Angels Landing

Angels Landing

Noel Laflin

6-10-14

When it came time for the last half mile assent, only a few boys rose to join us.  Of those, Brian surprised me.

“Are you sure you’re alright with this, kiddo?” I asked, as I surveyed the steep, narrow trail ahead of us.  It seemed to rise at a crazy rate of an angle.

“Yes,” the boy replied shyly.  “I’m sure.”

“Okay, then,” I said, as I tightened my boot laces and cinched my belt one notch more.  “Let’s do this, friends.”

“Jonathan, why don’t you take the lead.  Neal, how about you follow your boy – I don’t know what’s ahead exactly, but it could be a little scary and you should be there to assist him if needed.”

I turned to young Brian next.

 

“How ‘bout you follow Mr. Parsons and I’ll bring up the rear?”

He nodded and took a very deep breath.  I could see the beads of sweat forming across his furrowed brow.  He nervously wiped his palms across his pant leg as he stared up at the massive chain embedded in the side of the mountain, snaking its way up the trail.  He took a long swig of water from his canteen.

“Tom, I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but thanks for keeping an eye on the rest of the kids.  I appreciate your staying behind here.”

“Well,” the beefy cop replied, “No problem there.  I’ve no love of heights and this is as far as I go.  Besides, we’ve got a pretty good view from here.  Be safe!”

He glanced at Brian and then added, “And, good luck too.”

“Later, guys,” I said to the rest of the troop stretched out, like lazy cats sunning themselves on the red clay earth.  The eight kids and the assistant Scoutmaster had made themselves comfortable on the rocky saddle of this monolith we’d been climbing for the past two hours.  This resting spot on the trail was aptly named Scout Lookout.

I got a few nods, but noticed that no one was looking Brian in the eye.  You could feel a blanket of embarrassment on their part, draped across their collective shoulders.

And, on that note, Jonathan, his father, Brian and I took hold of the chain anchored into the red Utah sandstone and took our final steps to reach Angels Landing.

I had clearly thought that my Scouting days were past, prior to my buddy asking me to be part of this trip to Zion National Park during Easter break of 1998. It seems he wanted to take his small troop of kids to this wondrous valley, but needed a tour guide of sorts as he had never been here.  Through our friendship at work, he had come to know that I had been to a fair number of cool spots in the Southwest, including Zion many times, and thus proposed my being a part of this outing.  I thought, “What the hell,” and soon found myself caravanning a carful of kids and camping gear out to one of my favorite places on Earth.

The small troop from Whittier consisted of Neal, Tom (father of one of the Scouts), and nearly a dozen kids. They were a young group, ranging in ages eleven to thirteen. 

The boys were okay overall, with the exception of one immature flaw in the group’s character: they liked to pick on the ‘fat kid’ named Brian.

That became evident from the moment I watched their interaction together as they set up camp that first day.  The teasing was a little mean-spirited, along with the painful fat jokes directed at Brian.  He was not grossly overweight but any means.  He was not obese.  He was just an eleven-year-old boy who was heavier than the rest of them. If you wanted to say that he’d still retained his ‘baby fat,’ I’d grant you that.  It showed in his rounded face and heavier waistline.  He had just not yet grown into the strong young man that no doubt lurked around the corner of his impending adolescence.

But, he had a sweet disposition and did not know how to fight back with his troop mates.  It just was not in his nature.  Brian spent a lot of time alone or hung around Neal’s son, Jonathan, who did not tease him.  I grew to like those two kids immediately.  I was disappointed with the rest for the moment but figured that something would change their behavior eventually - maturity would be good for starters.

Since I was the appointed tour guide, I spread out a map of Zion on the old picnic table after dinner and by lamp light pointed out the highlights of the park to the assembly that night.  It was decided that we’d take on a real challenge the next day by hiking Angel’s Landing, the giant 1488 foot giant pinnacle that jutted high above the valley floor.  Although I had never done the hike myself, I’d been itching to try it for years.  Another buddy from work had spoken of it over lunch one day, years before, saying that he had to crawl the last quarter mile or so due to vertigo.  He had not realized the narrowness of the trail on the last half mile; neither anticipating the thousand foot drop to one side of him nor the eight hundred foot drop on the other side.  But, he was young and brash at the time and was not about to be shamed by his hiking companions’ taunts.  He said it was the greatest outdoor accomplishment of his life.  Not that he’d ever do it again though, he added.

We had fine weather the next day as we rode the park tram to Zion Lodge, departed for the trail head and stared up at the jutting monolith that we would soon be tackling.  It was an impressive sight.  If there were folks already atop the giant, we could not see them – it was that high up.

We soon found ourselves crossing over the Virgin River, via the old footbridge and were grateful to still be on level ground.  That soon changed, however, as the trail began to edge ever upward, taking us through Refrigerator Canyon and eventually to Walter’s Wiggles, a daunting set of twenty-one steep, zig-zagging switchbacks.  They had been the brainchild of the park’s first superintendent back in 1926 and completed by the young men of the CCC’s in the early 1930’s.  They were monotonously exhausting, step after step.  But, they did the trick as it got us up an otherwise near impossible climb. 

Brian brought up the rear, sweating and stopping frequently to drink from his near-empty canteen.  Catcalls from some of the eager-beavers in the lead were occasionally called down to him.  Brian never responded.  I believe he was too winded to do so.  I traded places with him as we plodded up the remaining dozen switch backs.  I could see that the back of his uniform was soaked with sweat as I followed the boy slowly up the red, dusty steps.

The trail continued ever upward, but was still pleasantly wide.  By the time we reached Scout’s Lookout, the view had become impressive; we had climbed nearly a thousand feet and the river and valley floor below had become smaller and farther away with every step.

And, now it was time to see who was willing to climb that last harrowing half mile. 

“No way!” seemed to be the two words most commonly expressed at that point in the juncture. 

Tom admitted to vertigo.  Eight of the kids were adamant about not wanting to chance it, once they saw what lay ahead. They made themselves comfortable on the sandy landing and dug out their lunches.

That’s where Brian surprised us all by stepping forward to join those of us who were intent on making it to the top. 

And that is, coincidentally enough, when his tormentors could no longer look the boy in the eye.

Now, I’ve got to tell you, that last half mile up a very narrow ledge with sheer thousand foot drop-offs to either side of you will get your attention in no time.  The anchored chain was a god-send as it provided much needed hand-holds where there otherwise would have been none.  I don’t think I would have attempted the challenge without the reassuring metal links firmly attached to the rock.  And, as these thoughts were going through my brain, let me tell you what young Brian was thinking.

“Hey, you doing alright, Brian?” I asked a couple of minutes into the climb.  He had stopped to get another drink and catch his breath.

“I’m okay,” he replied, replacing the cap on his canteen.

 

“Why don’t you think the others wanted to come,” he asked a moment later.

“Because they’re scared,” I replied.

 

“I’m terrified,” he said.

“But, here you are nonetheless,” I said.  “Why’s that?”

“It’s because I am scared,” he answered.  “But, I figured this was the best way to get over it.”  And with that, he took another step forward, clasping the heavy chain for all it was worth.

 

I held on to it pretty tightly myself as I glanced over the side of the trail and saw a tiny ribbon of water far below. It was the Virgin River – the creator of this very valley – having carved it out over span of a million years, now meandering peacefully way below.

“Time is a crazy thing,” I said aloud.

“Why is that,” Brian asked, panting slightly and pausing to catch his breath.

“Well, don’t freak out or anything, but look at the river down there.  It seems so small from this height.  But, it was that very river, with the help of glaciers and wind and a whole lot of time that created this beautiful place.  That river - or something like it long ago, was rushing through this land at the very level where we are now.  And, it just kept cruising along – digging and digging out this valley we see today.  But, it took a really long time …”

“Sort of like us today, huh, Mr. Laflin – taking a really long time to get to the top of this sucker?”

“Yeah, sort of like us, Brian.  We are like the river that ‘could.’

And, with that, we pulled ourselves up the last steps and stood on the flattened top of Angels Landing.  The view was magnificent wherever you turned.  We were nearly 1500 feet above the valley floor.  It was just the four of us.

Neal, Jonathan and I shook hands and whooped for joy.

Brian extended his hand as well.  I took it and then pulled him in close.

With my arm around his shoulder, I whispered in his ear, “Never forget this!”

“How could I?” he replied.

 

With that, we broke out our lunch and took in the view for the next half hour.

Upon our return, we let Brian tell the group that stayed behind just what they had missed. 

He did it very politely, of course.  It was not in his nature to be mean spirited.

The fat jokes permanently ended that day.