Some time ago our family went on a summer road trip that included visiting Zion National Park. Zion is a steep, stone cathedral carved in granite by the meandering Virgin River. A favorite activity for the many visitors is to hike the “Narrows,” a spot at the upper end of the park where the river tapers into a vertical gorge. The farther you wade up river, the narrower the gorge gets until at times, it is only two or three arm spans across. I took off with the hope of working my way upstream until I was completely alone. I passed young families, teenagers and groups of college kids singing on islets of rocks until I rounded a bend. Here the going got tougher as the gorge constricted even more. The canyon walls rose straight up, flat and speckled by lichen, as the Virgin murmured and roiled around flat table rocks midstream. I climbed up onto one of these stony mesas and sat there in the cool gorge while the clear, clear waters went rushing by. Hundreds of feet above, the sky was a ribbon of blue with bright white clouds moving like herds against an indigo canvas. There was a holiness there, a moment woven together by water, rock and sky, that connected me to all of humanity, from early man to Native Americans who found in nature, hallowed ground.