“Shall we gather at the river; where bright angel feet have trod… Yes, we’ll gather at the river; the beautiful, beautiful river…” —19th century hymn
Yesterday I decided I was going to hike The Narrows (https://www.canyoneeringusa.com/zion/off-trail/zion-narrows). I’ll wait a minute while you click on that link and see what The Narrows is. So, yeah, I decided to hike 3ish miles in a river up to a slot canyon at the beginning of spring melt in 45 degree water. It’s an iconic hike in Zion, you can’t swing a hiking pole without finding an outfitter willing to rent you the right gear, and I’d never done anything like that before so I thought what the hell. Besides, I can’t get lost on this hike and there’s not enough water to drown in so what could go wrong?
To set the scene I was outfitted in neoprene booties with waterproof hiking boots and special waders designed to keep the water out and my hiking pants nice and dry. I also had a wooden hiking staff to help me navigate the river since, did I mention, most of the hike IS IN THE RIVER.
I knew going into the hike that I would need to be careful of the slick rock and the current. I don’t have the greatest balance in the world and am prone to twisting my ankle. So I knew I would have to take it slow and easy and be mindful and present. After about 15 minutes in the water, it was clear that I really had to watch where I was going. After the first time I crossed to the other side of the river and had to navigate some ripples where the current was stronger, it was definitely clear that I had to pay attention to what I was doing. But I was okay with that. I figured it was a wonderful lesson in being present and mindful. And after a while it felt a bit like a walking meditation. If you are having to be that careful about where you are going, there isn’t much room for thinking about anything else. In fact, that was exactly what I hoped this trip would bring for me. I suck at sitting in meditation so had hoped that hiking would be a sort of walking meditation—a way to clear my mind and be centered.
Entering The Narrows
So my mantra soon became “Slow and steady. Don’t rush. Be present.” Lots of folks passed me, but I’m used to that when I hike. I’m not fast but I’m steady. (Lisa swears that this pretty much describes me in most things.) And I was doing pretty well. I wasn’t slipping. I was managing to figure out how to pick my way up the river. And I was even beginning to “read” the river and discern where the current was faster and slower, where it was safer to cross to the other side or walk down the middle of it, where the rocks were likely to be more uneven, and how to use my staff to anchor myself as I crossed swifter currents without losing my balance. It probably wasn’t the prettiest or most technical of hikes, but I was doing it pretty damn well.
And then I stopped being present. I was getting closer to my destination, “Wall Street,” so I was starting to hurry a bit. The whole hiking in a river thing was losing a bit of its novelty and, let’s be honest, I was getting cocky. So my mind started wandering. At first it was just looking around me and paying more attention to the cliffs. Not that I hadn’t been enjoying the spectacular scenery before, but I had been stopping and enjoying it. Then I started thinking about politics because, well, me. And Super Tuesday. And, again, me self-proclaimed and widely acknowledged political junky. So now I’m not being present; I’m not paying attention; and I am now more concerned at the destination then the journey. And that’s when things went south really fast.
To get through The Narrows you alternate between hiking through the river where you can and then moving to dry land where the water is too deep or swift. At this time of the year, the water stays around your ankles or mid thighs with the occasional waist high water level if you’re short like me. I saw a huge boulder in front of me and didn’t immediately see a dry path around so I figured I should stay in the water. After all, the water was pretty calm at this point with very little current. I used my staff to test the depth and it seemed a little deep but not too bad. And I wasn’t really paying attention because Super Tuesday monkey mind. And then it happened. I stepped down into a deeper hole and that cold 45 degree water flooded into my waders. And I panicked. It’s hard to describe the shock of that cold of water flooding INTO your dry waders and collecting at the cuff of your pants. The shock of the water sent me reeling backwards so now I was trying to not panic, not go completely under, and still keep my head and my camera dry. It probably only lasted ten seconds, but it was one of the longest ten seconds of my life. I finally righted myself, backtracked and found the dry path, and got out and back on the right path chastising myself the entire time for letting my attention wander and not being present.
And then things got really interesting because I had to decide do I press onward to Wall Street and see what I really wanted to see and experience or do I turnaround because I’m now cold and wet and there is always the danger of hypothermia. Plus, trying to hike down the middle of a river is much harder and requires a lot more balance than trying to hike up the middle of a river. And now I have to do it with half a gallon of water filling each leg of the waders, completely soaked hiking pants that are starting to feel like lead, and a coldness that is starting to slowly zap my strength and coordination. I decided to hike the last fifth of a mile into the start of Wall Street and then turned around. Disappointed but pretty sure that this was one of those times where doing the smart thing and giving up was better than pig headedly pressing forward. And, after all, that’s also one of those lessons that I am trying to learn on this trip—when do I barrel forward and when do I recognize my limits and go back.
A glimpse of the start of “Wall Street” before I had to head back lest hypothermia.
For the next hour and half as I picked my way back down the river there was an interesting internal dialogue going on in my head. It alternated between “That was really stupid,” “See, this is what happens when you aren’t mindful; you should remember this and be more present and attentive in your life. This is a wonderful object lesson.,” and “You’re okay. You aren’t in any danger. Yes, you’re cold but you aren’t shivering, you aren’t hypothermic, and your neoprene socks are keeping your toes warm so really, you are okay and can do this.”
I made it out. Cold but with only my dignity damaged. I had a dry clothes in my truck to change into (thank whichever deity of your choice).And most importantly it forced me to be kind and patient with myself. In the past, I think I would have beat myself up over such a dumb mistake. I’m proud that this time although I started to do that, I stopped myself. And now I have a wonderful object lesson on the importance of being mindful and present that I’m pretty sure isn’t going to fade anytime soon. So, let my wet and cold lesson be a warning—don’t daydream about politics when hiking in a river. Actually, more importantly, be present for there are all sorts of real and psychic dangers when we aren’t.
See Van. Van is wet and freezing because he stopped being present. Don’t be like Van.