day 33—narrowly made it

We woke up torn between two equally iconic hikes: Angel’s Landing or The Narrows?

One tested nerve, the other endurance. One was all heights and exposure, the other a 10-mile cold plunge.

But when I pictured that razor-thin ridge leading up to Angel’s Landing, I also pictured my legs betraying me. They have a history of locking up without warning, and sheer drop-offs on both sides didn’t seem like the best place to test my luck.

The Narrows it was.

We rented waders and specialized boots from Zion Outfitters before setting out for the Virgin River. Choosing the path that didn't need a permit, we trekked upstream from the Temple of Sinawava.

The trail was slick with ice, with large icicles hanging from the walls like frozen daggers. It felt more like entering an ice cave than a desert canyon. Comfortably silent, too. No summer crowds, no chatter, just the sound of our footsteps crunching on the frozen ground.

A few bundled-up hikers passed by, their breath visible in the cold air, their faces looking at our outfits in confusion.

Then, the real hike began.

The river was knee-high in some spots, waist-high in others. Every step was deliberate, testing the riverbed before committing our weight. The current was gentle but insistent, tugging at our legs as if trying to turn us around.

Halfway in, we climbed a massive boulder and stopped for lunch. Squashed peanut butter sandwiches had never tasted so good. Feet dangling over the edge, river rushing below, we basked in the stillness.

Finally, we reached the most famous stretch where the canyon walls squeeze so tightly that the river is the only path forward. Water had carved through stone with both impossible delicacy and undeniable force.

On the way back, we hit a deep section that intrigued Trent.

I paused at the edge, watching as he stepped cautiously into the water with our backpack hoisted above his head. It crept higher. First past his knees, then his waist. I saw the exact moment he realized he had miscalculated.

Instantaneously, water spilled over the top of his waders, filling them like a bathtub. A sharp inhale. A look of shock and commitment. And then, instead of turning back, he went forward, lifting our backpack higher and swimming.

By the time he reached the other side, he stood up, shivering, water cascading off of him in sheets.

“Cold?” I called, already knowing the answer.

“Oh yeah,” he replied through chattering teeth. We still had five miles to go.

He leaned against a rock, going completely inverted in a desperate attempt to drain his waders. Water poured out like a fully opened faucet. Each layer was drenched.

There was no choice but to keep moving.

The return hike was even quieter. The sun sank lower, casting long shadows across the canyon, with ice clinging to the walls and sparkling in the dimming light.

By the time we finished, we had covered 10.5 miles and were utterly exhausted. Zion Brewery, conveniently next to the gear shop, was the only logical next choice.

That first sip of beer after miles of hiking through an ice-cold river hit differently.

“Worth it,” we both smiled, as we clanked our glasses.