Chasing Ephemeral Waterfalls
A Photo Essay of Vanlife in Zion National Park
The canyon smelled of wet earth and cold stone as we clicked our helmets shut. A misty November rain began to fall, frosting the cliffs in silver.
Do you still wanna go? Zach asked.
We’d spent more of the morning than anticipated at River Rock Roasting Co., just outside Zion National Park. This café boasts some of the best views in the region, overlooking an immense canyon framed by sheer cliffs, red sandstone, green junipers, and dark cobalt slabs. Here, we sheltered, waiting out the first rains of autumn as they thudded down in cyclical patterns. We watched waterfalls spring to life across the canyon where, moments before, all had been dry and dusty. What started as a trickle down the cliffside quickly gained force, becoming a torrential stream racing toward the muddy banks below.
As the rain eased, the waterfalls slowed and disappeared without a trace.
This cycle repeated twice more as I sipped my decaf Americano, immersing myself in The Passage by Justin Cronin, a post-apocalyptic vampire trilogy. A friend had recommended it years ago, and it had sat on my shelf for over eight years. I didn’t realize it was a vampire novel until about 30% of the way through the first book—and by then, I was hooked.
When I looked up from my book, the canyon had transformed. The sun now danced across the cliffs, casting the canyon in dazzling light. It seemed like our chance to chase the moment—but what awaited us down the trails was something we could never have imagined.
Should we go?
Yes!
It was about 2pm as we drove Puma the Promaster into Zion National Park and parked her in the visitor center.
As with all things outdoors, getting ready for our bike ride took longer than expected.
After a quick stop at the visitor center—bathroom break, a new Zion magnet for our collection, unloading the bikes, gearing up, filling water bottles, grabbing snacks—it was nearly 3 p.m. And once again, the clouds were looking ominous.
The canyon smelled of wet earth and cold stone as we clicked our helmets shut. A misty November rain began to fall, frosting the cliffs in silver. Do you still wanna go? Zach asked.
Of course! I said—never one to be easily deterred by a bit of rain.
As I pushed off from the parking lot, the rains saw my call and raised the bet. The winds picked up, casting dust and leaves into my face and mouth. Pelting rain mixed with hail had me soaked through from head to toe before I’d even left the parking lot. I reeled a tight arc and raced back to the van where Zach stood, having never left. With no time to spare, we locked the bikes together with a U Lock, not even bothering to lock them securely into the rack, and dashed back into the van.
I stripped the soaking-wet clothes off my body before we even closed the van door, accidentally giving a few tourists a glimpse of my bare ass. I was already shivering from tip to tail. I pulled on my forest green fleece overalls, a long-sleeve wool shirt, my puffy coat, and a beanie with fresh socks. I warmed up so quickly we decided to skip turning on the heater.
Pulling up the Weather App, it gave a clear readout:
Rain will subside in 27 minutes.
Perfect! Enough time for a beer and a game of Bananagrams. We each cracked open a Hazy Little Thing and divided up the tiles: 21 a piece. I won the first game, my best words being Volcano and Ozone whereas Zach’s was Zoolander. (Google later confirmed: Zoolander is NOT a valid banagrams word). We swapped tiles and Zach won the 2nd round while I floundered under the weight of a Z, X, and Q. No wonder he lost…
Right on time, the rain disappeared — once again, the blue skies and desert sun shone down from above, this time lighting up the terra cotta faces of the Zion canyon like stones fresh out of a rock polisher.
Let’s ride!
I put my damp pants and rain jacket back on, laced up my shoes and we were out on our bikes within 5 minutes — not wanting to miss the window.
The sudden downpour of rain drew handfuls of waterfalls on the canyon walls like a happy little accident Bob Ross himself had added to the canvas. The rain had brought out the red, pink and creamy layers of the sandstone like God himself had dipped them into glass so that we could see the true colors and brilliance of the canyon.
The ride was glorious. It is difficult to find words to describe it. The rain had scattered the other Sunday tourists to their cars and lodges, leaving all of the Zion Canyon Scenic Byway to ourselves. Other than the regularly scheduled shuttles, the road was wide, clean and smelled of freshly released ions buzzing in the air as the sun steamed the water from the pavement.
A group of four mule deer appeared around a bend on my right, grazing on the freshly washed grass. One buck—with slender, sharp-tipped antlers—lifted his head to look at me, no more than a body’s length away, while his three ladies continued munching contentedly.
It struck me how completely safe these does felt with their man keeping watch. Broad-chested and unflinching, he stared straight into my eyes. It made perfect sense that, of all the bucks this season, this one had won their favor.
He was kinda hot…in a deer way.
Have you seen Max this season? the ladies gossiped in my head.
Uh, YES. His antlers came in beautifully this year—and the way he carries himself? So sexy. Head high, chest proud. Olivia said she saw him stare down a bear this spring and the bear ran off. Who’s ever heard of a bear running from a deer?? And have you seen his hindquarters? He could mount me anytime.
Agreed, another doe chimed in. He’s so hot. The way he just stands there, like the whole world is his to protect.
So it’s unanimous? Max is our pick this year?
YES! they all squealed.
My imaginary single-lady deer chat was cut short by two massive birds perched on a log to my left. Each was about the size of a small Labrador, with huge plumes and a red, bald head. At first we thought they were the biggest turkeys we’d ever seen, but it turns out they were turkey vultures—kinda like this guy:
As we ascended the canyon and rounded the next bend, a tall, thin waterfall came into view, forcing us to grind our bikes to a halt on the still-wet pavement. Just as we stopped, a singletrack trail revealed itself like a secret passageway.
We swung our bikes around, tires crunching satisfyingly through the gravel as we followed the muddy trail for a better look. With one final stand-up push, the trail climbed onto a small hill where Bob Ross was at it again—painting another surprise. Beneath the slender fall was a second one: a stout, extra-wide curtain of water.
We deliberated: Do we stick with our original plan to bike the entire Zion Canyon Scenic Byway… or reroute and hike to the base of the waterfall? We only had time for one—the rain had delayed us, and it was now nearing 4 p.m.
Watching the valley that morning at the coffee shop taught us one thing: desert waterfalls are ephemeral—they come and go quickly. The scenic byway would be there any other time we visited (barring a vampire apocalypse), but this waterfall might never align with our lives again.
She had awakened in response to the pursuits of Father Sky, and her passion would be fleeting. In a few hours, this grand waterfall might be nothing more than a stagnant pool beneath a ledge of cliffside.
We abandoned our original plan and started biking along the gravel trail toward the waterfall, quickly coming upon a metal bridge that would carry us across the now wide, cinnamon-brown waters of the Virgin River. There was only one problem: No Bicycles Allowed.
Dark clouds had begun to form a vignette around the sky, and we knew our time was limited. Our bikes were supposed to make this side quest a quick little adventure. On foot, it would take much longer to reach the waterfalls in the distance.
We could run it? I asked Zach, already knowing his answer.
We stashed our bikes on their sides near a fallen tree and six inches of fresh, golden leaves, ditched our helmets and backpacks, and took off toward the bridge. The wind was cool on my skin as my body shifted into third gear.
Hopping over puddles and skimming across maroon mud, we started hearing a roar that sounded like a busy highway just around the bend. As we rounded the turn, the base of the waterfall came into full view—like a bride trying on her veil for a small room of spectators lucky enough to receive a special invitation.
From here, we could see that the trail continued not just to the base of the falls, but behind the waterfall itself. I flipped up the hood of my rain jacket, zipped it to my chin, and tightened the straps around my face. The mist from the falls soaked my right side instantly. I didn’t mind one bit—smiling from ear to ear, lost in the pure ecstasy of this magical moment.
Just ahead of us, a barefoot man with long hair and a pronounced widow’s peak slipped beneath the trail fencing to stand directly under the falling water—his bellowing scream nearly lost in the thunder of the cascade as it slammed over his head and shoulders.
At that same moment, an older woman asked to pass me on her way down the trail. She rolled her eyes at the man bathing in the canyon’s ecstasy. Boys, she said with a wistful smirk as she passed.
We continued our run, quickly making our way behind the falls, where we peered out at the valley through the curtain of water. The best things in life surprise you—they cannot be planned. This was a little gift from GOD—the Great Outdoors—a prize for living with abandoned plans and open hands.
After we’d taken our fill of photos and soaked in the magic of the moment, we turned back toward our bikes. The day was winding down, the sky a darkening palette of ripe plums and crumbled slate. Once again, we passed through the mist of the waterfall, drenching the other side of our bodies and leaving us thoroughly soaked.
We set off at a run again, water sloshing in my shoes. The wind must have picked up, because the waterfall’s mist now sprayed several yards further than before. That’s when we realized: it was raining again.
By the time we reached our bikes, the rain was coming down in sheets. Should we take the shuttle down? Zach asked, breathing from exertion. I deliberated.
Never!
We mounted our bikes, angled them downhill, and pushed off from the soggy ground, my shoes squelching with every stroke of the pedals. I looked as though I’d showered fully clothed, backpack and all. My hair stuck to my face and mouth as I caught raindrops on my tongue, grinning at the sheer absurdity and joy of it all.
We whooped and hollered as we soared down the wet, winding road, Zach spreading his arms like a bird as we flew through the canyon. Before we knew it, it was all over. As always, the ride down was so much faster than the climb up, and soon we were back in the parking lot.
We took our time strapping the bikes onto the rack, doffing our helmets, gloves, shoes, and jackets, and finally clambered into the van. Okay—now I was really shivering. Once again, I stripped off my soaking clothes and climbed into my forest-green fleece overalls, wool shirt, and socks. I set my wet socks to dry on the dash and prepared the cabin for a swift departure.
We drove away from the crowded visitor center parking lot to a larger overflow lot with a view of the canyon, where she—once again—was receiving affection from the sky above. We put the van in park, pulled out the induction cooktop, and started reheating this Black Bean Tortilla Soup I’d made at home in anticipation of this trip.
My little secret: instead of the Chipotle salsa the recipe calls for, I use this Habanero salsa to give it a nice, spicy kick. This is one of those soups that gets better after a few days, once all the flavors have melded together.
Within four minutes, the soup was bubbling in the pot. I ladled two generous servings over a big dollop of vegan sour cream and stirred until it became luxuriously creamy. Then I added half an avocado, cubed; a tablespoon of minced red onion; and the juice of two lime slices. A quick stir later, I sprinkled a handful of salty tortilla chips on top and settled in to the most ancient of tasks: eating a hot meal after a cold and stormy adventure.
The van was filled with the smell of damp cotton and hot salsa. My tongue pleasantly tingled from the heat of the soup. We ate hastily and heartily, each taking seconds. As any man satisfied by the soup of his wife should, Zach cleaned up the kitchen without being asked, washing the dishes while I started writing this piece. By the time he finished, we were the last car in the parking lot, surrounded by darkness.
We packed up the van, making sure anything liable to roll around was tucked into the benches or shoved in the sink, and headed out to find our spot for the night. We drove 30 minutes to the east side of Zion. As someone terrified of heights, I was both grateful and groaning that it was too dark to see how high we really were as we climbed switchback after switchback to the top of the canyon. Finally, we burrowed through the Zion-Mount Carmel Tunnel—a 1.1-mile underground tube built in 1930.
In addition to being afraid of heights, I’m also quite claustrophobic, so I did my best to keep breathing as I said my prayers, thanking God for giving me a man who doesn’t bat an eye at the thought of such driving conditions. Just like the buck and his herd, I had chosen a man to keep me safe—staring unblinking into the winding roads and dark tunnels of life—knowing I could never drive this route on my own, and he could never make such a delicious soup.
We take care of each other in our own ways.
Finally, we pulled onto a gravel road we’d marked on the map as a potential wild camping spot. Sure enough, appearing as if out of thin air, was a small ring of gravel and an abandoned fire pit. We parked the van, put up our thermal window covers, and drew our floral blackout curtains. I heated Trader Joe’s oat milk with a splash of oat milk eggnog in a pot while Zach set the thermostat to 70 degrees. Within minutes, the milk was piping hot, and the van had become a cozy cocoon perched on the side of a frozen mountain. I spooned it into mugs with a few scoops of Starbucks hot cocoa powder, mixed it with a milk frother, and topped each mug with a few Trader Joe’s mini marshmallows, letting them begin to melt.
As we waiting for our cocoa to cool, I returned to my laptop to continue writing this piece — not wanting to forget any details.
The time is now 8:34 p.m. in Zion National Park, and the rain is gently pattering on the roof of the van. After enjoying my cocoa, I made us each a final nightcap of warm water with 1 teaspoon Natural Calm Magnesium Citrate, to help ease our muscles and nervous system into relaxation and recovery. Next up: brush my teeth, wash my face, and tuck in for the night. I’ll spend a little time with The Twelve, of course—there are always more vampires to slay—and then I’ll call it a night.
Tomorrow, we’ll make pancakes on the side of the mountain before deciding whether to retrace our route through Zion or press onward to Bryce Canyon National Park.
Today, we were wet, weary, cold, and hungry—all by choice. Now, tucked into the van, warm and full, we drift off to sleep to the gentle rhythm of desert rain. Each drop whispers of the day’s wild gifts, quenching our thirst in mind, body, and soul.
Such is a life lived among the magical Moss on the Rocks—a life lived fully, with open hands and hearts wide to the world.
Keep it mossy,
Abby
I just absolutely love your writing, Abby. The gentle insight, imaginative imagery, playfulness... it feels like a breath of fresh air for me.