Zion National Park is a gorge 800 metres deep in the red sandstone of southwest Utah, and neither of its two famous walks has a trail. One of them is the river. Upstream from the end of the road the Virgin River fills its canyon wall to wall, so you wade, sometimes waist-deep. In the Wall Street stretch the sandstone stands 300 metres sheer and closes to under ten metres apart, and the water stays snowmelt-cold through the hottest part of summer. The other walk is a fin of rock. The built path up Angels Landing ends at a saddle, and the last eight hundred metres follow a bare sandstone spine where you haul yourself along bolted chains with 300 metres of air on both sides. At the top the valley runs both ways from the ledge you are standing on. A visiting minister looked up at that summit in 1916 and decided only an angel could land on it.
The canyon floor is gentler than any of that. The paved Pa'rus Trail follows the river along the bottom, open to bikes and wheelchairs, and it is the easy way to feel small under 600-metre walls. At the Canyon Junction bridge, twenty minutes before sunset, the highest towers hold their orange long after the floor has gone into shade. The Zion–Mount Carmel Highway of 1930 switchbacks up the east wall and bores 1.7 kilometres through the rock, its galleries opening onto sudden windows of red cliff. All this rock is petrified sand, the dunes of one of the biggest deserts the Earth has known. California condors were down to twenty-two birds alive anywhere in 1982; one hatched in a cliff cave here in 2019 and flew that September. The canyon was Mukuntuweap to the Southern Paiute, and the name it goes by now came from a farmer. Isaac Behunin, working the floor in the 1860s, said a man could worship God among these cathedrals as well as in any church built by hand, and called it Zion.