Mesmerized by The Raging Current ...

Reading back on some of these entries, it strikes me that there is a peculiarly overt thread of quasi-religious fanaticism running through this travelogue. I suppose this is natural given that Caroline and I are, in some manner of thinking, on a pilgrimage, and no great pilgrimage can be complete without some amount of revelation, suffering, sacrifice, repentance and, potentially, absolution. It strikes me, however, that a true pilgrimage must involve a quest of some sort, a destination if you will, a purpose. I’m not sure whether the destination or the purpose are to be known or unknown at the outset of the journey. I suppose if the destination or purpose were unknown, it would be acceptable and, perhaps, even preferable, because it would allow it to be revealed at some point along the journey.

We are quite aware of our destination, but the purpose of our sojourn on the road still remains mostly esoteric. It would be easy to write it off as merely a vacation, a chance to relax and recharge. And perhaps that’s what it is and no more. But it also is possible that our quest has something to do with getting our noses up off of the grindstone and looking around beyond the horizon and context of our workaday lives and glimpsing a larger picture of Life and Society that exists at the fuzzy edges of our day-to-day realities.

Just outside of Zion on Friday, the sun rose in the chilly morning air, shedding light onto the towering cliffs above and imbuing them with a neon radiance of electric crimson and psychedelic orange. The western peaks glowed like hot pokers thrust into the azure. We had read that the other “Epic” hike in Zion is a trudge to The Narrows, an area where the Virgin River has carved a claustrophobic serpentine passage into the Navajo sandstone at a depth of some 2,000 feet. The hike itself must be done mostly in the stream.

The night before our trek we had rented walking sticks at a local outfitters. The Virgin River was flowing at a relatively modest rate, spewing some sixty cubic feet of emerald water downstream each second. With a water temperature of just 55 degrees and a destination cloaked mostly forever in shadow, Caroline and I began the day with apprehension, wondering whether an early departure was the right thing to do. The specter of hypothermia lurked in those narrow passages, waiting to extend an icy hand to the unprepared and the foolhardy, park literature warned. Moreover, we wondered whether immersing the increasingly serious-looking gash on my leg in nonpurified water for five hours straight was really a wise thing to do. Nevertheless, we began our journey shortly after breakfast.

The air temperature had warmed somewhat by the time the park shuttle arrived at the trail head. We walked smartly along the first mile of hike on dry land on a path along the river’s edge. A robust-looking twenty-something couple vigorously outpaced us early on in the hike. When we reached the water’s edge, however, the youngsters had stopped dead in their tracks. They were engaged in an earnest debate about whether to continue. Caroline and I swiftly marched into the green current. The cold clamped around our feet and ankles like a vice and we grimaced as it tightened. The poor lad looked at me and asked, “how cold?”

“Just horrendously cold,” I grunted.

I placed the walking stick in front of me for stability because my feet could no longer feel the slippery baby-head sized stones that carpeted the river bottom. We left the vigorous couple at the bank. They apparently chose not to continue. About 100 yards upstream, we found ourselves wading chest deep through the frigid waters, which were so cold that Caroline could only let out little gasps when she opened her mouth to speak. The current, though listed at the Visitor Center as mild in comparison to early season flow rates, was deceptively strong, and it took strength and resolve to fight it.

But most unsettling was the hypnotic effect of the water itself. While crossing particularly swift sections, we had to pay careful attention to focusing our gaze below the surface of the water to find secure footing. If you did not maintain this concentration, the eyes would fixate on the surface flow, and soon you would find yourself mesmerized by the water and becoming unsteady and somewhat seasick on your feet. This mental tug-of-war with the water made hiking the four miles against the current even more exhausting.

Hours later, cold, shivering and hopelessly wet, we found ourselves at “Wall Street,” where the cliffs towered two thousand feet above in a passageway that was narrow enough to be touched on either side if Caroline and I linked hands. We had beaten the crowds and beaten the river. The trek back seemed to take half the time. Along the way we met more pilgrims who would look at us with eyes wide with fear and ask, “How much farther?”

“You’re almost there,” we lied.

After our cold baptism in the Virgin River, we made our way to St. George, Utah, the third fastest growing city in the nation and the location of Brigham Young’s Secret Hideout. For those of you who don’t know, Brigham Young was one of the founders of the Church of Jesus Christ-Latter Day Saints (The Mormons). According to some literature, Young particularly enjoyed the Mormon tradition of keeping multiple wives. Later, when the United States government used Bigamy laws as a way to hound the Mormons and emasculate the burgeoning power structure they had built in Utah, Young built a secret hideout at St. George, where he spent the winters in the community’s extremely moderate climate enjoying the offerings of his many wives. And who could blame him?

I have searched this land for a salamander to lick so that I, like those Mormon founders, may become addled and able to find a set of indecipherable golden tablets that will point my way to a fabulous winter home in a real-estate broker’s paradise. But I’ve had no luck so far.

Next stop: Fabulous Las Vegas—where no salamanders are necessary to partake in pleasures of the flesh. See you on down the road.