It all started with a wedding invitation. My cousin, who growing up was like a sister to me, was getting married in Denver. Of course I was going to go, but the question was how do I get there. I proposed a (frankly) ridiculous road trip to my mom, and she and one of my brothers agreed to join me on this grand scheme. If my memory serves me correctly, it ended up totaling around 2,500 miles driven in eight days. We ventured across the Nevada wilderness, traveled up through Idaho, traversed Yellowstone, drove across Wyoming in a terrifying storm, cutting through back roads in Colorado to make it to the wedding in the nick of time. I’ll never forget that Colorado had biblical level flooding that almost derailed our entire trip and nearly made us miss the wedding ceremony. Afterwards, we headed to Utah, crossed back over the unforgiving but beautiful Nevada desert to visit Yosemite, and then back home to Reno. My brother had also accompanied us on this trip, and he was in the throws of teenage angst. In all honesty I remember our incessant arguing and turmoil more than some of the beautiful swaths of the United States we saw. Nothing like a good ol’ family vacation to bring out the drama. But back to Zion. This is a place that holds great mystery to me, because I was only able to see the park on a short little drive through. Nothing more. We barely even got out of the car. But despite this, I can’t get this place out of my head. I’ve got my mind set on climbing those big walls someday.