Then came Walter's Wiggles.

Then came Walter's Wiggles.

If you don't know about Walter's Wiggles, they are 21 stone switchbacks carved into a steep wall, named after Zion's first superintendent, who engineered them back in the 1920s. They are relentless. They are also genius, twenty-one tight zigzags that gain a ton of elevation in a short distance. Somewhere around switchback fourteen my calves started filing a formal complaint. But one of my friends kept saying, "Just the next one. Just this one." And we got up it, one wiggle at a time.

At the top of the Wiggles is Scout Lookout, and this is the spot where a lot of people stop. You can hike this far without a permit, and honestly, the view from Scout Lookout is incredible. Canyon stretching in every direction. Virgin River glinting below. If the chains aren't for you, this is a beautiful place to turn around, eat your snacks, and call it a win. There is nothing wrong with a woman who knows her limits.

But we had permits in our pockets. So we kept going.

And the chains. Oh, the chains.

I have done a lot of hard things in my life. Backpacking trips with my girlfriends. Havasupai Falls. Mountain biking trails that had no business being attempted by a grandma. But the chains on Angels Landing are their own animal. It's a half mile of narrow, exposed sandstone spine with thousand-foot drops on both sides, and heavy chains bolted into the rock to hold onto. You go slow. You let people pass at the wide spots. You breathe. And you pray, a little. I did, anyway.

I'm not going to tell you I wasn't scared. I was. There's a section where the ridge narrows to about the width of a sidewalk, with nothing on either side but sky, and I had to talk to myself out loud to keep moving. But here's what I learned on that ridge: I am braver than I think I am. So are you. The fear doesn't disappear. You just walk through it anyway, one chain at a time, with good women behind and in front of you.

I'm not going to tell you I wasn't scared. I was. There's a section where the ridge narrows to about the width of a sidewalk, with nothing on either side but sky, and I had to talk to myself out loud to keep moving. But here's what I learned on that ridge: I am braver than I think I am. So are you. The fear doesn't disappear. You just walk through it anyway, one chain at a time, with good women behind and in front of you.

When we reached the summit, I sat down on that warm rock and cried a little. Not because it was hard, although it was. Because it was beautiful in a way that's hard to put words to. Zion Canyon was spread out below us in every direction. Green and gold and red. The Virgin River a thin silver ribbon. The whole place felt bigger and older and more holy than

 anything I know how to describe. I sat up there for a long time. I thanked God for legs that still carry me up mountains, for friends who will drive hours to do crazy things with me, and for a world that still has places like this in it.