Untitled - ScholarWorks Home - California State University, Northridge

"Wolverine Gorge." Perhaps "Dead Man's Loop" if he decides to use part of the
original name. Regardless, he won't mention "Fairyland Loop." And he sure as
hell won't mention the word "crampons." Sounds too much like tampons, and
Merrik has no interest in giving the guys ammunition to mash down his tri­
umph.
Looking to the icy ground, Merrik can't even see dirt. Glassy ice like
frosting on a glazed doughnut encases the earth, but Merrik thinks it looks cool
instead of dangerous. He places his boot firmly, pushes down. He feels the
squishy space-age gel stuff against his heel, but the tread and Goodyear rubber
don't slip. No, he won't need crampons. He's wearing Ticonderogas, and at two
hundred bucks a pair, they'd better be god damn good enough for Juckin'
Antarctica.
The horizon glows as the sun prepares its ritual assault on Bryce, satu­
rating the already saturated colors. Oxidized chemicals in the limestone confuse
the canyon walls like a chameleon with a hangover; they can't make up their
minds on what color they should be. Of course, they decide to be all colors at
once. Until last summer, Merrik had never known about the fickle canyon walls,
or for that matter, the very existence of Bryce Canyon National Park. Only
canyon he knew about was the Grand Canyon, and he already saw that one
when he was six. His new lust for adventure demanded he try something new,
and Bryce, with its alien landscape of fire red spires, fit the bill. Besides, it was
close enough to home and, according to Texas Backpacker magazine, practically
unhiked in the winter.
As Merrik scans the surrounding terrain, he sees only one other car in
the lot, but no people. The ranger kiosk is deserted and won't be up and run­
ning until April. It's late December and Merrik is alone in the Utah wilderness,
alone with his backpack, his expensive boots, his eleven pack of Pabst and his
lust for life. He takes another step toward the canyon rim, tests his boots.
Solid.
There is no railing because you can't fence in a whole canyon, though
calling Bryce an actual canyon is a bit of a misnomer. It's more like a series of
hills with the sides gouged out. Unusual, true, but whoever named Bryce didn't
have a more appropriate word than canyon at his disposal. He certainly couldn't
have called it Bryce Hills With The Sides Gouged Out. That'd look stupid on a
map.
Merrik peers over the edge. Canyon or not, it's a helluva long way
down. He takes a deep breath, turns and steps toward the trailhead.
And promptly slips over the canyon rim to his death.
Now, when they say your life flashes before your eyes, that's nothing
23