When my parents said that we would be spending spring break of my eighth-grade year in three national parks — Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon and Zion — what I heard was essentially "the Grand Canyon and blah blah blah."
Little did I know that Zion was going to become my favorite national park of all time. That's because until I got to Zion, I didn't know about Angel's Landing.
Angel's Landing is basically a giant red rock. It reaches 1,500 feet high, not from sea level but from base to summit. In the summer, you need a permit to hike the trail, because it is dangerous to have too many people there at once. The first half of the hike is fine — just a ton of switchbacks — but the second half is so steep and narrow that the park has added chain railings. The chains won't keep you from falling, but they give you something to hold onto when the trail is so narrow that you might fall off, and they provide leverage for pulling yourself up the steepest bits. The entire last quarter of the trail can be described as "the steepest bits."
My whole family did the switchbacks together, but my dad freaked out when he saw the chains and decided he'd just wait for the rest of us to come back down. My sister wanted to try climbing, but she turned back after about five minutes. I was going faster than my mom, so I was the first to reach the large flat area about halfway up the chain section, and I stopped there to wait for my mom to catch up. While I waited, I noticed two things: first, the way forward was across a narrow bridge of land with steep dropoffs on either side, and second, some teenagers were coming back down the trail alone or in pairs, without adults.
I had a feeling that my mom wouldn't want to cross the skinny land bridge up ahead, but part of me wanted to go regardless of whether she came with me. Another part of me was scared stiff at the very thought of doing something like that alone. But I was convinced that my mom would never let me do something so bold, so I asked for permission on the assumption that she'd say no and I'd be able to end stories with " … I totally would have climbed the rest of it by myself, but my mom wouldn't let me."
My mom said yes. She has since told me that she could tell from my reaction that I hadn't really been planning on going. But I wasn't willing to admit that I'd only asked so that I could use her refusal as an excuse for not climbing the rest of the trail. I thanked her, promised I'd be careful, and took off.
What I found as I climbed was something I've seen again since, on other intense hikes, something I call the "fellowship of the trail." Strangers on their way down told me how close I was to the top and what to remember or avoid; fellow upward climbers offered me a hand in the steepest places; and people heading in both directions carefully got out of each other's way so that everyone could get where they were going safely.
For me, the joy of climbing Angel's Landing had nothing to do with the beauty of what I could see from the top. Nor was it even about the bragging rights I knew I'd have once I'd completed the hike. The joy was about using my body, my whole body; about the attention and skill required to put my hands and feet in just the right places so that I could make it to the next rock without falling; about doing something physical in real time that had tangible stakes, stakes measured in safety and physical progress rather than in grades or approval; about the way such tangible stakes can bring out the kindness in people who might otherwise keep to themselves. That's the joy I get from every national park, especially on the steep hikes.
Linnea Peterson of St. Paul is now 20 years old, and has visited 22 national parks with her family. She is a student at Luther College in Decorah, Iowa.
