The Threshold
The Threshold, 23 January, 2021
The whole gym was turned to face the announcer, and with each number drawn the people around me would sigh, grumble, and mutter under their breath, while the lucky one got to announce whether or not they accepted. Of course, everyone accepted. Though it wasn't peak season, far more people left disappointed than successful. Including myself.
That was not even a week into what would become three weeks spent exploring the American Southwest, primarily in Utah, while my husband and I were out of work due to a regional COVID closure. Two weeks later I was back, sitting in the Kanab Center Gym, having thrown my hat into the ring once again for The Wave lottery. There were fewer applicants on the 22nd of January, but still more applicants than spaces. I wasn't going to leave empty-handed again, though; even if I didn't get the highly coveted Coyote Buttes North, I'd get Coyote Buttes South, and do my best to be grateful for the solitude and oddity of the southern region.
The weather on the board wasn't looking too nice. Saturday, 40% chance of snow. Sunday, 20%. Monday, 100% snow and rain. Even if I got a permit, the weather might shut me out.
One winner declined. A second. Nerves continued to be wracked, and then--
"Nineteen!"
I threw up my arms in triumph. We'd scored a permit for Saturday. We accepted. We also picked up a permit for the south. Because who knew when we'd have an opportunity again?
We set out Saturday morning with the assurance that if the road was too squirrelly, or the weather conditions turned nasty, as tough as it would be, we'd bow out gracefully and plan to return another time. Mercifully, the conditions worked out in our favour—though I like to think we stacked the deck a little, with our lifted Jeep Wrangler entering through the less-messy-though-longer southern end of the road, which was still frozen through by the time we got on it.
Only 20 people were allowed into the Coyote Buttes North region that day, as had been the case for as long as there's been a lottery, as far as I know. But I found out about three hours before hiking in that the lottery was actually set to change only a week hence. I would be one of the last few groups to have this remote, trailless wilderness nigh unpopulated--the daily limit would be upped to 64 persons or 16 groups at the start of the next month. Talk about lucky.
Our luck continued quite nicely into the permit boundary, as the sky began to clear and the dusting of snow began to recede in the sunshine. We made good time, despite a later start, and by 10:30 we were slogging our way up the final ascent to the famed Wave.
As we stepped in, it felt almost like entering a cathedral. Somber but not unhappy silence enclosed us. Elegant lines danced around us, the colours of the sandstone playing coy, and a small puddle in the entryway reflecting the bright blue sky. I was so enchanted with the lines and colours. The subtleties drew me in, delighting my eyes with fins and swirls. And I hadn't even seen the classic view yet.
Despite limited access, we ran into three other people at The Wave. One, a local guide who most likely had made several trips into the region for the formation, said we were lucky to see it when the sandstone was wet--it made the colours deeper, more vibrant. I cherished this information, still feeling lucky.
I ran around the formation, chasing endless compositions, for perhaps half an hour. Like Yosemite, it was hard to take a bad picture there. But after sifting through the shots I took, I've come back to this one several times. It seems to encapsulate almost everything special about my visit to The Wave--the wet sandstone, the fine fins and ridges, the stripes in the rock, the water, the blue sky; I definitely felt lucky to be there that day.