I left my hotel at Wingate in Hurricane at 6:20 in the morning. The air was still cool, and the horizon had just begun to glow with the first colors of dawn. I was lucky enough to win a permit for Angels Landing the day before, and today was my chance. The park requires hikers to start before 9 a.m., and I knew from experience that the parking lot at the Zion Visitor Center fills up early.

By 7 o’clock, I was on the first shuttle bus into the canyon. Every seat was taken—an early morning pilgrimage of hikers eager to see one of the most iconic trails in America. I waited a few minutes after getting off, letting the crowd move ahead, before I began the ascent.

From the very start, the path climbed steadily upward. The red sandstone walls, illuminated by the early sun, seemed to glow from within. The cliffs of Zion are a wonder of color and texture—deep crimson, orange, and soft cream streaks, layered like ancient waves of time. The light poured into the canyon, touching each surface with gold. It felt almost sacred, as if the mountains had borrowed their colors from heaven itself—or perhaps, from the heart of the earth.

After almost a mile of steady uphill hiking, the trail leveled out for a short stretch—a welcome reprieve before the famous switchbacks. Here, I caught my breath and felt new energy return. The quiet of the morning was broken only by the distant call of ravens echoing off the cliffs.

Then came the switchbacks—steep, tight turns carved into the rock like an enormous staircase. After conquering them, I stopped for a short breakfast break. The sun had risen higher now, lighting up the canyon floor far below.

Tiny squirrels appeared almost instantly, eyeing my food with great interest. They were astonishingly bold—one even climbed up my leg and onto my backpack. I had to laugh but gave them nothing; we are meant to keep them wild, though I could see others around me offering crumbs.

After breakfast, I reached the first section equipped with iron chains. The climb here became more demanding, and the exposure more dramatic. The sandstone was smooth in places, polished by thousands of hands and shoes. I took my time, moving carefully, savoring both the challenge and the beauty.

Soon the trail descended slightly before climbing again, this time steeper and narrower. A French family was just ahead of me—the mother and daughters hesitated, unsure if they wanted to continue. The father spoke gently to them, encouraging them forward, and before long, they passed me at a photo spot, smiling nervously.

Here, I began to truly feel the steepness and the height. The sun blazed against the orange and red cliffs, creating dazzling contrasts between shadow and light. Dozens of hikers clung to the narrow ridges ahead, small figures against the vast rock face. The chains glittered like silver lines in the sunlight, and from afar, the whole mountain seemed alive—with movement, color, and determination.

I continued slowly. Groups of hikers were already coming down, their faces lit with accomplishment and relief. I was in no hurry; I wanted to take in every angle, every shadow, every view. Even younger hikers, much fitter than me, sometimes stopped to rest. It reminded me that this trail is not a race—it’s a journey best taken at one’s own rhythm.

The path became narrower still, the cliffs dropping sharply on both sides. Some sections had chains, others did not. I felt the wind begin to rise as I neared the top, and finally, at 9:30 a.m., I reached the summit of Angels Landing.

The ridge itself is only about ten meters wide in total, but most of it slopes away on both sides, leaving a true spine of rock just three to five meters wide in places. Still, a few trees cling stubbornly to life here, their roots wrapped around the rock like veins. One massive pine in particular caught my eye—its roots thick and twisted, gripping the sandstone as if through sheer willpower. To survive here, it must possess an incredible determination to live.

A cold wind swept across the ridge, reminding me that it was already November. I stayed for a while, gazing in all directions—the grandeur of Zion unfolded endlessly below. The sandstone domes and cliffs formed patterns like painted cathedrals, each wall a masterpiece of color and time.

After a long pause and a few final photos, I began the descent. I stopped at the same resting spot as before and spoke with a young couple sitting nearby. They were debating whether to continue to the top. I shared my impressions—the challenge, the beauty, the reward—and left them to make their decision.

The way down tested my legs and feet. By the time I reached the bottom, I could feel every step. At the shuttle stop, I caught the next bus to Zion Lodge, hoping for a strong espresso. Unfortunately, the café didn’t have an espresso machine, so I settled on a seat in the sun instead, enjoying the warmth and the magnificent view of the cliffs rising above the cottonwoods turning yellow with autumn.

When I finally returned to the visitor center and drove back to my hotel, fatigue washed over me. I hadn’t slept well the night before, and now the combination of early start, adrenaline, and steep descent caught up with me. Yet as I looked back on the day, tired but content, I felt deeply grateful—for the climb, for the light, and for the quiet majesty of Zion