BODY & MIND
Queer in the Canyon
Photo Credit: Clark Harding
Zion Adventure Company has this philosophy: Teach people how to teach themselves. They will rent you equipment, but only if you take their introductory course. This is not a gimmick to make money, but rather a safety precaution. See, unlike in other national parks, guided trips are not allowed in Zion. For that reason, if you decide to take the plunge, you have to do it all by yourself: no help—for miles! But as we pulled into headquarters we met an eager cult of canyoneering junkies ready to prepare us.
"Can anyone here define canyoneering?" asked Evan, our instructor. Eliel and I exchanged another glance.
"You're the teacher—why don't you tell us?" I responded snidely. I mean, I was paying a hundred bucks for the course—I sure wasn't going to teach myself. But Evan didn't answer. The uncomfortable silence pressured the rusty cogs of my brain into motion. After years in Los Angeles, I wasn't accustomed to thinking. "OK, fine," I said, finally coming up with something "Um, canyoneering is 'a safe descent into a canyon.' How's that?"
"Good" smiled Evan "I like it."
They reminded me of the ski bums in Colorado. You know, the ones who teach so they can feed their ski fix? In Utah, there's a whole community of canyoneering bums who consider themselves "facilitators of learning" rather than shake-their-fingers-at-you teachers. As a result, everything is addressed as a question. "If you arrive at a conclusion on your own, you're more prone to remember it," explained Lisa, a seasonal employee from Ohio. "Not to mention," she added, "in turn you question each other, which is an excellent safety measure. Once you commit, it can be very empowering." Admittedly, the technique is annoying at first, but for those of us with ADD it's a remarkable tool for staying on task. And be on task you must. The equipment is esoteric, and mal-usage can ultimately result in death. It seems stressful at first, but unlike its closest relatives—rock climbing and spelunking—canyoneering allows you to truly take in the environment. The "safe decent into a canyon" does not always consist of rappelling. The sport is a lively mix of strolling, climbing and often swimming. During a simple "climb down," with my hands pressed to one wall and my feet pressed to the other, I wedged my body horizontally. "Dude! I am so Lucy Liu in Charlie's Angels right now!" I laughed. Everyone took pictures as I attempted to descend.
"Can anyone here define canyoneering?" asked Evan, our instructor. Eliel and I exchanged another glance.
"You're the teacher—why don't you tell us?" I responded snidely. I mean, I was paying a hundred bucks for the course—I sure wasn't going to teach myself. But Evan didn't answer. The uncomfortable silence pressured the rusty cogs of my brain into motion. After years in Los Angeles, I wasn't accustomed to thinking. "OK, fine," I said, finally coming up with something "Um, canyoneering is 'a safe descent into a canyon.' How's that?"
"Good" smiled Evan "I like it."
They reminded me of the ski bums in Colorado. You know, the ones who teach so they can feed their ski fix? In Utah, there's a whole community of canyoneering bums who consider themselves "facilitators of learning" rather than shake-their-fingers-at-you teachers. As a result, everything is addressed as a question. "If you arrive at a conclusion on your own, you're more prone to remember it," explained Lisa, a seasonal employee from Ohio. "Not to mention," she added, "in turn you question each other, which is an excellent safety measure. Once you commit, it can be very empowering." Admittedly, the technique is annoying at first, but for those of us with ADD it's a remarkable tool for staying on task. And be on task you must. The equipment is esoteric, and mal-usage can ultimately result in death. It seems stressful at first, but unlike its closest relatives—rock climbing and spelunking—canyoneering allows you to truly take in the environment. The "safe decent into a canyon" does not always consist of rappelling. The sport is a lively mix of strolling, climbing and often swimming. During a simple "climb down," with my hands pressed to one wall and my feet pressed to the other, I wedged my body horizontally. "Dude! I am so Lucy Liu in Charlie's Angels right now!" I laughed. Everyone took pictures as I attempted to descend.
