A Mortal Among Seraphim: Hiking Angel's Landing in Zion National Park
July 27th, 2022
We’re in. When you tell me we’ve been one of the few selected, I know I have to do it. There’s no backing down for something easier and safer now; because when you win the lottery, you don’t throw away the money. And we won the lottery to enter Angels Landing in Zion National Park.
The hot desert sun and thin mountain air have made good on their reputations long before we’ve even reached the base of the fin-like formation that juts 1,500 feet out of the canyon. I gasp for breath and wipe sweat from my brow, trying not to think about the sign we pass that warns me not to be the fourteenth fall since 2004.
As we reach the first set of chains bolted into the center of the narrow path, I strap on a pair of fingerless gloves. Ignoring the sheer drop that awaits should my clumsy feet fail me, I take my first steps, following closely behind yours. My toes find purchase in the croissant-like layers of rock, which are spread in waving ribbons of creamy peach-colored stripes. The large blackened silver links slide beneath my protected palms, breaking the dead silence with resonating clinks.
The path before us shrinks into what feels like a balance beam, until there is absolutely nothing to our right or left but open air. When I find the courage to take my eyes off my feet, I see the vast canyon comprised of sandstone boulders in every variety, their sides rough as though carved by a mighty carpenter still in the process of sanding them smooth. Between them, white shuttles like caterpillars inch alongside the turquoise river that slices the valley, bookended by lush green trees that contrast the pale red rocks. All around us along the razorback ridge, bushes, palms, and pines twist impossibly out cracks in the stone.
Hours go by in which my thoughts are not permitted to drift beyond which eroded stone stair to place my foot on next. My arms strain as they hold my weight on the chain—at points the only thing keeping me affixed to the mountain. Whenever the trail widens to a semi-sane breadth, the chains disappear. I cross without an aid, feeling like a toddler learning to walk for the first time; then again like one crawling, as I use my hands to help me mount steps too steep to stand erect upon, squeezing into crevasses barely wider than my feet.
Again and again, you offer me permission to turn back. It’s okay, you assure me, if I am too afraid. After all, I do not belong here: rising above my rank to this lofty peak where the angels come to land—a mortal among seraphim. But we have come too far to leave without the prize of victory.
Towards the top, my water runs dry. You give me yours. Parched under the hot sun, I know you need it for yourself—but not in the way that it comes. Across the canyon, bruised clouds swell ominously over the crest of an adjacent mountain. They grow faster than we climb, and surely faster than we can climb down once we reach the top. Lightning strikes the crest, sending threatening tremors through the air. The thunder peals through the canyon, pounding between peaks and into my chest cavity. The phones of fellow hikers begin to wail with gritted teeth, echoing out of sync with one another from all sides: flood warnings.
My body comprehends it before my mind. We are at the highest peak in the park. If we aren’t struck by lightning, the rain will surely sweep our tiny frames off the edge. Thirteen deaths. Thirteen tourists just like me. Oh, how fear takes hold of the extremities like a puppet on strings! All at once, my hands tremble. My breaths come in short, shivering gasps. My feet halt their ascent, and I am overwhelmed with the desire to cry.
I am panicking.
Your hand finds its way over mine upon the chain. I feel your chest against my back as your voice whispers encouragement in my ear. I try to control my breathing, shake away the buzzing fog about my brain. The clock is ticking. I jump in alarm as the thunder roars again, unfathomably loud, like an angered lion defending its territory. We are going to be devoured.
Fighting all instinct, I force myself forward, one foot at a time. It will do us no good to stand here idly. We must keep moving. The sooner we get to the top, the sooner we can get back down. Multiple times, I believe we’ve made it, only to find there is another height to reach. My breaths come in dry wheezes through salty lips.
When we do finally make it, I find myself on the point of a triangular stretch of gray stone, sloping down on either side into the endless valley. Were my legs not wiggling like Jell-o, I may feel like a bird, peering down from the clear blue heavens at the unending line of kingly mountains with moss-like vegetation at their feet. However, I do not need to linger, nor reach the end of the span. I am satisfied. We take obligatory photos, take in the scene, then promptly turn around.
My panic has passed, but you’re dehydrated and can’t breathe. My hot and sweaty hand tucks inside yours. We make our way down as quickly as possible, keeping one eye on the approaching rain clouds. From the base of the mountain, however, the storm tells a much different story. The halls of Zion are shrouded in a motherly mist. Rain drops once dreaded are sweet kisses upon my burning shoulders, and bring new life to the gorge, nourishing the trees and tickling the river. I hear birds chirping amid the violent growls of thunder, and smell the sweet nectar of petrichor.
We are safe below the peaks, and I am no longer afraid. You begin to breathe easier as we descend the switchbacks into the valley we once peered down at from Angel’s Landing. A beam of light pierces past the sheer cliff above me, promising rest. It strikes the rough edges of haze-cloaked giants, painting their moistened surfaces deceptively white, like snow.
My ears pop. When we hear the river, we know we’re close to the end. Trailing my hands along patches of golden wheat beside the wet, sandy trail, I find myself grinning. The stinging in my toes and creaking in my joints will soon find repose! As we turn the corner and cross the bridge over the ravine to the shuttle bus, I give praise to the God for whom this paradise was named. We survived Angels Landing.
