Armed with a Kodak Instamatic camera and two precious rolls of film, I first experienced Bryce Canyon National Park in 1980, on the back of a horse. I was with my parents and sister on the trip of my short lifetime, three weeks exploring the national parks of the American West. For this suburban Jersey girl, it was a revelation.
So when my folks invited me this year to join them, my nephew Dan and his partner, Michelle, in Bryce Canyon and Zion national parks, I jumped at the chance. I flew into Las Vegas late in the afternoon, and we were on the road the next morning. I’ll tell you what, I sure didn’t remember how long a drive it is. About five hours later, including a lunch break in charming Cedar City, Utah, we pulled into the park on a glorious fall afternoon. We walked through the lodge, a remnant of railroad tourism’s glory days, and out to the hoodoos. Good news: they’re still there, and they’re still stunning.
Into the canyon
Being in the car for most of the day had made me antsy, and I was eager to take a walk. The breeze on the rim was getting colder, so I decided to head down the Navajo Loop Trail, a 1.3-mile down-and-up route. “I’ll be back within an hour,” I said, and joined other visitors heading into the canyon.
The trail winds quickly downward, passing Thor’s Hammer, a famous rock formation that hovers precariously above nearby hoodoos. I went through a small side slot canyon and reached the much-warmer canyon floor. Birds flitted in the trees and the hoodoos gleamed as the sun lowered in the sky.
All too soon, I was heading upward again, through ponderosa pine forest and narrow slots. Switchbacks made the trail easier, and I reached the rim in about 45 minutes. “You really ought to do this trail,” I told Dan and Michelle. “It’s worth it to get down into the canyon. You’ll love it.” Although Dan had been out West as a kid, their busy lives in eastern Pennsylvania do not offer many hiking opportunities. They took off, returning 45 minutes later with huge smiles on their faces. “Welcome to the West,” I grinned back.
Reluctantly, we headed into Panguitch, Utah, a small town about 30 minutes away where we stayed the night. The temperature dropped fast after sundown, and snow was forecast. Yippee! I love cold weather, and hoped we’d see snow on the hoodoos.
Frosted canyon
At breakfast the next morning, we learned that it had snowed overnight but the roads were clear. We decided to go back to the park to see the snowy hoodoos before heading south to Zion.
Like a number of popular national parks, Bryce Canyon has one main road, 18 miles long, with multiple pullouts that lead to overlooks. And like other popular parks, the road is often jammed with cars. Luckily, the park offers a shuttle service. Simply park at the visitor center and hop on a bus (they show up about every 10 minutes) and spend the day enjoying the scenery instead of searching for a parking spot in crowded lots. We opted to use the shuttle because of the snow, figuring it would be easier to get around.
What we hadn’t anticipated was that most of the road would be closed by the storm. Until the Park Service could plow, we were limited to the first three miles. And, low clouds seemed to obscuring much of the view. We rode the shuttle to Inspiration Point, the farthest stop available, and hopped off.
Yes, the clouds were low, but the hoodoos were lower, and easily visible with their dusting of snow.
Memories (cue the Cats soundtrack)
When I first visited Bryce Canyon at the tender age of 12, I barely understood what a national park was, much less their importance in American culture. My mom had spent more than a year making arrangements for the trip, mostly by snail mail since long-distance phone calls were expensive (I know, it’s hard to imagine in this age of unlimited cellular). One of the things she arranged was a horseback ride at Bryce Canyon. At the time, my sister was crazy about horses, in the way that many 10-year-old girls are. I, on the other hand, was a little apprehensive.
“His name’s Peanut Butter,” the cowboy told me. “He’s very gentle.” It’s true, Peanut Butter knew the routine: follow the horse in front, don’t stumble, stay on the trail. However, Peanut Butter seemed to feel he had to stay right behind the lead horse, as in nose-to-butt behind. I held on tight and had a ball, clutching my little Kodak Instamatic camera and carefully choosing my shots.
I distinctly remember my dad trying to temper my expectations about my photographic prowess. “Those probably won’t turn out,” he said. I didn’t care. I had two rolls of film and by golly, I was going to use it. And while some pictures didn’t have the sweeping Western big-country quality I hoped for, others did.
I made an album of my photos when I got home, and many years later carefully peeled those pictures off their non-archival magnetic backing and placed them in a preservation-quality scrapbook. This means that at least some of that vivid Kodak color is still present, including these two shots I took at Bryce.
While the resolution in these 38-year-old photos is pretty primitive, they bring back some of my most treasured memories. Re-visiting Bryce Canyon with my folks these several decades later, I’m so glad to be able to add new memories to the experience.
