Everything-but-hiking the Subway in southern Utah

I agreed to “hike” the Subway before really understanding what “hiking” the Subway meant.

A hike, to me, means a vigorous walk on a mountain path, most often to a waterfall or peak, and then back down. The Subway, I assumed, would be similar to the hikes I have done before.

I assumed incorrectly.

The Subway, also known as Left Fork, is a part of Zion National Park in southern Utah just outside of St. George. Zion’s website states, “This is a very strenuous 9.5-mile through-hike that requires rappelling skills, 60 feet of rope, and extensive route finding experience. The route also requires swimming through several deep pools of very cold debris-filled water.”

And I really should have read that description prior to agreeing to do it.

I’ve been to Zion many times. I’ve hiked hikes that are twice as long as the Subway. But I’ve never canyoneered, which I learned, too late, is what the Subway requires.

In the weeks prior to our adventure I started receiving messages in the group chat that raised a few concerns for me internally. Messages indicating that I needed a harness and a rappelling device. And that I should procure a dry bag and neoprene socks. I had no idea what a dry bag was or why neoprene socks might exist. I voiced some of my worries, such as my never having rappelled before and not knowing where to get any of the seemingly required items, but was assured that there were enough experienced rappelers in our group and enough extra gear to safely assist my roped descent and keep my belongings water-free.

It was becoming clear that “hiking” the Subway was going to entail a lot more than just vigorously walking and as the date of our hike grew closer, my belief that I was not qualified to do it grew exponentially. So much so, that I was desperate for a reason to cancel. You know those times when a mild illness would come in handy? Nothing too severe or dangerous, just a cold that wouldn’t interrupt my life too much but would justify not embarking on a strenuous hike. I hoped for that kind of sickness. But it never came. So without any real good excuse for not doing it, I joined the caravan down to Washington County.

I want to be clear that my fear was not for my safety or livelihood. The people with whom I would be canyoneering were experienced and safety-minded. Instead, my fear was for my pride. I do not enjoy doing things that I’m not particularly good at, and I especially do not enjoy doing things that I am not good at in front of other people. This is why I refuse to play pickleball with anyone who looks like they might be good at pickleball and why I only mouth the words during group singing events. I’m afraid I’ll embarrass myself. And having never rappelled before, embarrassing myself on this adventure was nearly guaranteed.

For a brief, glorious minute the day before the “hike” the forecast predicted imminent flash floods. Relief washed over me, as water washes through a canyon in a flash flood, as we discussed alternative plans. “And does that hike require rappelling?” I tried to ask as coolly as possible about each other hike. None of them did so I tried to manifest immediate and heavy rain. But upon investigation, and much to my dismay, we learned that the rain would likely not start until after we had already completed our trek, so long as we started early enough.

So we set our alarms for 5 a.m. 5! A.M.! In the morning! A time I do not enjoy being conscious during. Yet there I was, eyes open at that indecent hour, with no good excuse for not doing the Subway, in the back of the car, wondering what would happen if I threw myself out of a moving vehicle. I ultimately decided it would be more dangerous than rappelling, so remained seated until we reached the trailhead and began the hike.

The first few miles were fun and a little challenging with a steeper decline and more maneuvering around large rocks than I was accustomed to. I slipped a couple of times on especially slick rocks but recovered quick enough to not hold up the group. And I started to wonder if I was competent enough to do the “hike” after all. Until we arrived at the first rappel.

I put on my harness and was confused as to why it didn’t seem to fit correctly. Turns out, it was because I put it on upside down. I should have known this was an omen.

Those with rappelling experience fastened my harness to the rope, and were in the middle of providing instruction on how to safely and slowly reach the ground when I slipped off the launch point and slid down the eight feet of rope not safely or slowly, but miraculously without injury. And luckily, when most of the group was out of view, and I was spare too much humiliation.

Then we hit some pools of deep, cold, standing water which required swimming. Not wading. Swimming. With legs and arms. And a submerged torso. One of the pools required jumping from a boulder between a canyon not much wider than my shoulders to enter. My whole head went under while, unfortunately, my mouth remained open and I swallowed some of the water which is absolutely not cleared for drinking. A few strokes away we spotted what look awfully similar to a tape worm.

After a few more swims and some shivering, we reached the point of the next rappel. This was a significantly bigger drop than the first, and the potential for real injury seemed much greater. “Do you want us to just belay you down?” someone asked as I secured my harness for a second time. They didn’t so much ask as insist, trying, I assume, to prevent another woopsie daisy. I did not know what belay meant, but the tone with which they asked led me to believe belay was a more error-proof form of rock scaling than rappelling, so I quickly replied yes. What I learned a few seconds later was that belaying, in this instance anyway, was simply a way to transport dead weight from the top of a ledge to the ground. Like a dumbwaiter. Emphasis on dumb. After being secured to the rope, I was gently lowered down. At first I tried to use my legs to help the process until I slipped, AGAIN, and became completely useless. I was lowered the rest of the way down with limp, straight legs. I might as well have been a corpse. It was absolute humiliation. In front of the entire group.

It felt very similar to the part of “What About Bob?” when Dr. Leo Marvin’s family ties Bob to the mast of their sailboat and Bob yells, “I’m sailing!” while the Marvin daughter does the actual boat driving. I rappelled like Bob sailed. Like the goat being fed to the T. Rex in “Jurassic Park.”

After everyone rappelled and I flopped down the cliffside, we were through with the swims and through with the rappels and the rest of the hike was just a matter of endurance. Which was my time to shine, I thought. Because I run! Far distances! And endurance is my speciality!

What I failed to comprehend was that the endurance required would be for a nearly vertical scramble up 1,000 feet of rock. No amount of miles run could have prepared me for that intensity and just when I thought I couldn’t hoist myself up on more jagged rock, the path evened out and it was a smooth walk to the parking lot.

I was sufficiently humbled by the last five hours and 10 miles. But I felt so alive.

In part, probably, because so much of the day was filled with breathtaking scenery. The kind of breathtaking scenery only found in our state.

And also because doing the things that scare us and make us worry we’ll embarrass ourselves are usually the things we’re most glad we tried. Because they’re usually pretty great. Sure, I should have tried rappelling at least once before it became a matter of life and death, or maybe just just watched a YouTube video, and sure, I’m worried I swallowed a parasite and have a case of giardia around the corner, but I don’t regret climbing/swimming/everything-but-hiking the Subway even a little. In fact I can’t wait to do it again.

But I am going to practice putting my harness on correctly before I do.