When the Noise Falls Away

Or what hiking reminds me about my own power

I feel the strength all the way from the soles of my feet crunching on the rocky path, up through the back of my legs to my hips. My legs are eager, primed for movement after yesterday’s hike, and grateful to be in motion again after a few long days in the car. Though my breath is laboured, my body feels like a puppet on a string, limbs as light as a feather. I take a moment to appreciate my calves. Once a top contender for my most-hated body part, far too thick and “athletic” for my liking, how helpful they are now in driving me forward. My confidence grows as we speed past people, evidence that what I am feeling is real. I am strong. I’m not imagining this feeling, it is real. Despite the aches and pains and all the mysterious ailments I continue to struggle with, my body is strong. It’s a wonderful feeling.

We’d arrived at Zion Guru in the late afternoon to book our shuttle and rent our gear for the Narrows the following morning, and a shaggy haired guy with a good vibe spotted us and offered his help. He spoke to both of us equally and made eye contact with me as well, rather than directing all his attention to Jamie while I nodded along mutely at his side, something I’ve experienced all too often in similar situations. It’s safe to say I liked this guy immediately. He directed us to sit on a bench at the back of the store and brought us solid wooden walking sticks as tall as our shoulders, and neoprene socks and boots to try on. We asked him for insider tips on the hike, how early in the day we should get started, and what we should expect in terms of time.

“Just based on judgement, I feel like it will take you guys six hours” he said, kneeling down in front of me to place the boots at my feet. “Just based on judgment..” he said again, and shrugged somewhat guiltily, as though to acknowledge that judging books by their covers is wrong but also sometimes expedient. “You both seem fit. I don’t think it’s going to take you that long.” I felt myself sit up a little taller on the wooden bench at these words. How nice to be judged as physically capable. And by this outdoorsy local, no less. This is not how I expect to be seen, especially by men, and it comes as a most pleasant surprise.

“You build stuff?” a guy I worked with in high school asked one day in a tone of pure shock, when I told him I’d spent the weekend helping my dad build a retaining wall in our backyard. “Yea” I’d replied defensively. “Why wouldn’t I?” But I knew it then, felt it in the very moment I heard myself ask. Competence was not the first thing that came to mind when they looked at me. I didn’t need Cory to tell me that.

This guy at Zion Guru is also a refreshing contrast to most interactions I’ve had over the years with guys who work at surf shops. Those too-cool-for-school surfer bros and their polite indifference to my existence, with whom I spend an inordinate amount of mental energy trying to subtly communicate that I am more of an athlete than I might appear. I’ve been surfing for over a decade now, and I’m not half bad. It feels important that they know this about me, which of course they don’t, and of course it doesn’t really matter, but it grates on me all the same.

On that bench at Zion Guru, I decide immediately that it must be my baseball hat, dust streaked legs, and beaten up running shoes that are giving this guy some refreshing new impression of me. Or maybe it’s the black bandana I’m wearing in lieu of a mask. “Must be these athletic calves of mine” I joke to Jamie as we pile our gear into the car afterward. That must have been it.

The morning of our Narrows hike my alarm blared to life at 4:30, and I sat up like a shot, feeling like I’d barely slept. We dressed quickly in the clothes we’d laid out the night before, filled our water bottles, and packed Jamie’s backpack and my hip pack with protein bars and pre-made sandwiches we’d bought at a nearby grocery store and stashed in the mini fridge overnight. We had a 45 minute drive to Springdale, where we planned to grab coffee and breakfast at the local coffee spot before heading to Zion Guru to catch the 7am shuttle into the park. We pulled out of the Super 8 parking lot at 5:15am and rode the winding one lane highway in pitch dark, the desert air shockingly cold in the absence of sunlight.

The sun rose as we finished our breakfast at a picnic table outside of Deep Creek Coffee, hands wrapped tightly around our paper coffee cups for warmth. In the pinkish dawn light, massive shapes suddenly appeared in the sky all around, huge rock formations looming large over the town, invisible only moments before. I love a lazy morning curled up under a blanket with a cup of tea more than almost anything, but there’s something to be said for shivering on a dew soaked bench and watching the desert sky come to life, while rubbing your hands, warmed from a fresh cup of coffee, over your goose-bumped shins.

After we finished eating, we lined up outside Zion Guru with the other hikers, all in our masks or bandanas, doing our best to keep a safe distance. When the white van pulled into the parking lot in front of us, the driver, a man in his mid-60s with white hair and an orange safety vest, checked all our names against the list on his clipboard and ushered us into the van. I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, but it caught me off guard to find the van at full capacity, with four strangers crammed together in the back seat, another woman snuggled up beside me and Jamie on the middle bench, and one last camper riding shotgun beside the mask-less driver. We’re in Trump country now, I realized as we started the 30 minute drive into the park with a van full of strangers from all over the country. Jamie and I shrugged at each other and I cracked the window beside me, tilting my chin up to keep my bandana from sliding down as we wound our way into the park.

Finally, we arrive, and the Narrows are every bit as magical as promised. The hike starts inside a narrow canyon, sheer sandstone walls raising hundreds of feet straight into the sky on either side, with a wide clear river coursing through. I’m not eager to take my first step into the frigid blue water, but we’re here now and there’s no sense delaying it. I step one foot and then the other into the icy water and start slowly picking my way along from one rock to the next. Within a few minutes my feet are wet but not unbearably cold, and my ankles and lower legs are on their way to completely numb. I’m already glad I opted to layer on three shirts this morning for warmth, and I start checking the top of the canyon walls for slivers of sunshine. It will be hours before we get any warmth down here, it being only 8am, but I’m so in awe of my surroundings I don’t focus too much on being cold.

The water is fast moving and deep enough that often we can’t even see where we’re stepping, and I find myself much more dependent on the walking stick than I expected to be. I plant it firmly before each step, then brace with my shoulders and abs as I find a rock to step onto, then take a quick second to make sure it’s stable before I relax my body. When I know I’ve found a safe place to stand, I reach the pole forwards once more, and plant my other foot carefully down.

My ears are filled with the sounds of water rushing over rocks, broken only occasionally by the voices of other hikers echoing off the canyon walls, or the sloshing of my own boots in the deeper patches. Apparently the park is only at 10% of its usual capacity right now, and I can’t say that I mind. It feels like we’re on our own private tour of this pristine landscape. “I can’t believe we’re allowed to do this”, we keep saying to each other during that first hour, as we gape up at the walls around us. There are a few other groups and couples who started the hike at similar times, so we pass by one another here and there, occasionally ending up clumped together during really deep patches while everyone tries to figure out the easiest way through.

A few hours in, I’m starting to shiver, my teeth chattering loudly if I stay still for any length of time. The water has been knee or thigh deep most of the way, but we’ve gone through at least five spots now that were up to my ribcage. My shorts are soaked through and slick against my skin, but I’ve managed to pull my shirts up enough to keep them mostly dry while the icy water surged up my bare torso. My shoulders are tense from the cold and the effort of bracing the walking stick, and my body is aching for sunlight, for warmth. The cold is exhilarating though, and it keeps me present, fully immersed in exactly where I am. There is no world outside of this moment and the thrill of the icy water on my bare skin.

After hour upon hour of nothing but the steady progress of my limbs and the sound of water rushing over rocks, my mind falls away. In its place, a sureness emerges. The wisdom of my body. Place your foot here, and then here. It’s less thought now, pure instinct has taken over my movements. Gone is the carefulness I started with, I just trust. I plant my walking stick firmly ahead of me and trust that my body knows where and how to move. Sometimes I plant my foot on an unstable rock and my ankle wobbles for a moment, but I recover each time and step forward with renewed confidence. I trust the colors I see in the river, the darker shades of blue mean it’s deeper over there, while the lighter aqua shades point to shallower sections, and I follow that guidance without hesitation.

All of a sudden we turn a corner and I can see it, golden sunlight streaming down onto the water only a few hundred feet in front of me. The eagerness in my chest strains against the slowness of my legs in the deep water. “Sun!” I yell, turning back to Jamie, beaming at him like it’s the most magical thing I’ve ever seen. “Look, there’s the sun!” I slosh toward it with renewed energy, and as I step in, the relief is immediate. Warmth pours over my stiff neck and shoulders, and I tilt my face up to soak it all in.

We’ve made it to Big Springs, our turnaround point. Here the canyon widens enough to allow the midday sunlight to drop in, bringing with it small trees and patches of green in the otherwise stark landscape. There are banks on either side of the river with little pebble beaches and massive chunks of rock that have sheared off the walls and come to rest at the floor of the canyon. We find ourselves the perfect rock, a massive rust-coloured boulder, flat topped and tilting slightly down toward the water, and climb on top of it to enjoy our lunch.

Still without thought, I place my tired legs against the sun-warmed stone. Take your shoes off, let your feet dry. It’s less of a thought than a feeling, a command spoken of my body. This is what I want. But Jamie doesn’t take his shoes off, and for a moment I hesitate, hands at my laces, doing that thing I do where I doubt my own instincts and let others decide things for me. A well-worn habit.

It’s probably going to be difficult to get the wet neoprene socks back on afterward, I tell myself, my mind jumping back into action to justify this urge I feel to defer to Jamie. I lie back for a minute, feel the glorious warmth of the sun and the stone against my bare legs while my feet feel like slimy cold prunes in my sodden boots and socks. I sit up and take my boots off, turn them upside down over the edge of the rock, releasing large streams of water onto the ground below. I peel the thick neoprene socks off to find my feet white and shriveled, a clear line mid-ankle where the socks stopped. I bend my knees to place the soles of my feet flat against the warm stone and feel an immediate YES from my body. This is what I want. Then I lie back once more, this time blissfully content, and marvel at how simple it can be.

Halfway up the hike to Angels Landing the following day, I begin to hear myself again. This is what I want, a moment of rest in some shade, a sip of lukewarm water from the bottle I wear strapped to my hips. And then I want to move again, to press onward, higher and higher now above the treetops and rock formations below. “Mind if I pass on your left?” I ask the two older couples in front of us, decked out in white t-shirts and visors that look fit for tennis, moving slowly along with their hiking poles.

“Let them pass, Marty. Let these two pass” one of the women says to the white haired man in front of her. “Oh, a couple of whippersnappers” says the man I can only assume is Marty. “A couple of whippersnappers zooming past, look at them go!” “Thank you” I reply, laughing, tugging my bandana up over my mouth and nose as they move to the side to let us pass. “Well I think if you’re under 30 you should have to run this thing” says the other man, and I beam to myself. He thinks we’re under 30!

I pull my bandana back down to grin at Jamie, and find myself climbing faster now, buoyed by their comments. We round switchback after switchback until finally we arrive at the top. Angels Landing. Well, it’s not quite the top actually. The rock narrows into a thin plateau a few hundred meters up from here, but that’s only accessible via a row of metal chains hammered into the rock along a super narrow stretch. That part’s closed for COVID, and I can’t say that I mind. My stomach does an uneasy flip just looking at it.

Our climb complete, we sit in the sun on a flat rock right at the edge of the cliff and snack on peanut M&Ms and protein bars while we take in the view. We’re so high up the tree tops are like tiny green points, and multiple hawks are swooping and soaring on the air currents around the cliffs below us. There’s a slight vapor in the air from the blazing desert sun evaporating the morning dew, which casts everything below in an even more magical light. We don’t say much except the occasional “wow”, or elbow each other to share an eye roll at the various photoshoots taking place, these influencers in the wild with their wide brimmed felt hats and absurd hiking outfits, all clamoring to catch the perfect picture of themselves, and from what I can tell, completely missing out on the view.

There’s another ledge a 10-minute walk over to our left, so we decide to check that out before making our way back down. I see a large crowd of hikers clumped together (in a socially distanced way, of course) as we approach the edge, all with their cameras and phones trained on something. Making my way through the holes in the crowd, I see a massive black bird perched right on the ledge, its fluffy grey head bent inward, cleaning the feathers on its chest with a vicious looking black beak. The crowd is no more than 20 feet away, but for all I can tell, this bird is completely unfazed by our presence. It has a yellow tracking tag pierced through a part of its wing, so my guess is it’s pretty familiar with humans at this point.

“Do you think it’s a condor?” a voice behind me whispers to her companion as I step forward to get a closer look. “It says here that turkey vultures…” a man to my left starts, reading aloud from his phone to the group as they puzzle over this massive bird in front of us. “That’s not a turkey vulture…” I say loudly, without thinking, cutting him off mid-sentence with my certainty. “Turkey vultures are brown with red heads. That’s not a turkey vulture.” This massive bird in front of us is almost entirely black, with a fuzzy grey head, and is easily twice the size of the turkey vultures I’ve seen in droves along the coast of Northern California, circling for roadkill along the famous Highway 1.

“Where was she a few minutes ago?” says a woman behind me, the pleasure evident in her voice. “She knows”, she says to her husband, with the tone of one winning a debate. “So it must be a condor then. Are those more rare to see?” she asks me. I tell her that I’ve never seen one, not in the US anyway, but that I’ve seen a ton of turkey vultures because those are much more common. “Where are you from?” asks an older man with a Santa Claus beard from another nearby couple, as his wife zooms in on the bird with her camera, clearly delighted to be capturing the famous California Condor at such close range. “We live in California, and I’ve never seen one there”, I tell him. “We’re Canadian though”, I add, as I almost always do, especially lately. He tells us they’re from Wisconsin and instantly I get an image of the two of them driving one of those massive RVs across the country.

We all sit and watch the condor for a while, mesmerized by its size and complete obliviousness to our presence. “He doesn’t even notice us”, someone says. “He seems very comfortable having visitors” says another, and I get that same feeling I get when Jamie assumes every single dog on earth is male. “Maybe it’s a she” I offer, because I just can’t help myself. “Maybe she’s very comfortable with visitors and is quite content to ignore us and go on with her bath.” “You’re right!” says the woman from Wisconsin, seeming genuinely surprised by this possibility. “How sexist of us!” she says, again with the tone of surprise, and it makes me smile.

I marvel at myself as we make our way back down to the desert floor. Sure the comment about the bird being female was classic me, but jumping into the conversation like that and asserting myself as the authority? That was new. And I was right too. Later we’d see signs in the park with pictures of juvenile condors, huge black bodies with fuzzy grey heads, exactly as we’d seen up on that ledge. California Condors are among the rarest birds on earth, with just over 500 left on the planet, a vastly more exciting sight than a turkey vulture.

I imagine how I must have seemed to them, these older women who seemed so pleased with my presence. How unlike me to have walked so confidently into a group of strangers and asserted myself like that. It’s the kind of thing I’ve spent my life watching other women do, feeling some mixture of pride and envy, even a hint of resentment at times. Who does she think she is? Where does she get the confidence to act like that? And most importantly, why don’t I feel that way myself?

I didn’t think I was anyone special. I didn’t think at all. I acted without hesitation, the words out of my mouth long before my mind could get in the way and convince me it’s safer to stay small or follow someone else’s lead.

It’s a lesson I seem to have to learn again and again, but each time it feels more like a remembering. When I am in my body I am confident. When I am fully present in my body, away from my mind’s endless fears and hesitations, I am my most powerful, my most at ease.

I feel that truth in my bones as we make our way back down the steep climb, and taking a deep breath as I gaze over the majestic rocks and wide open sky, I make a promise that this time I’ll remember.

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