Today, I had the pleasure to ride into Zion National Park by bicycle.
A fact that when I woke up and remembered, ignited a fire beneath me. I filled my cooking pot with water from the nearby stream and began boiling some water for breakfast. I quickly broke down camp, poured the now boiling water into a bag full of freeze-dried chili, and stretched while I patiently waited for my breakfast to cool down. It was 0630 and the air was cool. The sun had not yet popped up over the top of the mountains in the distance so the world remained asleep and silent despite the light. After exchaning some texts with friends back home, who chided me for my choice in breakfast food, I devoured my meal and mounted Kona. I ran through the typical start-up protocol that, over the course of this trip, I developed for an efficient morning:
⦁ Helmet on
⦁ Right earbud in
⦁ Cell phone on
⦁ Open saved map
⦁ Tap the three pockets on my jersey, left to right, for: phone, snack, and snack
With a flick of my foot, I was now rolling towards Zion. It was as if I could feel the magnetic pull of it on me. The ride began with an immediate ascent up. The road disappeared around a bend and into a canyon, making it hard to guess for how long I would be gaining altitude. I continued spinning my legs in low gear as I slowly rode up, trusting that the ribbon of pavement would lead me to an outdoor enthusiast's Eden. After the steep incline the road leveled out slightly, making it easier to shift into a lower gear; but I was still gaining altitude and headed towards a plateau in the distance. I hunkered down and patiently spun towards the horizon.
Looking back on the day, I tried to put myself into what I was thinking as I was riding. I tried to remember the texture and color of the emotions that I felt as I was moving. What I realized was that I didn't. Now, this wasn't like my period in Texas where I felt as if the world was in emotional greyscale. This was something that many people call a "flow state." It's a state of utter focus where your brain basically ignores everything else to work on a task and you feel satisfied while working. It's, what I argue, is a form of meditation. Looking back on this day, I realize that this state of meditation had been popping up on my trip. It started after a few days of riding and appearing in progressively larger chunks. I was starting to figure out the conditions in my head that would allow me to relax and work on a project. It was calming.
I continued my ride around the curves of the road, feeling the pull to Zion getting stronger. The hills that were on either side of the road began to grow steeper and steeper, and in the distance I could see the canyon entrance. Between two cliff faces was a hard line in the road where the black pavement ended and red pavement began, and just to the right was the familiar arrowhead logo of the National Park Service. I was crossing into Eden via the East Gate.
The pitch of the road was on a slight downhill, allowing me to stop working and truly enjoy the views.
The road weaved between progressively steeper and more beautiful hills and cliffs. The peaks of these formations were a stark white that lead down to a pink stone at the base. It was a clear sign of the age of the Earth, that the two rocks come from very different times, and those lines show how drastic the changes were over geologic time; to human time, the changes would have been barely noticeable. I rolled silently on a flat part of the canyon that had been eroded by an anciet river that was currently called "Pine Creek." I contined my glide down through Earth's history amazed by the sights. As the canyon tightened around me, the road was forced to cut through a tunnel. Despite the pleasant heat and sun outside, the tunnel--about an eighth of a mile long--was terrifyingly dark and cold. It chilled me to the bone immediately and reminded me how small I really was on my bike. I popped back out the other side where the canyon walls continued to grow taller and steeper, reminding me of some advice I had received from a local about traveling through Zion by bike. He mentioned that heading into Zion from the East required going through two tunnels. The first was safe and easy to ride through, the one I had just appeared out of. The second had been built in the last century so it was a tight squeeze to the point that when RVs rode through the tunnel, they shut down the opposing traffic to let that one vehicle go. He told me that I would have to dismount my bike and hitch a ride through the tunnel on the back of a pickup truck as the tunnel was closed to pedestrians. As the first tunnel disappeared behind me and I remembered this advice, I tried to prepare myself for what the second tunnel would be like as I continued to follow the weaving road curious as to where the valley floor was.
Then, as I turned a corner, I saw the relative location where the next tunnel was. The two opposing sides of the canyon walls had crashed together in the distance ahead. While I couldn't see the road from where I was, I figured that the tunnel was where the two walls would meet. I pushed onwards, the curiousity of finally seeing Zion was like a buzz. I was so eager to see what it would look like in person that I was only more and more dedicated to seeing Zion in its glory. Then, as I turned the corner, I saw a lineup of cars patiently waiting in the road. The tunnel was just up ahead. I hugged the side of the road as I glided past the long line of cars. I pulled up to a parking lot and had a short hike up a trail to an overlook. And the view was beautiful.
At the time of seeing the main body of Zion via the overlook, I thought that the word "spectacular" was an aedequate descriptor. I was thrilled to see Zion and felt satisfied that it really was as beautiful as people had seen. I hiked back down to Kona and began the process of finding a ride through the tunnel. As I began my walk down the row of cars, a woman in an older GMC pickup truck waved me over. Her and her husband asked if I needed a ride and told me to hop in the back. I loaded Kona up in the back of a stranger's truck and patiently waited for the Park Ranger to wave us through. I talked with the wife and husband while also thanking them for the ride. They were ranchers who lived on one side of Zion but had a ranch on the other side. They drove through Zion nearly everyday and took whatever cyclists they could find with them. "We enjoy hearing the stories. Plus it's a beautiful park, we don't mind driving through." They seemed like a couple who was at peace with the world, that they knew their role in existence and were happy to play it. "Alright, here we go" the man announced as he kicked his truck into neutral and let it roll into the maw of the tunnel as the park ranger waved us on. And with a surprising suddenness, me and the truck were enshrouded in darkness as we silently rolled down the tunnel, following the line of tail lights in front of us. Every once in a while a hole was cut into the side of the tunnel that gave us a flash of light. After rolling along in darkness long enough, the end of the tunnel appeared as a white sheet that steadily grew in size. As we got closer and closer I was curious as to what the view would be on the otherside. While I had already seen the canyon, I didn't know what it would like up close and personal. As we traversed through the white sheet I found out.
It was beyond words. I stared in awe at the canyon walls and their beautiful hues cascading down to the valley floor below.
The pickup truck quickly pulled over to the side of the road and the husband and wife wished me luck on the rest of my journey as I pulled Kona off their truck bed. A quick wave and a final thank you and I was once again back on my own. I mounted Kona, pushed off with my foot, and let gravity do the rest of the work. I was now gliding down to the valley floor in a place that felt less as if it formed by natural processes and was instead carved by an artist who knew exactly what people wanted to see. I had the amazing pleasure of drinking in this work of art.
I know I'm gushing about Zion, but I can't help it. It truly is a beautiful place. A place I know Cory would adore.
After my jaw dropping ride to the canyon floor, the realities of life caught up with me. I still had no campsite set up, and I wasn't sure where I would find one. I wasn't about to stealth camp in a National Park or Springdale, the city just outside of the park entrance, where there was really no room to camp. I knew I wouldn't be able to afford a motel in the area but I really, really wanted to take a day off and hike the area. As I turned the corner, beginning to stress about finding a place to sleep, I saw a familiar shape in the distance: an old school bus painted Bloo. As I rolled closer I found my friend's Tony and Ross hanging out, eating a lunch of ramen and beer. At the same time that I waved and called out to them they yelled out and waved for me to come join them and camp out with them for the night. I guess Cory had my back on this one. I rolled into Tony and Ross's campsite after a very short day of riding. It was only two in the afternon and I was already setting up camp, looking forward to wandering in the area. As I set up camp and talked with Tony and Ross before they headed out to explore Springdale, I began to reflect on my mental status so far in the trip.
As far as this trip goes mentally, it is extremely nice to have familiar faces. It has also reminded me what a cranky, up-my-own-ass kind of person I can be at times. I have found myself waving people off as they try to talk to me or coming back with snark remarks to comments. While these are generally inexcusable, I have to remember I'm only human. After 60 miles of headwinds (after already biking several hundred miles solo) and someone said something supremely asinine like "Windy today, huh?" I bet others would also respond with a dead stare. However, Tony and Ross have reminded me the value in just being kind and wholesome because it gets you much further than any amount of smart-ass comments.