Fitness Files: Hiking with safety in mind

Almost exactly one year ago, Paul and I splashed through The Narrows, a slot canyon in Zion National Park.

We’d rented waterproof booties and staffs, then stopped to recheck the backcountry ranger’s desk for flash floods. A sign read, as it had day before, “Flash Flood Danger: Extremely low.”

The Narrows is a gorge with walls 1,000 feet high on either side, the Virgin River coursing through its floor. My husband was the impetus behind The Narrows hike. “We’ve got to do this,” he said.

I was scared and remained uncertain as we entered the huge cavern, sloshing through the icy Virgin River gushing past my chilled feet.

Surprisingly, the water wimp in me adjusted instantly. The tributary torrent was never more than thigh high. Yes, I needed my broomstick-like staff to avoid being upended, but instead of feeling fright, I felt the rushing current transporting me to my childhood, when I would stomp through puddles in orange rain boots that my mom made me wear.

We trekked inside a magical enclosed space, created by water’s reverberating white noise, the canyon’s filtered light softly illuminating bronze walls. An occasional sword of golden sun pierced through a crevice.

Wading in five miles from the Temple of Sinawava, past Orderville and Wall Street, we found a spot where we could touch both sides of the narrow slot canyon with our fingertips.

Stopped for lunch on a sandbar with a group of young hikers who shared our soggy delight. Ate oranges and local beef jerky and negotiated the rocky river reentry, laughing when we noticed that we were the oldest things out there, the only grandma and grandpa for miles.

About six hours from the time we entered, we emerged, trading our enchanted water kingdom for Zion’s arid landscape.

I resolved to return with family and friends to share the child-like joy of a water walk.

Doubt I’d have any takers this year.

We all saw the newspaper photo of the seven experienced adventure hikers standing in hardhats and wetsuits raring to go. All lost in Zion’s Keyhole Canyon flash flood.

Their group photo is a duplicate snapshot of my Switzerland hiking group, side by side, bundled up on top of Jungfrau, ready to hike down.

I identify with the anticipatory vigor, kinship and constructive anxiety I imagine the Keyhole Canyon hikers felt. And yet, I don’t.

I’m a Walter Mitty of the adventure world. I’ve read climbing books by Goran Krupp, Anatoli Boukreev and John Harlin. Cannot put them down. Admire each writer for cool nerve and the ability to describe a singular experience. I recently squirmed through the documentary “Meru,” praying for the climbers’ survival. I would love to be 20,000 feet up — in my imagination.

My affection for the mountain climbing writers ends in mourning. Boukreev was killed while climbing in 1997. Goren Krupp died climbing in 2002. Harlin’s father fell 4,000 feet to his death in 1966.

So I connected with the seven hikers killed in Keyhole Canyon in September, but I’m not like them. My runners group is not like them, and my hiking group is not like them.

We are tough hikers who keep a powerful pace to elevations of 12,000 feet and back. Several have hiked Whitney at 14,500 feet.

Runners tick off marathons and training runs of 21 miles, 17 miles and a weekly 12 miles. We are hooked on endurance, not physical danger.

I’m not discounting exacting preparation, technical expertise and calm achievement in the face of grave danger. My comparison is never meant to disparage the seven experienced technical hikers whose tragedy still haunts me. And I don’t think they took the same chances as high mountain climbers.

I am saying that their feats had more risk than ours do. Our exploits are performed with a margin of safety. No hardhats, no crampons. We don’t climb down into cavernous spaces, and we don’t go where oxygen canisters are used.

Our rewards come from persisting past comfort, enduring pain, pushing limits, not taking mortal risks for sport.

I’m shelving my wish to ask friends to Zion’s Narrows. Monitored by the rangers, it’s safer than Keyhole Canyon, but fall weather’s been unpredictable. Besides, the exhilaration of The Narrows experience is tainted with sadness this year.