The Eulogy of the Zions Narrows (Sandstone Pajamas and Lessons from Zion’s Old Soul)

Thenkoo, Come Again? (Big Springs. Big Exit.)

Leslie and I stood ankle-deep in the river, staring across the canyon with the kind of intensity you never see in livestock. A cow will gaze blankly at a fence post all afternoon and never blink. We, on the other hand, were fixated with 100 times more purpose. And for good reason: Big Springs lived up to its name.

The branding was accurate, if not inspired. They were, indeed, springs. And yes, they were big.

Desert springs usually resemble a leaky faucet — dripping, maybe trickling if you’re lucky. Big Springs was different. Two waterfalls, each about 20 feet high, each splitting into horsetail strands. Water exploded from the sandstone walls with the force of an uncapped fire hydrant.

The scene was lush — ridiculously lush. Ferns, mosses, grasses, and trees elbowed each other for space, everything in countless shades of green.

Imagine hiking 4.3 miles through stark sandstone canyon walls and then stumbling into what feels like your living room — except your living room is stuffed with jungle foliage and has twin 20-foot waterfalls dumping gallons of water on the carpet, with the overflow running out the front door and down the street. That’s Big Springs.

We were thrilled to be here.

• It was beautiful.

• It was our official “turnaround point” for the bottom-up hike.

• And it was the only source of filterable drinking water in the canyon. With temps over

90°F, our bottles were begging for mercy.

We weren’t alone. Sharing the oasis were:

• A solo older hiker exuding “overfriendly trail buddy who might guilt you into handing over your trail mix” energy.

• A selfie-obsessed couple.

• And three young East Indian hikers who looked like they had lost the map, the plot, or both.

One approached me.“Is this the top?” he asked, his Hindi accent thick and earnest.

“The top is at Chamberlain’s Ranch,” I replied helpfully. “Another twelve miles upriver.”

He tilted his head like a cocker spaniel hearing jazz for the first time. Confusion spread across his face. Clearly, my answer didn’t accurately address his question.

Leslie swooped in to rescue the moment.“This is Big Springs,” she said gently. “It’s the turnaround point.”

“Thenkoo,” he said with a grateful smile, and shuffled back to his friends.

I looked at Leslie. She squinted, her face saying: You’re an idiot, Mike Loveridge.

And then — a cold drop on my nose. At first I thought: wow, that waterfall really has range. But a lazy roll of thunder echoed off the canyon walls and the truth dawned.

Dark clouds had snuck in, hidden from view by the canyon’s vertical walls. Now they loomed directly overhead. Every hiker froze and glanced skyward.

We all knew what that meant. In this stretch of canyon, the Virgin River runs wall-to-wall. With enough rain, it could become a raging chute, and we’d be nothing but flotsam until we could retreat at least two miles downstream past the Orderville Canyon junction, where the canyon opens up a bit and areas of potential safety can be found. That was a solid hour of slogging — more like two in this terrain.

Party over. No panic, but no hesitation. Everyone packed up, snapped their last chipmunk photo, and hustled downcanyon. Posthaste.

So You’re Saying There’s a Chance

Here’s the punch line: no flash flood happened. We all made it out alive. (Sorry if you were hoping for more drama — like me clinging to a log, screaming “Tell Caiya I loved her!” — but this is one of those anticlimactic survival stories.)

Truth is, I’d been thinking about flash floods all day. It started early that morning at the Backcountry Permit Desk, where the ranger told me the danger level was a 2 out of 4.

1.     Not Expected

2.     Possible

3.     Probable

4.     Expected

“Possible,” he said. And then proceeded to pontificate with enough Old Testament thunder to make me second-guess every life choice that had led me to this canyon. By the time I walked out, I felt like “possible” meant: Congratulations, Mike, you are in an adventure movie, only you will be the guy who dies in the first ten minutes.

The problem was, instead of enjoying the canyon as much, I spent the whole hike plagued with worry. Like doing a great hike with a blister.

I’m not usually a worrier. Hell, when my grandma warned my brothers and me about all the ways we could poke an eye out, I never hesitated to shoot them with BB guns — goggles optional. Now here I was, questioning whether walking into the Narrows was an act of bravery or stupidity.

Days later, I started digging into the facts. And here’s what I found:

• 150,000–200,000 people hike the Narrows each year.

• Over 64 years, there have been 7 flash-flood deaths in the Narrows.

  • 1961: Four Boy Scouts and their Scoutmaster.

  • 1998: Two hikers.

That’s it. Seven deaths in only 2 incidents.

So, if you average conservatively at 100,000 hikers a year, that’s 6.4 million hikers over that span. Seven deaths. Statistically, your odds of dying in a Narrows flash flood are about 1 in a million per hike.

Not zero. Not huge. Definitely worthy of caution, but hardly a death sentence.

Which raises the question: does the Narrows get a bad rap? It’s insanely popular, sure. Some say it’s not as narrow or as deep as other slot canyons. Some warn you’ll die in a flood. But where’s the truth? Is it worth the trip? Or not?

I started to wonder: if the Narrows were a person, and we were all gathered at its funeral, what would it want said in its eulogy?

What would it want to be remembered for?

Eulogy of the Zion Narrows

We are here today to celebrate the Zion Narrows. I’ve been chosen to give this eulogy because… well, I’ve hiked it a few times and no one else wanted the assignment.

Paiutes and Pioneers

Long before tourists were stuffing snacks into dry bags and wading up the Virgin River in rented shoes, the Narrows was home turf for the Southern Paiute tribe. For centuries, they hunted, gathered, and farmed along the Virgin River, leaving behind evidence of dwellings, petroglyphs, and trails. They knew the canyon as both a resource and a refuge — but also a place of danger when summer floods roared through.

Fast forward to 1858, when Mormon pioneers moved into the region and settled near the mouth of the canyon, where Springdale sits today. They learned that the local Paiute people called the gorge Mukuntuweap, roughly meaning “straight canyon” or “straight-up land.”

Within a few years, however, the settlers, with Bibles practically in their tool belts, started calling it Zion Canyon. In their scriptures, Zion meant a holy refuge, a promised land, or a community of the faithful. One look at those cathedral-like sandstone walls, and the name stuck like gum under a pew.

In 1919, Zion became a national park, and suddenly this once-remote slot canyon was on the map for good.

Today, the Narrows is one of the most popular hikes in the park — a mix of pilgrimage, adventure, and photo shoot. Thousands wade into it each year, experiencing the same mix of awe and mild terror that has defined the canyon for centuries. It’s a place where geology meets human grit — and where you learn quickly that “the trail” is, in fact, a river.

Most people take 4-8 hours round trip the 4.3 miles (each way) hike to Big Springs and back.

Others hike 16 miles from Chamberlain Ranch at the top all the way to Temple of Sinawava at the bottom. And some of those have permits to spend the night in the canyon at various campsites above Big Springs.

A Jungle Corridor in Sandstone Pajamas

Some folks knock the Narrows for being crowded, for the lurking threat of flash floods, or for forcing you to trudge mile after mile on slippery bowling-ball rocks. Others say it’s not as narrow or as deep as rival slot canyons. Fair. But here’s the thing: the Narrows still stands apart.

Fact: At its tightest squeeze, the canyon is only 20–30 feet wide, with walls soaring up to 1,500 feet. That stretch is called Wall Street. And unlike its New York namesake, this Wall Street is photogenic, free of insider trading, and open to hikers in Tevas.

Fact: In the Narrows, the trail is the river. Ankle-deep, knee-deep, sometimes chest-deep. Sometimes the water runs wall-to-wall with a pushy current. But when it’s 100°F at the visitor center, slogging waist-deep through cold water is basically the ultimate air conditioning and water aerobics combined.

Perspective: The Narrows makes for an interesting hiking guest. Her moods shift with the light. Sometimes she’s quiet browns, in other moments she’s on fire with orange and gold, and then you’ll often catch her reflecting everything upward from a watery mirror. She’s an introvert — you have to listen closely to catch what she’s saying. She’s also an empath, carrying the weight of thousands of hikers’ footsteps and anxieties every day. And she’s an old soul: wise, perceptive, patient, weathering centuries of floods, storms, and tourists with selfie sticks.

Fact: In some stretches on the way to Big Springs, the Narrows masquerades as a rainforest. Tall pines, ferns, moss, cottonwoods, even Douglas firs sprout like they’ve taken a wrong turn from Oregon. Shade traps the moisture, the river keeps everything watered, and suddenly you’re standing in what looks like a jungle wearing sandstone pajamas.

Perspective: Maybe the Narrows deserves most to be remembered for her rocks. The cliff walls, sure, but more so the thousands of smooth, colored stones that pave the clear turquoise water highway like a mosaic — each one unique, together creating a trail spectacle few hikers even notice. But they should.

A Grand Slam Revelation

If the personality quirks of the Narrows aren’t enough to keep you entertained, here’s another truth: this place collects life lessons. It pulls you out of the day-to-day grind and drops you into a watery cathedral where your mind wanders to exotic places — because, frankly, you’re standing in one.

Break from the routine. Learn new things. Build memories.

One of my favorites: during a high-water year, we knew we’d get soaked, so we double-bagged our gear in trash bags. My brother Rick — who grew up surfing in Australia — took one look at his pack, set it on the river, and paddled it like a surfboard downstream. Nothing says “wilderness preparedness” quite like riding your Osprey through a slot canyon.

Another time, my brother Dan had been unusually quiet for miles. Finally, he broke his silence:“Guys, I’ve figured out what I want to be when I grow up… a chef. You know, like at Denny’s.”We nodded in silence, reverent for this revelation. Today he’s a computer tech genius.

So much for the Grand Slam.

And then there was the morning I hiked in early from Campsite 12, beating the crowds with only a headlamp for company. For one magical hour, I had Wall Street to myself. The river hummed over rocks, the canyon walls shifted from shadow to fire with first light, and a raven dive-bombed through on some mysterious mission. It felt like the canyon had invited me to a private showing.

So many memories over the years — absurd, hilarious, sacred. The Narrows always delivers.

Wet Socks and Wisdom

In the end, the Narrows is messy, crowded, occasionally terrifying, and sometimes smells like neoprene boots that should’ve been retired in the late ’90s. But it’s also unforgettable, life-giving, and sneakily wise. Hike it, and you’ll come home with sore legs, wet socks, and at least one story that begins with: “So there I was, waist-deep in a river…” Which, if you ask me, is the perfect epitaph for any canyon.

Because the truth about the Narrows can’t be captured in history, statistics, or even eulogies. You only know it by stepping into that river yourself — one cautious foot on a bowling-ball rock, one laugh shared with a stranger, one glance upward at a thousand feet of sandstone glowing like fire. Do that, and you’ll understand why we keep coming back again and again, to walk a river that feels like both a risk and a refuge.

And maybe you’ll write your own chapter in her eulogy, too.

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