Bryce Canyon Trail Ride
July 29th, 2022
My horse’s name—Shine—matches his albino coat and mane. A layer of sweat has already dampened the coarse hairs on his neck, which I stroke from atop his leather saddle as we become acquainted. My life will depend on his sure footing along the steep switchbacks of Bryce Canyon.
“Let’s go!” howls our guide, leading our group forward with Shine and myself in the front, you directly behind me. His voice, along with the whistles and yips of the other groups’ guides, echo against the otherwise quiet wilderness. My stomach drops as I see the sheer drop we must descend, a narrow zig-zagging dirt trail down the side of the cliff. My pinky toes go numb as I lean back and dig my heels into the stirrups, trying to keep my balance as Shine’s hooves clop precariously close to the edge.
Alongside us stand tall evergreens, unfazed by the hot sun that burns my shoulders; though many have been blackened by something else—perhaps a fire. It is not long before my tongue is parched with thirst. Then my breath catches in my throat as the pine trees break away to reveal a vast canyon striped with peach, salmon, and tangerine spanning across the hoodoos, whose eroded spires appear to be frozen in the act of melting. I twist around in my saddle to share an awe-filled smile with you.
We descend into the spindles, gradually transforming what seemed a distant painting into walls that tower over us. At every turn, we discover new castles, monuments, windows, and valleys, all reaching their blood-orange fingertips toward the periwinkle sky. Can we really be just miles from where we started? For I feel as though I’ve been transported to Mars, or into an old Western film. There is no wildlife, save for the occasional bird, and we are the only cause for sound between these eerily silent copper dunes. The horses’ hooves clapping on the dry ground and their neighing echo and then are absorbed by the surreal canyon.
I look behind me to see the line of horses that follow along the switchbacks, tiered as their paths overlap from my perspective. A gap has formed between me and our guide, and he is not slowing down. My riding instincts kick in, nervousness mingled with exhilaration that tingles in my stomach and thighs, as Shine goes into a trot. With one hand, I cling to the horn of the Western saddle that bumps my rear end as I post; in the other is clenched the leather strap of my horse’s reins, which slap against his powerful frame.
We enter a tunnel filled with blinding light, excitedly anticipating what might be on the other side. When my eyes adjust, I am blown away. Thousands of hoodoos poke out from below, unlike any land formation I’ve ever seen. Their marmalade hues are contrasted by stunning storm clouds of watercolor indigo, oddly enticing despite their ominous nature.
My guide’s radio goes off—something about rain, and a question as to how far out we are from the stables. He responds calmly, and we carry on, closer and closer toward the deepening cobalt clouds. A few minutes later, I catch the word “hail” on the intercom. To me only, our guide mutters that we need to pick up the pace. Pointing to the blackened trees scattered around us, he tells me they were not scorched by fire…
The first sudden, deafening peel of thunder reverberates across the hoodoos, shaking the ground beneath me and sending jolts through our fidgeting horses. One behind us rears momentarily on its hinds, screeching and snorting. They don’t like the lightning, our guide tells me as he ties a thick rope to Shine’s bridle to keep him close. My heart rate begins to quicken. Beautiful though they may be, I know we are no match for Mother Nature’s mood swings.
In an instant, the once-distant storm is upon us. The blinding sun has disappeared behind the dim, and buckets of water drench me from head to toe. “Ride like hell!” our guide cries, ushering us forward at top speed. My eyes sting as I vainly attempt to see through the blur of water that’s filled them. I hope you are close behind me, and that your horse hasn’t bucked you off—but there is no way for me to tell without falling off myself. The dry ground has turned into a river of latte-colored mud that sloshes past the horses’ hooves as we climb. Hail joins the rain, painfully pelting my scalp and shoulders. All around us, camera flashes of lightning split the sky, summoning prayers from my lips as I remember the many dead trees along our path.
Finally, it begins to clear. I wipe my eyes and take notice of my drenched shirt clinging to my body, and the squishiness of my soggy socks within my shoes. As the corral comes into view, I breathe a sigh of relief and laugh. I can barely dismount for the pain in my knees. With jello legs, I waddle with you to the truck, where we laugh through uncontrollable shivers. When we with our chattering teeth make it back to the cabin, even a blazing hot shower doesn’t quite bring our body temperatures up. We cuddle under the covers together for warmth, and I decide I’ve had enough near-death experiences for one honeymoon.
