a teacher, and in all things an adventurer. Her recent adventures have taken her backpacking and hiking throughout the US, and this year will begin her international adventuring with a trip to the glaciers and ice caves of Iceland and to the mountains and plains of South Africa. Writing about it all, too, is an adventure in itself.
The advice to get an early start on Angels Landing is no joke. By the time we worked our way down from the phenomenal views of the painted cliffs and meandering valley, we were facing down a long line of terrified hikers just inches apart and clinging to the chains. They were packed too tightly to move out of the way for people descending, despite the obvious truth that the more people that descend, the fewer people in their way and the less time they’d have to cling to the chains in deadstop traffic. Irony doesn’t affect physics, though, and we were all, those ascending and us on the descent, left with few options…