Reflection

Zion NP was always on my bucket list. In my mind it was a place of towering stone, of light and shadow colliding in impossible ways—exactly the kind of landscape that calls to hikers and whispers promises to photographers. I knew that one day I wanted to take it all in with a camera in my hands.

This particular call to adventure came through a laptop screen on a weekly Zoom call—one of those traditions born during the pandemic and stubborn enough to survive it. Somewhere between casual updates and shared laughter, my wife’s oldest sister, weary of Chicago cold and workplace pressure, announced that she needed an escape. She had found a place: Valley of Fire, a state park in southeastern Nevada.

As the family talked, I researched. And there it was—Zion. Mesquite, Nevada, where we’d rent a house, sat almost perfectly between Valley of Fire and Zion National Park. I made my case immediately. Two parks. One trip. And, I argued, far too much beauty to ignore. Landscape photos were my unspoken trump card. The plan was set.

Then came the first threat to our success: time itself. It’s now November 2025. And there is a very real possibility that the government shutdown that was now almost 3 weeks long wouldn’t be resolved before Thanksgiving week. Half the family would be flying. Major airports might be experiencing delays, and airlines cancelling flights. Air traffic controllers weren’t showing up—who would work for free? Not to mention the fact that TSA workers are federal employees as well. Worse still, even if we made it to Nevada, Zion might be closed… National Park and all. The dream was probably going to be remembered as a nightmare… a very bad dream at the least.

At the last minute, the gates reopened. The government resumed business just a week before our departure. Relief washed over us, but fate, it seemed, was merely warming up.

Valley of Fire came first, and it felt like a blessing—a reminder of why we had traveled 1,300 miles from home. Six miles of hiking. Seven hundred photographs plus. Fire-colored stone, petroglyphs and endless sky. It was a triumph, and I should have known that triumph invites new challenges.

The next morning was Zion day.

Or so we thought.

The rental car, arranged online through a company not one of us recognized, tested our patience for three full hours. When our vehicle finally arrived, it came in the form of an apology on wheels. Not the small SUV that we had reserved- a plug-in hybrid Jeep Wrangler. Sleek. Powerful. Four wheel drive! We charged it overnight, watching the battery climb to 99%.

And then it refused to start. Of course it did… it’s got a gas engine and a battery powerful enough to power it. That’s, count ‘em, TWO different ways to power one vehicle.

Calls were made, Google searches run. Panic was the only thing going anywhere. The problem wasn’t the fancy hybrid system—it was the humble 12-volt battery, the weakest link, capable of shutting down the entire machine if it dipped even slightly below full. After a jump start and a half-hour drive to coax life back into it, the Jeep finally relented. We were two hours behind, but moving.

At Zion’s gates, another twist. Thanksgiving Day. Long lines. Then—without explanation—the attendant waved us through. No fee. No delay. A gift, perhaps? Reprieve from the very trials that had tested us all week.

But the trials weren't over. There was nowhere to park.

Lot after lot was full. We drove deeper into the canyon, past trailheads and overlooks, hope thinning with every mile. Nearly an hour passed before we found it—a single open space, two-thirds of the way up, near a restroom (thank goodness) and one of our planned hikes.

We used the facilities and then stepped onto the trail, and everything changed.

For two hours we climbed and wandered through stone cathedrals. Ahead a small herd of Bighorn sheep appeared, completely unbothered by our presence. Light spilled across rocks, cliffs and trees much like I’d dreamed it would. My camera barely rested. Click after click, snap after snap, Zion revealed itself—not all at once, but generously.

The Jeep started again. Whew! We moved higher. Scenic overlooks. Another trail. The sun slipped lower, painting the canyon in gold and shadow. At dusk, near the park entrance, we walked one last easy trail, tired but full.

Three times, disaster had nearly turned us back. Three times, we pushed forward.

Zion didn’t just meet my expectations—it gave me something deeper. High on those trails, surrounded by stone and sky, I found one of my truly happy places. The other, I realized later, is where I sit now—at my desk, telling this story.

I left the park with more than 800 photographs. And seemingly, just as many stories.