Leaving Vegas, we began “The Grand Circle Tour”, as 1920s Union Pacific marketers once called the line that brought travelers through Zion, Bryce and the North Rim of Grand Canyon.  Lacking both the intricate beauty of Bryce and the sweeping, oh-my-god-I’m-going-to-die shock of Grand Canyon, Zion is the least memorable of the three.  That doesn’t mean it’s not memorable.  Or not amazing.  Just not as.  A good place to start.

We took a long hike.  The first of many.  Here’s Selby walking up a hill:

The top:

I thought about stealing this marker but forgot my pickax.  Do they increase the fine with inflation?

The view:

Back at the bottom, tired, dehydrated and in need of electrolytes, we met some hip, road-tripping Portland chicks (or was it Seattle?  Same shit.) who were toting a couple lion heads around the country, photographing what they saw.  They saw us:

The weeping rock:

Rain falls on the top of the mountain.  It soaks into the porous sandstone.  Over hundreds of years, it seeps down to the base of the rock, and drips out.  Like rain or tears.  Don’t drink it.  Imagine the video turned this way:

A fawn suckling at our campsite:

The next morning, a sunrise:



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