#GetOutside by David Hagerty

Inside the permit office at Zion National Park, an aged ranger staffed the info desk. He wore the clichéd forest green uniform, including a Smokey Bear hat, plus a gray beard and leathery skin suggesting a career in the outdoors. So why, when I asked him about the Subway route, instead of sharing the joys of hiking, did he lecture me about the risks?

“That’s some serious backcountry,” he said. “There’s no trail up there, and not many people. You’ll need good wayfinding skills. You ever done a trail like that before?”

Maybe it was his skeptical tone that turned me off. Me and my friend, Sasha, had been streaming inspirational videos on social media for weeks (#GetOutside) and didn’t appreciate having our authenticity questioned. I’d even outfitted myself for adventure chic, with convertible pants, a fleece top, and a broad hat to keep the sun out of my eyes (#OOTD).

“We’ve got an app,” I said, and showed him my cell phone.

“You’ll want a map,” the ranger said. “A topo.”

“We’re good. I researched it all online.” I glanced at Sasha, who’d started following me a few months back. I’d planned the trip as a milestone in our relationship timeline.

She’d braided her lux hair and slathered on tacky sunscreen in a video (#GRWM). Still, the ranger eyed her clingy dress and sporty sandals with skepticism, even though it was all over the fashion channels.

“Most of the Subway hike has no cell service. It’s a place to get away from technology, experience nature fully.”

“We’re good,” I said, and filled in my name on the permit: Jerome.

“Sure. It’s the God-given right of all Americans to kill themselves in a national park, but we’d prefer you didn’t.”

After we’d fled the office, I tried to reassure Sasha. “Can you believe that technophobe? Trying to scare us?”

“You saw it all on video, right?” Sasha said.

“An app is way better than any map. It’ll tell us where to go or if we took a wrong turn.”

***

By the time we’d pulled into the parking lot, I’d reconnected to nature and our call to action: we’d follow a river canyon downstream for ten miles, with enough scenic views and dramatic footage to fill Sasha’s vlog for a week (#wanderlust). She was a growing influencer, with thousands of followers, and this hike was perfect for an adventure log. Even though it had been trending on all the lifestyle forums, the parking lot was empty.

I proposed a selfie at the trailhead. “Proof of life,” I said. “In case they find our bodies later.”

We grimaced for the pic and clung to each other as though scared of imminent death—but without affection, which Sasha resisted in public, even in the woods. Cell service was strong enough for us to post the snap online, and she allowed me to tag her, signaling our connection. Then we brought up the app to point the way. It even gave us estimated mileage and time to completion: 7:43.

We started fast, following a dirt path over flat terrain, past granite slabs and twisted stems of bristlecone pines. A few snow drifts remained from a spring flurry, making it more scenic. Even the weather made me grateful, with warm temps and dry, clear air scented by evergreens, perfect for filming.

“What’s so epic about this?” Sasha said. “I could see trees from the car.”

I studied my phone, which showed we were already a mile in and ahead of schedule. “We’ll need to cross country soon.”

Right quick, the trail descended giant slabs of Navajo sandstone, without even footprints to follow, making me thankful I’d chosen the app for navigation. Without it, I couldn’t tell if we were in the right canyon, much less on the trail, but its dotted line was like playing Super Mario. I noticed a few rocks stacked on top of each other unnaturally and stopped to take a photo.

“Let’s post that,” Sasha said. “Every adventure log needs a mindfulness opener.

Except we’d lost connectivity. Still, walking downhill didn’t shake us. My pits never sweated, and my breath never rasped. At an overlook to the canyon, I heard running water and spotted the river falling from a high peak. I assumed once we joined it, there’d be no need for directions.

Then something sharp stung my ankle: while studying the screen, I’d stepped into a cactus. I tried to pull free, but the spines clung to my cuffs. I yanked harder, stumbled backwards into a jagged boulder, sat, and examined my socks, which contained dozens of fine needles.

“You bring any tweezers?” I asked Sasha.

“What for? You said this was just a day hike.”

I didn’t want to act ungrateful, so I ignored the pinpricks and forged on.

The app said we’d finished the first third of the hike in under two hours, meaning, at our current pace, we’d get out in time to upload all our content that night. I was dying about all the great pics we’d captured: dramatic vistas, distant waterfalls, and giant trees twisted like taffy. Compared to all those pics, a few splinters were small suffering.

Except when we came to the river, it flowed faster and colder than the bloggers described. The app showed to ford it, but I saw no paths of stepping stones or fallen logs. Instead, we waded in up to our knees and felt our way over uneven rocks. Influencers portrayed the streams as a relief from the desert heat, but this one had currents almost too frigid to tolerate, fed by snow melt. I took Sasha’s hand for balance, which felt intimate. Once we reached the opposite bank, she dropped my grip to rub her pink legs for warmth.

“We should have filmed ourselves,” she said.

I zoomed in and squinted at the tiny map, which contained few details.

“I think we’ll cross it a few more times.”

“We have to cross it again?”

“Looks like.”

Navigation became simple as the canyon walls rose and narrowed, with only one way to go. To heat ourselves, we walked along the sunny side of the stream, which forced us to soak our feet, but at least allowed our legs to dry. If it weren’t for all the water, I might have photographed more, but the chill discouraged dawdling. Plus, the canyon smelled of rotting wood and some rank weed. True, it looked a lot like the videos and photos I’d seen online, but nobody wrote about how dank the walk would be. (#IRL)

“Just think how rad our storyboard will be,” I said.

Sasha replied with a half-smile.

Finally, we came to a narrows with huge boulders on both sides and a pool of brackish water in between. Sasha asked if there was a way around it, but I’d lost reception when the walls closed in. We stepped into the pool, which rose to our thighs, then our waists, and then our chests. The water was even colder and stinkier than the river, with a film of scum on top and bits of debris floating underneath.

“You never said we had to swim,” Sasha said.

“I checked all the authoritative vlogs . . . .”

Rather than debate, I led with a dog paddle to keep my face above water. If only I’d strapped a GoPro to my forehead, I could have filmed it. Sasha followed with an old-school side stroke to hold her phone overhead. By the time we clambered onto the other bank, we were both hyperventilating with cold. Not even my hiker fashion offered any insulation, and her dress clung like a slip, showing every contour of her figure—except she looked less sexy than shook (#shooketh). Meanwhile, my nose ran like some snotty child’s.

Plus, I needed to pee, as if the cold water had soaked into me. That narrow canyon offered no privacy, so I suppressed it. Then I wondered if Sasha felt the urge too and was holding back, but I didn’t dare ask.

“Pretty rugged, huh? Your followers will adore it, right?” I said.

“Shouldn’t we have got there?”

Since the start, we’d been anticipating the Subway, a giant tube of rock at the halfway point, which every influencer tagged as the highlight of the trip. Photos depicted it as an iridescent tunnel with glistening green pools and film noir lighting. I searched for a signal but did not get a single bar of reception. The sheer cliffs blocked even the midday sun.

“We will soon,” I said. “I bet we’ll have an exclusive today.”

Instead of answering, she combed a leaf out of her matted hair.

We trudged on, crisscrossing the stream, clambering over boulders and driftwood, slogging through dense, wet sand. In frustration, she kicked over a pile of stacked rocks, spoiling that marker for the next hikers (#environmental awareness). Then I heard rushing water echo off rock walls. When we came to a ledge with a waterfall and a rope tied to it, Sasha peered over skeptically.

“How do we get down?” she asked.

“The app doesn’t say.”

We’d brought no equipment for rappelling, no harnesses or gloves, no helmets or carabiners. Several content creators had written that climbing gear would only slow you down. Instead, I slid down the rope as I learned in my school gym class, chafing my hands and my tender ankle. Sasha wrapped one leg like a circus acrobat but complained of rope burns on her inner thighs.

The drop ended in another deep pool, which we swam across like before, then plodded onward, abandoning the idea of drying or cleaning ourselves. Sasha’s hands shook from the cold, and my teeth chattered, but I cared only about keeping her sentiments uplifted.

Finally, I couldn’t hold my water any longer and stepped behind a boulder. When I offered Sasha the same chance, she passed, making me wonder if she was being modest. Or maybe she didn’t trust me.

By the time we’d navigated a third rope descent and another pool, we’d stopped documenting ourselves, committed only to enduring the trip. The user experience was way different than online. I didn’t even enjoy our gummy bears and sports drinks, which tasted saccharine sweet. Sasha started acting salty about being so cold and filthy, walking behind me.

Suddenly, the rock closed into a tube, as smooth and round as a railroad tunnel: The Subway. It looked darker and more foreboding than the photos I’d seen, without the phosphorescent waters or dramatic lighting—more of a cave than a highlight. Halfway, a tree trunk stood up like a ladder, another iconic site.

“Pose for me,” I said.

Sasha kept walking.

“What about our photo book?”

“I don’t want pictures of me looking like this.”

“You could use filters.”

Instead, I snapped a few landscapes as we trudged past pools and waterfalls, through rocks rubbed smooth over eons, but they looked way more shadowy than online.

Soon we emerged into a wide canyon with high walls aligned in a V, which let in some warming sun. Bloggers wrote that we’d finished the worst of the hike, and the rest was an easy stroll through the river valley. No need for wayfinding, which was lucky, since my phone was running low on charge. Navigation drained the power fast.

The trail disappeared everywhere it crossed the water, a dozen times at least, traversing boulders, falls, and pools. After not too long, we gave up on following it and walked down the center of the stream since our shoes and socks were already soaked through. The scenery changed from white granite and brown dirt to the red rock you’d expect in the Southwest, but the walls were too steep to climb. Then a jet roared high overhead, mocking our technology.

As we consumed the last of our snacks and fresh water, which tasted of the river, Sasha asked how much longer we needed to “endure this canyon.”

“A few miles?”

“What’s the app say?”

“It quit working way back. No reception.” I smiled weakly, but she scowled.

“You need better cell service.”

She tried to pull up a map on her phone, but it got no signal, either. Hours had passed since we’d seen the last rock pile, and we’d yet to meet even one other hiker. I wished for a sign, any sign, that we were going the right way, but nature offered none.

So we plodded on. The scenery became drab, an endless series of pools and boulders that I wouldn’t have filmed even if I felt fresh. We clambered over a dam of fallen logs, uprooted so their gnarled roots showed. Then the sun dropped behind the walls, casting everything in shadow, and the temperature fell. As the wind picked up, it coursed through the canyon with a shrill whistle, setting us both to shivering.

“This is like torment,” Sasha said.

“But good for engagement, right?”

“Isn’t there a better trail?”

She handed me her phone, which I took as an act of trust. Except the route looked less like a video game and more like abstract art. I strained to find details on the map, which showed only an expanse of green trees divided by a blue line.

“I think the river parallels the road we took in.”

“So if we walk uphill, we’ll hit it.”

“We should stick to the trail.”

She threw up her hands. “What trail?”

The first dozen steps covered a shallow pitch of slickrock and sand, but the slope soon rose to near 45 degrees, forcing us to scramble on all fours. Right quick, the vegetation grew so dense we had to bushwhack through it. One shrub—I thought it was called rabbit brush—drew blood even through my clothes, pushing us off course.

I could see us rising—slowly—compared to the opposite walls, and all that exertion kept me warm. I hoped it did for Sasha too, but the effort left us too breathless to talk, let alone film. I smelled my stink even stronger than the juniper and sagebrush all around, and my ankle throbbed with every step, but I kept going for Sasha.

At last, the grade flattened so we could walk upright again. Then we hit a path through the trees, which was narrow and overgrown, probably cut by animals. I started swatting away pine branches and slipping on loose needles.

After I don’t know how long, Sasha stopped, checked her phone, and slapped it against her thigh. “We’re dead,” she said.

Her face was scratched and dirty, and her skin looked pale in the faint light. Her hair had pulled loose from its braid. Even her dress had frayed and wrinkled. For once, she wasn’t camera-ready.

“This has to lead somewhere.”

We trudged on, expecting a trailhead. Only, none came. The light faded to dusk, the temperatures fell to a numbing chill, and somewhere a coyote called for a mate, but no end appeared.

“How far to ranger?” she slurred.

“The station? Not far, I think.”

I suppressed my anxiety about wayfinding, which was impossible after dark.

“What nobody come?”

“They must,” I said. “This hike is everywhere online.”

I ignored the empty parking lot at the trailhead.

Despite the smooth grade compared to the river, she stumbled. “I can’t. I rest.”

She slumped onto a fallen log, so I put an arm around her for warmth. She allowed me this intimacy without returning the gesture. Her bare skin radiated no heat, and her breath came quick but shallow. All I wanted was to impress her with my outdoor expertise, but instead I got us lost and hurt. (#Loser)

We sat like that for forever. Even resting, my ankle throbbed. When I touched it, it felt like a thousand pins pricked it. I watched the sky shift from blue to black and the moon appear over the horizon. Before all the light faded, I studied our surroundings—maybe I could make a den of tree limbs or find a cave carved into the hillside. An authentic adventure.

Then I heard something crackling through the bushes. The sound faded and rose, but it definitely came closer. I let go of Sasha and walked toward it. I didn’t know what kind of creatures they had in Zion, yet I resolved to defend her to the death.

Eventually, a single light emerged from around a bend not far off. A person! Between the darkness and the glare of the headlamp, I couldn’t make out anything about them. I raised Sasha’s phone and shined my beam back, which revealed a backpacker. He wore all plaids and wools— nothing trending—and carried a huge load.

“Are you filming me?” he said.

“We’re lost.”

The man came closer to examine Sasha, who only shivered. “I think she’s hypothermic.”

“We tried to do the Subway in a day.”

“How’d you end up here? The trail’s way down.” He pointed toward the canyon.

“My phone died.”

“Didn’t you bring a map?”

“We thought an app would work better.”

The man snorted. “Those things always fail. They’re made for tourists.”

“How far is it out?”

He looked at Sasha and scratched his beard. “Too far for her.”

He said he knew of a campground a mile off, that he’d share his tent and food, so I put an arm under Sasha and lifted her. I envisioned us wrapped in flannel, a fire warming our legs, and country music twanging on an app. Then we rounded a bend, and the canyon stretched out below, dark and foreboding in the moonlight.

This gave me inspiration: maybe I could still redeem the trip, and make it a bonding experience—if Sasha didn’t block me. I’d definitely need to post a different adventure log than I’d planned—not exactly an apology video, more of a truth-telling. People needed to know: the wilderness isn’t like the pretty photos. It’s wild.