It seems as if my list of fears morph in conjunction with my life stages. As a young mother I was afraid of things like choking, SIDS, and kidnapping. Other fears have been constant and fairly irrational; high among them being mauled by a mountain lion, and plane crashes. But my urge to have children, climb mountains, and travel broadly always outweighs my fears. Most recently I developed a fear of heights. In June of 2006 I climbed Mt. Shasta. The snow covered mountain required crampons, an ice pick and a 2am start to reach the 14,180’ summit by daylight. Halfway up Avalanche Gulch, a steep incline that involved a series of switchbacks on packed snow, I began to feel queasy. I glanced down to the thousand foot drop below and my knees buckled. I stopped my group and suggested we tether together with rope and carabineers – an option our guide had offered in our training should anyone experience vertigo. In less than ten minutes we heard the cries from climbers above that a loose rock from the summit was falling. Falling rocks are a common mountain climbing risk. “RUN!” our guide yelled. Tethered together wearing 30lb packs and crampons we ran forward along the side of the mountain. The rock was bouncing down and as I forged ahead I sensed it was aiming straight for me. The whole thing played out in slow motion – our running, the bouncing rock from hundreds of feet above, and finally, hearing the crack of the rock hitting my boot. I went horizontal in the air, my legs taken out and I heard our guide yell: “Belay!” Their ice picks dug into the mountain and as I landed hard on the snow I slid only the distance of the rope between me and the climber next to me. I dangled at 13,000’ at the mercy of my friends. The tethered rope saved my life. And because the rock hit the hard shell of my climbing boots, I didn’t break any bones. Pure luck.

I was reminded of that story last week when I went to Zion National Park. Zion is nestled in southern Utah and is part of the Colorado Plateau that includes Bryce and the Grand Canyon. It is a geological wonderland. Like rings on a tree stump, Zion’s geological landscape reveals a historical map that traces back as far as when dinosaurs roamed the region.

Zion began as a flat surface but over time sand and rocks from the nearby Rockies eroded and were carried into the basin by rivers and streams. The weight of these sedimentary layers sank the basin, while the top layer remained at sea level. Over the millions of years this occurred, ten thousand feet of sediment and geological material accumulated across enormous sand dunes. While the earth’s crust was uplifting, forceful rivers carrying iron minerals flowed between the gathered sediment and cemented them into rock layers creating the diverse array of colors and thickness that defines Zion today. Years of erosion and the force of water carved out Zion’s signature arches, narrow canyons and red cliffs of layered sandstone. Zion’s Virgin River runs through the center of the canyon and with little soil to absorb water flash floods are commonplace. It’s the force of these floods (9000 cubic feet of water per second) that continue to deepen the canyon resulting in a perpetually changing landscape.

Arriving in Zion I immediately sensed the presence of something much larger than the place itself. As I stood at the base of the canyon looking up I pondered how a particular layer of rock could reflect an era of time I only fathomed from books. But here it was, the actual rock layer of the Jurassic Period. And there above, the top layer of sandstone at 2000’ representing the sheer sliver of time humans have been on earth. Zion reminds us of the certainty of impermanence.

Zion’s colors are transcendent. Sheer cliffs of wavy crimson, rusty orange, salmon pinks, and dusty whites flank the canyon’s grassy valley. In November the aspens flicker yellow along the banks of the Virgin River and the dried grass turns oatmeal. The beauty is astounding. Standing amidst all the vastness I felt very small, but deeply connected and remembered something I recently read: "We all want to be associated with something greater and more beautiful than ourselves, and nature is the ultimate."

On my first day in Zion I set out to climb the infamous Angels Landing. I take note of the iconic warning sign with a triangular mountain outline, rock rubble and a climber falling in mid-air. (Since 2006 five people have died from falls off Angels Landing.) I begin the five-mile hike with an ascent along the river peppered with cottonwoods, pines and junipers toward a steady and steep set of switchbacks on the West Rim Trail. With the path carved out of the mountain my vertigo periodically begins to rear. I stay away from the edge as I zigzag my way back and forth for two miles along this steep grade of exposed trail. Refrigerator Canyon leads me a mile back into a shady canyon toward the the next set of switchbacks, Squiggle Wiggles – a series of twenty-one steep zigzags that end at Scout Lookout, the final destination for those not willing to climb the razor’s edge of the fin. It is here where I take stock on whether or not to brave this last half mile climb along an isthmus with sheer drops of up to 1400’ on either side. I contemplate the warning sign again: “People have fallen to their death on this trail.” I’ve come this far and while my anxiety is mounting, I feel compelled to continue up the exposed ridge. Every step feels precarious as I worry about my balance or tripping. I cling to the steel rope that is periodically fastened along the trail. There is a steady stream of hikers in both directions and as we navigate passing with only the one chain to cling to I feel my heart racing. My son reassures me to keep going, go slow and hold on. I do not look down once. I focus only on the step in front of me, each one carefully made.

As soon as I reach the end of Angels Landing I am reminded why I chose to forsake my fear once again. The panoramic view of the canyon extends in all directions and the refracted light of the sun off the red sandstone sparkles on the river below. I sit perched on the edge of the cliff and take my place among the landscape.