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Zion National Park is one of my favorite national parks, and for good reason: there are amazing views, beautiful cliffs and streams, abundant photography opportunities, and wonderful hikes. The park has several well-known popular hikes – The Subway, Zion Narrows, and Angel’s Landing for example – but there are some other shorter or lesser known hikes that are also well worth your while. I have made a couple of short visits as part of my mountain biking and hiking trips over the past two years, and these two hikes stand out as favorites. Both are relatively short and have breathtaking views.

Looking out from the alcove along the Canyon Overlook Trail in Zion National Park
Canyon Overlook Trail
A very short hike, by most hiker’s standards, Canyon Overlook Trail is just a half-mile long well-maintained route. It is quite popular, so solitude is not usually part of the experience here. The trail starts off with a climb up rock steps leading past a “bonsai” tree and along a cliff edge high above the Pine Creek Slot Canyon. The trail has handrails in places to protect sightseeing tourists from falling to their doom while gazing at the amazing scenery. The main rock that forms the massive cliffs of the park is of early Jurassic age (about 180 million years old) Navajo sandstone, a formation that was laid down in a vast sand dune field covering much of what we now call the Colorado Plateau. The sand is cross-bedded, showing the layers of the dunes as they shifted and blew across the area. With this thick formation now exposed to wind, water, and freeze-thaw cycles, the rock has been eroded into fantastic shapes, exposing the layers and colors.

Along the hike to the canyon overlook there is a section of the trail which passes under an overhanging rock that forms a small cave-like alcove, plus hanging gardens with plants growing on the vertical rock faces and a bridge suspended above the canyon. Arriving at the end, the views open up and you are treated to a view toward the west, where you can see the massive (over 2,000 foot high) orange, pink, and cream-colored cliff walls of the main Zion Canyon. Visible from the overlook are peaks with names such as Bridge Mountain, The West Temple, Towers of the Virgin, Altar of Sacrifice, The Streaked Wall, and The Sentinel. It took my group of four mountain bikers about an hour to complete the hike (on foot) while taking plenty of photos.

The Canyon Overlook (left) and Many Pools (right) hikes in Zion offer stunning scenery and relatively easy hiking.
Many Pools
Another short, but lesser-known hike on the east side of Zion National Park is along a canyon known unofficially as “Many Pools.” This hike is not along established trails, but instead follows a fairly wide drainage that rises to the north. On my visit, we hiked just under a mile up the canyon and gained about 600 feet of elevation by the upper end. We could have continued further, but we were running out of time for this day. Views from all along this canyon are spectacular in every direction. On the hike, you pass several of the pools or potholes, which are places where the flowing water has eroded the Navajo sandstone and formed low areas where water collects. We saw several of these pools filled with water, and some that were dried up when we were there in May of 2022. There were even a few tadpoles in a couple of the pools.

To the sides of the wash, there are interesting hoodoo formations, as well as areas with several different colors of rock and lots of cross-bedding. Hiking is mostly easy, with only a few areas where you will need to bushwhack through low shrubs and trees and a couple steeper places that are easily climbed over or around. This is an excellent hike in east Zion, and took my group less than two hours to finish. It’s an excellent spot that is less busy than many other trails in Zion, and affords you with stellar views of the eastern part of the park.

Looking south from the upper part of the canyon (Many Pools).
Final Thoughts
There are many other hikes in Zion, but these two are fairly easy and show you a good example of the geology and scenery of the eastern part of the park. Utah offers countless hiking opportunities and one can spend many years exploring the various corners of the state. As far as views go, in my opinion, you can’t beat Zion National Park, and the two hikes mentioned here are an excellent introduction to the views and experience the park has to offer.
Need to Know
Information
No permit is required for these hikes. There are certain other hikes in the park which DO require permits. The park has an entry fee of $35 for private vehicles, or you can purchase an annual national park pass for $80. For more hiking and backpacking ideas in Zion, see our TrailFinder Page with links to all of our previous TrailGroove Zion articles and find even more by searching for Zion here.
Getting There
Parking for the Canyon Overlook Trailhead is just east of the eastern end of Zion-Mount Carmel Tunnel. Parking is limited to two small parking areas and a few roadside spots, but we had to wait only a few minutes (we were there around 8:00 am on May 1st) for a hiker to return from their hike and vacate their parking spot. During busy times of the day, it may be necessary to return several times to get a space.
For Many Pools, parking is at a small parking area less than one mile to the east of the eastern tunnel along Zion-Mount Carmel Highway on the eastern side of the park. There is an outhouse at this parking lot. From the parking lot, walk east along the road (be careful as the shoulders are very narrow) for about 500 feet, then cross to the western side of the road. From there, you will descend into the lower end of Many Pools Canyon. The hike continues to the north up the drainage.
Best Time to Go
For the Canyon Overlook Trail, morning is best for photography, as the view is to the west and the canyon walls will be well-lit during the morning. Sunset may be another good time if clouds are just right, but the canyon will be in shadow then.
Any time of day would be good for photography at Many Pools, as the views from Many Pools Canyon are mainly to the south. The hike would be most interesting after there has been sufficient rain to fill the potholes, but it would be a good hike at any time of the year. In summer, try to avoid the hottest part of the day, as it is quite exposed to the sun.
Maps and Books
The National Geographic Trails Illustrated Zion National Park map is a great general map of the park. Canyon Overlook Trail is shown on the map, but Many Pools is not. Trails Illustrated also offers a Zion Day Hikes map and the Utah Delorme Atlas can be helpful for getting to and from trailheads and exploring the rest of the state. For a guidebook on the area, see Best Easy Day Hikes, Zion and Bryce Canyon National Parks as well as Hiking Zion and Bryce Canyon.

Now having tested several solar panels over the years that are marketed towards outdoor use and use on the trail – most of these stay stashed in the back of my gear closet, and are more likely to be something I might use during a power outage at home rather than actually depend on out on the trail. For hiking and backpacking purposes most of these panels are too heavy, just don’t perform well enough, or have significant drawbacks like compatibility with one device, while not being compatible with another. Unfortunately, none of these USB solar panels have performed well enough where I’d be completely confident relying on them in the backcountry, and it made more sense to just carry a pre-charged powerbank if additional power would be needed on long backpacking trips. That is until I tested the Solarpad Pro 5W USB Solar Panel from a company called Solarcycle.

A backpacking solar panel is always an interesting weight vs. reward scenario – as the panel itself will of course add weight. But can you leave any spare batteries behind that you might have otherwise taken? If so, that can swing the additional weight carried quite low or maybe even negative. On top of that, you need to figure out if in place of a solar panel, if it would just be lighter to pack a powerbank. Keep in mind however, that you’ll likely need a larger powerbank than you think after typical self-discharge and charging losses, typically about 40% – and this means a heavier powerbank. Thus, you can really split hairs here.
The Solarpad Pro
Initially I held off on the Solarpad Pro – listed at 4.3 ounces, once I add in needed cables and a way to carry the panel the weight would get to be more than I’d really want to add to my pack. However, once I received the panel I found that Solarcycle isn’t quite giving this panel all the credit it deserves – the true weight is 3.4 ounces. I assume that the listed weight includes the carabiners that are also included in the package or perhaps the weight was just transposed. The panel retails for about $50.

Not only is the panel lighter than expected, it’s also quite sturdy and feels more sturdy in hand than something like the Lixada Solar Panel we’ve previously reviewed. The panel has more of a sturdy covering on the front – in the form of a laminated somewhat frosted surface, and the USB output is centered on the back of the panel. Metal grommets, 1 on each corner add a way to attach this to your pack. That’s about it when it comes to the exterior design for the Solarpad Pro, though if it folded – it would be a nice bonus for packing. The manufacturer claims that the panel can output 5 watts, equal to a (standard) phone wall charger for example.

Read our Lixada Solar Panel Review for more on theory when it comes to backpacking solar panels, but with my backcountry electronic usage pattern – plus a pattern on trips where I like to spend some downtime for morning coffee, a lunch break, and preferring to setup camp around late afternoon or early evening rather than finding a spot by way of a headlamp after dark, I always have at least some spare time to set up a panel. Additionally, I’m able to stretch the charge of any device I take to around a week, or possibly more depending on the device, by way of navigating with a paper map and using my devices as little as possible. Aligning with the strategies that many hikers utilize to integrate solar on the trail, Solarcycle suggests using the panel to charge a lithium powerbank, then use that to charge your devices. For me however, this is not a preferred method if I can use the panel to directly charge a device. The powerbank just adds weight, complexity, and I’m not using my devices so much that I need find a way to charge all day as I hike in addition to possibly setting up the panel in camp.

However, this strategy does work well with the Solarpad Pro. Attaching the panel to my pack on a sunny day in an area without tree cover, and averaged between hiking in all compass directions, the panel will add about 10% to a 2500 mAh powerbank per hour. While stopped and with the panel aimed directly at the sun, I was able to boost this number to about 33% per hour to the same powerbank. Attaching the panel to your pack will require a little thought – you can use the provided (2) carabiners or do something like run a bungee through the grommets – the latter of which may just get it attached without adding additional weight.

For me however, and while I prefer to not take anything since that saves the most weight, if I have to I’d rather take a solar panel or a powerbank, but not both. Testing direct charging on the devices that I normally take on a trip worked quite well. When aimed at the sun (not just facing upwards), the Solarpad Pro outputs a true to spec 5 watts (or just slightly over). This will add 44% charge to my InReach Mini in an hour and a 32% per hour boost to my camera. It can also charge my headlamp – which uses a rechargeable AA battery – if I bring along a USB battery charger to recharge the Eneloop AA battery I use in the light. My 2020 iPhone SE also works with the panel, but was the only device I had an issue with. Overall, it will add 44% per hour to the phone – but (on the first panel I tried) the charging would reset occasionally. I quickly found out I could disable “system haptics” to stop the buzzing every time the connection reset, and lower the screen brightness all the way down (along with the phone being in airplane mode) since the screen also lights up when this happens. This way, even if the connection resets, it doesn’t cause much of an interruption and as an end result, you hook it up and leave it and it does charge the phone.
Assuming this was just a characteristic of this particular panel but in an effort to prove that theory, I also tested phone charging on a 2nd panel. Disproving my theory and also resulting in a nice bonus, the 2nd panel did not exhibit this behavior and steadily charges the phone without interruption. Additionally, this is one panel (as observed with both panels I tested) that will restart charging on its own if it’s interrupted by clouds or other shade without having to unplug and reattach your phone to get things going again. This is definitely a nice to have feature – although at least in my experience, and while both panels I tested did work to charge all devices, I’d say it’s worth testing everything you’ll want to charge just to see if there are any oddities that may present themselves.

For packing the Solarpad Pro, a .6 ounce Zpacks Slim Dry Bag works great (the panel is pretty much waterproof, but not the USB connector). The dry bag works to protect the panel from rain and can be clipped on your pack, but it will also fit in a gallon Ziploc. You’ll also need a USB cable, I use a 1.5’ micro USB cable that is shorter to save weight, but long enough that I can move the devices being charged into the shade. This cable charges everything I have except my phone, so I add in a Lightning to micro USB adapter and a “Cable Cozy” to keep things organized. You can also find cables like this pre-made. Total weight for me – the panel, the dry bag, cable, and a small Ziploc (for the cable) all tips the scales at 5 ounces, with the optional AA battery charger adding another .75 ounces (using the discontinued Olight Universal Magnetic Charger) since my particular headlamp does not charge via USB. I can also leave a spare camera battery or two behind if I take the setup, saving 1.5 ounces each.

Solarpad Pro ultralight solar panel and charging cable kit
Conclusion
While the Solarpad Pro is the best performing ultralight USB solar panel I’ve come across – will I be packing it on trips? It depends. Fully charged before heading out, I can make it through weekend trips up to weeklong trips with relatively careful usage. And I do wish the panel had a more packable form factor. Where the extra power starts to make sense for me is on trips over a week, or on longer extended trips where you won’t have, or don’t want the hassle, of having to recharge during a resupply. All these factors will of course depend on your own electronic usage level on the trail, but if you hit that point where you’re looking for ways to recharge on the trail, the Solarpad Pro is worth a close look – as long as the weather cooperates, of course.
The Solarpad Pro retails for about $50 (although stock can be a bit intermittent). You can find it here at Amazon.com.

It is one thing to conceptually understand that you have the gear to bivy at 7,500 feet in the Northern Rockies with a forecast of six degrees below zero. It is another thing entirely to find yourself in circumstances where you end up having to do exactly that. And it was in such circumstances that I found myself on the last night of the year. Perhaps I shouldn’t have turned down that invitation to a New Year’s Eve party after all.

At the trailhead
The Trip Begins
I left home that morning later than I would’ve liked and drove for more than five minutes but less than five hours to the trailhead. Montana, Idaho, Washington, Wyoming...all within striking distance given the equation of time and space using motorized transportation. Discretion is the better part of many things in life, including keeping special places special by not indiscriminately broadcasting their details on the Internet. Hoisting my pack and stepping into snowshoes shortly after noon, I began what would be one of the most challenging hikes I’ve ever had the joy of undertaking.
From where I parked to the lookout tower where I planned to spend the night was a bit over five miles. The last two miles gained over 2,000 feet of elevation in the final ascent to the ridge. Intimidating, but certainly not impossible. I had gone less than a hundred feet up the road (the first three miles were on a snow-covered road, the remainder on an indistinct trail) before I recognized the enormity of the effort that would be required. I was sinking in at least half a foot with each step and the weight of the snowshoes on each foot conspired with gravity to make each step forward feel like it used twice the effort, and twice the muscle groups, as it should have. Given the conditions, I made surprisingly good time on the first section, arriving at the “summer” trailhead in just under two hours. Blue skies and temperatures in the mid-teens made it a crisp, beautiful day. The sun glowed warmly without the faintest atmospheric obstruction and was high enough to allow me plenty of time to cover the remaining ground at a reasonable pace. I sipped some water, ate a quick snack, enjoyed some coffee from my thermos, and began the crux of my trip up to the lookout tower.

Two thousand feet of climbing in just over two miles, in snowshoes, with a winter-weight pack, is not a task to underestimate. Add in the fact that the guidebook noted some minor routefinding issues and it goes without saying that the last section of this hike required mental effort commensurate with the physical. In good shape and experienced with backcountry navigation, I deliberately and confidently began the uphill grind. And it was a grind in every sense of the word. I found myself having to stop much more often than anticipated simply to catch my breath. I also found myself having to stop much more often than I would have liked to make sure my sense of direction was functioning correctly. Attempting to follow the trail would have been a futile effort, although our paths did overlap from time to time. Two feet of snow made it indistinguishable for most of its length, even to a keen eye, but I did pick up on it for several sections of switchbacks as I climbed toward the ridge and the shelter of the lookout.
Sidehilling for a mile or so in snowshoes with a pack is physically demanding. On the bright side, it turned out to be a great warm up for bootkicking steps into ridiculously steep sections of mountainside to continue forward and upward progress. In a cruel twist of fate, just as the terrain reached its zenith of difficulty, I began to notice the unmistakable signs of fatigue and a hint of minor frostnip in my toes. It was taking me longer to get up when I fell; and I fell more times than I can count on two hands. I couldn’t catch my breath. Snack, water, and coffee breaks helped, but were a double-edged sword. The brief respite from activity amplified the chilling, damp discomfort in my toes. I’d figured my normal high-top, waterproof hiking boots would be sufficient for this trip. Wrong. Proper snow boots are now at the top of my fortunately short list of gear to buy.
It was late in the afternoon, during one of the bittersweet breaks, that I found myself confronted with the possibility that I might not make it to the lookout. This was concerning, but not panic inducing. Nothing I could do but continue on until I reached the lookout or an alternate reality for the evening was imposed on me. So onward I pushed.

An alternate reality was imposed on me about a half-hour before sunset when I reached the ridgecrest, exhausted, knowing that regardless of how close I was to the lookout that continuing vaguely toward it, with my right thigh cramping, my toes numbing, and judgment declining, would be foolhardy and unsafe. Part of good judgment is knowing how to avoid situations where you will be tempted to make a bad decision. Setting up a bivy seemed to be a more prudent choice than pushing toward the lookout in steep terrain, fatigued, in the dark. So that is how on New Year’s Eve I found myself stamping out a spot in the snow to throw down my bivy sack, insert my sleeping pad and sleeping bag, and spend the night under the stars.
I’d picked as nice a spot to bivy as possible – reasonably flat, sheltered by a few trees, and oriented for maximum exposure to the warming rays of the morning sun. All things considered, I was rather comfortable after changing into dry baselayers, a midweight wool layer, a down jacket, and sliding into my sleeping bag. By the time I’d gotten myself situated and was ready to fire up my stove and make dinner the first stars were shining overhead.
It was when I attempted to pressurize the stove (MSR Whisperlite) that I experienced an “Oh, crap...” type of moment that can make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. This was due to the fact that the plunger on the pump system was seemingly stuck and nearly impossible to operate. I figured maybe it was frozen, so I wrapped it in a bandana and put it against my body, ate a large chocolate bar, and waited for it to warm up.
Fifteen minutes later and still no luck. This was going to take some troubleshooting. I’d spilled some curry paste on the plunger last winter during a cross-country ski tour, but had replaced everything affected by that culinary catastrophe, including the rubber pump cup. But this problem showed eerily similar symptoms, and lo and behold, it was a faulty pump cup. Tired as I’ve ever been, in single digit temperatures, I replaced and lubricated the pump cup by headlamp and hoped for the best.
The sight of the flame priming the fully pressurized stove was one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen. That flame meant warm food, warm drinks, and plenty of water from melted snow. It’s absence would’ve meant gorging on Clif bars and trail mix, rationing my remaining half-liter of water and mixing it with a handful or two of snow at a time to melt inside my sleeping bag, then hiking out the next morning. But the flame was there, the stove repaired, and I enjoyed perhaps the best tasting pasta and tuna, with fresh spinach, mushrooms and grated cheese mixed in, that I’ve ever had. After devouring my dinner, I filled my thermos with hot chocolate, filled two Nalgene bottles with warm water from melted snow and dropped them into my sleeping bag, organized my gear as best as I could, and then took two sips of single-barrel bourbon before laying down and gazing at the stars until I feel asleep. Happy New Year’s.
I slept soundly and warmly through the calm night, but woke up a few times just long enough to notice that the constellations had shifted and that time wasn’t standing still. I awoke around sunrise and laid in my bag patiently waiting for the warming promise of the sun to be fulfilled. Taking it slow, it wasn’t until 10:30 a.m. that I found myself packed up and heading toward to the lookout.
In an amusing twist of fate, I’d camped less than a quarter-mile from the lookout. From the time I left my bivy site to the time I was opening the door on the lookout was no more than half an hour. I don’t think I’d ever been so glad to see a manmade structure in all my years of backpacking. And what a setting the structure was in! Endless mountain views, with several mountains above 9,000 feet pushing skyward, and one peak over 10,000 feet being the focal point of one of the grandest skylines I’ve seen.

The lookout tower is an indescribably special place. No locks, no fees, no reservations. Officially abandoned by any government agency, it is for use at your own risk and for your own pleasure. Some great stories are recorded for posterity in the logbooks and the worn floorboards and weathered shutters tell a story of their own. Unsung heroes keep up with the constant maintenance informally but effectively.
I entered the lookout and set about reversing the task I’d completed less than an hour before, pulling gear out of my pack and arranging it in some semblance of order. While nothing was exceedingly damp, I took advantage of the clotheslines stretched across the ceiling and aired out all the gear and clothes I wasn’t using or wearing. As I made my way around the lookout’s catwalk and opened the shutters, I took time to appreciate the stunning vantage from each cardinal direction. Sun filled the lookout as I organized my gear and my thoughts, spending much more time with the latter than the former.

The day unfolded at a perfect and purposeless pace, with my only accomplishments of note being much needed stretching, reading all the log book entries (including one dated September 11, 2001; the author completely unaware of the tragic events unfolding in the world at large) and arranging the notebooks in chronological order. I arranged the entries in subject order in my head; you can take the man out of the library but you can’t always take the library out of the man.
Although there was a cast iron stove and plenty of firewood, I decided to forego that luxury and simply wore enough layers to be comfortable. Although it was in the low 20s outside, the sunlit sanctuary of the lookout was noticeably warmer, or at least it felt that way. I paged through a year-old magazine, reading an enthralling article about ancient manuscripts saved from looters in Timbuktu, and ate a delicious mid-afternoon snack of white cheddar cheese, gouda cheese, and jerky, washed down with a few sips of bourbon. It was New Year’s Day and, in my defense, my ability to celebrate on New Year’s Eve was a bit hindered by location and circumstance. Here’s to hard-earned and delayed gratification, the best kind in my humble opinion.
Wanting to make the most of the amazing view from the catwalk, I brewed up some tea just prior to sunset so I’d have a warm beverage to sip as I soaked up the sunset with every sense available to me. Tasting the air, seeing the colors meld together and simultaneously lighten and deepen, truly hearing the silence and the creaks of the catwalk which occasionally interrupted it, feeling the chill breeze across my face. That was the easy part. Trying to fully contextualize myself and better appreciate such a vast landscape proved impossible. Gazing out at mountains near and far and mulling over the passing of another year, one of millions seen by the mountains and one of less than a hundred I’ll likely see, themes of timelessness and endlessness were hard to avoid. The phrase “forever ain’t as long as it is wide” came to mind and never really left for the rest of the evening.

I ducked inside to enjoy dinner, then put on all my insulating layers and took my closed-cell foam sleeping pad out onto the catwalk for a four-hour shift of stargazing. Artificially and unnecessarily aided by a choice selection of music and bourbon, I laid outside from 7 p.m. to 11 p.m., moving from one section of the catwalk to another and laying on my back gazing up at the stars with an attentiveness bordering on entrancement. After seeing a dozen shooting stars and the Milky Way establish itself with awe-inspiring intensity above the silhouetted mountains, I called it a night. Zipping myself into my bag in the shelter of the lookout was a much more reassuring way to transition to a night of sleep than crawling into the bag inside a bivy sack.
My first night of rest in the new year was blissful. However, determined to use the perspective of the lookout to its full potential, through sheer force of will I removed myself from the comfort of down feathers and synthetic fabrics, placed my feet on the frigid floorboards, arose and dressed, and exposed myself to the elements to witness the beauty of sunrise. The second day of the new year dawned crisp, clear and full of promise – my spirits rising with the sun and my soul swelling. The power of place and rejuvenation resulting from a pure focus on the beauty of the workings of the planet cannot be understated.

Dawn and dusk from the lookout added incredible colors to the already stellar view.
The Trail Out
As the sun rose in its inevitable arc above the mountains and it rays illuminated the landscape, I packed up my gear and attended to closing up the lookout. Shutters were lowered and latched. The floor swept, the tables wiped down. Leaving the lookout was an emotional challenge on the same level with the physical challenge of arriving. It’s always incredible to me the sense of comfort and sanctuary that can be gained from spending less than 24 hours in such beautiful and special places.

I followed my tracks on the descent, but also opted to shortcut them in a few places. Owing gratitude in no particular order to gravity, a substantially lighter pack from consumption of food and fuel, and the lack of routefinding, my descent took half the time as my ascent had two days prior. For the second day in a row, the sun shined with a pleasant ferocity that allowed every aspect of the environment – the snow, the ponderosa pine bark, the spruce needles – to shine with a radiant and contagious joy. I made it back to the trailhead early in the afternoon, stretched, changed, and put the wheels in motion to return home.
This brief trip gave me much to ponder on the way home. I’d ended up with more “adventure” than I’d planned on, but not more than I was prepared for. Not necessarily a bad thing in backpacking or when applied to most aspects of human experience. The passing of one year to the next and of life and time in general weighed heavily on me as I traveled along the highway at 55 miles per hour, which was about 55 times faster than my pace had been when I was passing through the forest on my way to the lookout.
The thoughts on existence and emotion that I’d found myself immersed in at the lookout continued to run through my mind on the drive home. While the drive had an end in sight, the sentiments seemed to be infinite in nature. As usual, I found myself comforted by poignant lyrics which fit the time and place perfectly, and which seem a perfect way to end this particular trip report:
There’s a stretch of road in Wyoming across a timeless interstate
You can drive a hundred miles and not see a Wyoming license plate
Just some truckers and some hard-luck bands on tour
In stormy weather
Nobody actually lives there, they’re all just passing through...
We’re only passing through
We’re all just passing through
We’re passing through indeed, through life and landscapes, with people and places changing at varying paces. Sometimes predictable, sometimes not. I can only hope that I pass through more places as special as this lookout and remember to truly value the people in my life who are passing through it with me and to whom I return from my journeys to the backcountry.

First light illuminating the high peaks
Need to Know
Information
For liability, specific information about this lookout is not included. Many books, listed below, provide information about lookout towers and information about visiting and/or renting them if available. You can also search recreation.gov for "lookout" and see which lookouts are available for rent. For more on backpacking to fire lookouts, see this Issue 44 article.
Maps & Books
Numerous books provide information about lookout towers; this list is a great place to start. Plenty of books are available such as Fire Season: Field Notes from a Wilderness Lookout as well as Hiking Washington's Fire Lookouts. The Forest Fire Lookout Association has a wealth of information on their website.
The Author
Mark Wetherington is an avid backpacker and occasional writer. Since 2008 he has attempted, with varying degrees of success, to spend 10% of each year on backpacking trips. Born in Tennessee and raised in Kentucky, he now lives on the edge of the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness in Montana.

Hikers love maps. Maps are more than just navigational aids – they’re permission to let our imaginations run free. Maps inspire childlike wonder. We dream about what’s around the bend. I’ve spent years staring at a map of long-distance hiking trails in the United States. The Arizona Trail runs north-south through its home state, as does the Idaho Centennial Trail. Between the two, there’s a gap where no established trail exists.
The gap is not for lack of scenic beauty, however. The state of Utah is chock-full of amazing landscapes: iconic National Parks, little-known subalpine plateaus, and sweeping mountain views. In 2019, I set out to walk all the way through that marvelous landscape – a route from Mexico to Canada through the heart of the American west. This “Route-in-Between” (RIB) is sandwiched between the better-known Rockies to the east, and the Sierra Nevada and Cascades to the west. The RIB consists of three parts: the 800-mile Arizona Trail, a 1,000-mile connector I call the “Deseret Hiking Route”, and the northernmost 700 miles of the Idaho Centennial Trail – 2,500 miles in total.

Scenery can be found nearly everywhere you look along the route.
A Journey Begins
The journey began in late March on the Arizona/Mexico border in the upper reaches of a “sky island” mountain range. Sky island ranges, isolated from each other by the inhospitable desert floor, serve as a refuge for all sorts of plant and animal species, many of them endemic. A hiker can begin in saguaro cactus in the morning and climb all the way into pine forests by day’s end. Southern Arizona is a land of big climbs and big views.
As I moved northward into central Arizona, I ran into an unparalleled wildflower bloom in the lower elevations. An unusually wet winter produced a banner year for the entire food chain. Multitudinous wildflowers meant more insects, lizards, snakes, and all the rest. On one occasion, I came across a Gila monster sunning himself in the middle of the trail and stepped off the trail to give him a wide berth. As I did so – bzzzzzzt! – a rattling came from the bushes. The rattlesnake poked his head out, tongue flicking in and out, and the three of us eyed each other with suspicion. As the only non-venomous guest at the party, I eventually decided to end the standoff and leave them to resolve their differences. I made a wide circle around them and continued on my way. I still wonder if the confrontation ended peacefully.
Northern Arizona brought higher elevations, cooler temperatures, and ponderosa forests. I skirted the San Francisco Peaks, home of Arizona’s high point. Lingering snowpack emphasized that this had not been a normal winter. There was plenty of snow in my future. The Arizona Trail dipped down into the Grand Canyon and back up onto the snowy Kaibab Plateau for one last push to the Utah border.

Upon reaching Utah, I left the well-marked Arizona Trail behind and hiked north using a combination of trails, dirt roads, and cross-country travel. As I headed north, I climbed through different geological layers that make up the famous “Grand Staircase” – vermillion, white, grey, and pink cliffs. I topped out on a series of high plateaus, largely above 10,000 feet. And I encountered snow – a lot of snow. In a normal snow year, the high plateaus of southern Utah have mostly melted out by late May. But in this record-setting winter, those plateaus were still buried – and the snowpack was growing deeper by the day. An unseasonable stormy weather pattern lingered over the intermountain west, bringing a new snowstorm every few days.
I hadn’t expected quite this much snow. At this rate, I wouldn’t even see bare ground for the next five hundred miles. It wasn’t melting yet, nor was it consolidating. In fact, it was still getting deeper. My pace slowed to a crawl as I snowshoed across the plateaus. After many days of waiting out ferocious storms, dashing across a section of high terrain, and getting stopped by storms again, it was obvious: I had to take some time off and wait for spring’s tardy arrival.

By the time I got back on the trail, June was giving way to July, and the snowpack was beginning to consolidate. I still did plenty of postholing, but at least I made decent miles each morning before the intense midday sun beat down on the pack, turning it into a soft mess. I hiked for many miles over the so-called “Manti Skyline”, a beautiful transition zone between the subalpine plateaus of southern Utah and the Wasatch Mountains of northern Utah.
I entered the Wasatch just as the snow was melting off. I followed jaw-dropping ridgelines for many miles, enjoying expansive mountain panoramas and the Salt Lake City urban area below. I still had to use my ice axe once or twice per day, but it was clear that the worst of the snow was behind me. As a Utahn, I’m familiar with the Wasatch, but walking all the way through it, having come from Mexico, was a very special experience.

Southern Idaho was a different sort of beast. After having contended with snow for the better part of 500 miles, I now found myself in the lowlands of the Snake River Plain in mid-summer heat. Temperatures reached triple digits on a daily basis and I sweltered in the hot sun. Fortunately, I had planned a very direct route through the area (efficiency is key when water sources are few and far between), and within a week I was back in the mountains of central Idaho – the Pioneer and Smoky ranges. Shortly thereafter, my route joined up with the Idaho Centennial Trail for the final 700 miles to Canada. I hiked through the Sawtooth Range, one of the crown jewels of the west, where alpine lakes abounded. I also saw my first backpackers in many hundreds of miles.

Heading north, I entered what proved to be the most challenging part of the hike. The Frank Church and Selway-Bitterroot are two of the largest designated Wilderness areas in the lower 48 – separated by only a primitive jeep road – and form a 300-mile stretch of unbroken solitude. Trail conditions through this stretch are downright rotten. Combine overgrown trails and burn areas with 5 days of heavy rain and lingering symptoms of Giardia, and you have a recipe for suffering. As I brushed up against wet vegetation, water fell off a thousand leaves, soaking me with every step. I pushed through thick, prickly brush for many hours each day. My shoes, constantly inundated, completely fell apart after only 3 weeks of use. This was my lowest point.
But along with the misery came magic. I saw multiple bears in the Frank Church, along with a lone wolf loping up a hillside in a river valley. And, most special of all, I caught a glimpse of a wolverine bounding away. The wildest place in America rewarded me with some amazing animal sightings.

Central Idaho had been more “meaningful” than “fun”. But that all changed in Northern Idaho. I cruised along relatively well-maintained trails for miles along the crest of the Bitterroot Mountains. Hundreds of sapphire lakes dotted the terrain below me, nestled up against the steep slopes. If this isn’t the most beautiful terrain I’ve ever walked through, it’s certainly close!
By now, August was changing to September. When I reached Mullan, ID, I took off a week to attend a family function. By the time I got back on trail, fall had impatiently crowded out summer, and the rain began. It rained every single day for the last eleven days of my hike. I had one sunny afternoon, where I frantically spread out my gear on the lawn of a small-town general store to dry it off. The scenery was probably outstanding in this section, but it’s tough to say for sure because I was continuously stuck in the clouds with thirty-foot visibility.
Nearing the End of the Trail
The final leg of my journey involved a tough off-trail rock-hop between two gorgeous alpine lakes in the Selkirk range. As I descended from the Selkirks into the Priest River Valley, the high alpine splendor gave way to a deep, dark forest. Moss covered every available surface. Gigantic old-growth cedars towered overhead.

The trail ended at a waterfall a couple hundred yards south of the Canadian border. Weary yet elated, I plopped down on a rock, disregarding the pouring rain, and reflected on the journey. I had begun in a desert and ended in a rainforest. I’d traversed high alpine ridges and forested plateaus, obscure slot canyons and the famous Grand Canyon. I’d walked within eyeshot of a major metropolitan area and thrashed my way through the largest remaining wilderness in the lower 48.
The Route in Between was one of the tougher long-distance treks I’ve done. It was also one of the most beautiful ones, and probably the most rewarding. It contained all the essential elements of a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. What more could I want?
Need to Know
Information
The 2,500-mile Route In Between consists of the Arizona Trail (800 miles), Deseret Hiking Route (1,000 miles) and the majority of the Idaho Centennial Trail (700 miles). It is designed to be hiked in sections, or as a continuous thru-hike. It’s a beautiful route that travels through diverse landscapes. Hikers should be prepared for challenges including infrequent water, vague or non-existent trails, poor trail maintenance, and stretches of road-walking. Backcountry permits are required in Saguaro National Park, Grand Canyon National Park, and parts of Vermillion Cliffs National Monument.
Best Time to Go
Northbound thru-hikers begin their journeys around the end of March, aiming to finish at the Canadian border before the snow starts to fly in mid-September. Southbound thru-hikers should begin their journeys in July, aiming to finish crossing the high plateaus of south-central Utah by mid-October. Section hikers can do the southern sections (Arizona, southern Utah) in the spring and fall, and the northern sections (northern Utah, Idaho) during the prime summer months.
Getting There
The southern terminus is accessed by a dirt road in the Coronado National Memorial, near Sierra Vista, AZ. Commercial shuttle services may be available. The northern terminus is located along the Priest River in Idaho’s panhandle, an hour’s drive north of the nearest paved road. Major access points along the trail, served by public transit, include Tucson AZ, Flagstaff AZ, Salt Lake City UT, Ketchum ID, and Sandpoint ID.
Maps and Resources
Multitudinous information is available for the Arizona Trail. A past TrailGroove article on the AZT from Issue 36 can be read here. A good place to start is the Arizona Trail Association’s website, which contains maps, water charts, and a data book. Deseret Hiking Route information, including maps and water data, is available on my site – LBhikes.com. Idaho Centennial Trail information can be found on Idaho Parks and Recreation website – though hikers should be warned that even officially-sourced ICT information can be out-of-date. For planning purposes and for a big picture view, the Delorme Atlas for Arizona as well as Utah and Idaho can be very helpful.
About the Author
Kevin “LarryBoy” DeVries is an avid hiker based in Salt Lake City who enjoys everything from weekend trips to thru-hikes on America’s long trails. Most recently Kevin has hiked the Florida Trail, the Route in Between, and in the summer of 2020, Kevin hiked 800 miles on the Greater Yellowstone Loop, a route encircling Yellowstone National Park and traveling through the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem through Wyoming and Montana.

Even though this sounds like somewhere from J.R.R. Tolkien’s Middle Earth, it is indeed a place here on our Earth, in northern New Mexico. I had already planned a trip in May 2021 to see some New Mexican scenery, and this was right along the route, so I added it to the itinerary, and boy am I glad that I did! Leaving the somewhat boring highway, my hiking buddy Rod and I headed up into the Jemez Mountains where the colony is located. Climbing up higher into the hills, the scenery changed from dry semi-desert to ponderosa pines over about 10 miles. High on the cliffs along the road was a layer of odd-looking rock with numerous holes and caves – this turned out to be a layer of volcanic rock, and is the rock in which the Paliza Goblin Colony is found. The “goblins” are eroded volcanic columns or hoodoos with many holes, which, if looked at just right, can resemble ghoulish faces.

The Paliza Goblin Colony makes for an interesting hike with intriguing rock formations.
The Hike
We stopped along the drive at the Paliza Family Campground where we camped for the night. This is a first-come, first-served National Forest campground, and is really well taken care of and has very nice campsites, surrounded by towering ponderosa pines. Once we set up camp, we drove less than a half mile further up the road, left the car, and began the hike. It is a relatively short hike to the goblins, just around a mile and a half to the lower end of the colony. The hike begins along a now closed forest service road, which eventually narrows down to a singletrack trail. There is only a couple hundred feet of elevation gain to this point.

Arriving at the colony, we were captivated by the view of hundreds of rock columns. Scattered amongst the hoodoos are many ponderosa pines and some alligator junipers on a steep hillside to the left (west) of the trail. And by steep, I do mean steep! The hillside on which the hoodoos are located gains over 250 feet in under 0.2 miles to the top. Climbing straight up is not really an option, as the ground is soft with layers of loose sand and gravel. Zig-zagging up and around the goblins is the best bet, and gives plenty of opportunities for photographs and seeing views of the surrounding canyon. Since the extent of the colony is maybe only 250 by 250 feet, you can see it all in a short period of time, provided your legs are up to the steep climb. We spent a couple of hours there, then decided to do our return hike on Forest Road 10, which passes near the upper end of the colony. Our total round-trip for this hike was about 4.5 miles.

After spending the night at the campground, we got up to a beautiful sunny morning. This was a huge contrast to the previous day when it was heavily clouded and occasionally sprinkling. We decided to drive up FR 10 to visit from the top down. Definitely a good decision! This gave us a different perspective on the goblin colony, and gave me more and better photographs – this was an excellent spot to visit.
Need to Know
Information
No permits are required to hike in this area. The climb up through the hoodoos is steep, so trekking poles will help with the climb. The site is at around 7,400 feet elevation, so take your time if not accustomed to higher elevations. The Paliza Goblin Colony is a remnant of a volcano which erupted 1.25 million years ago.
Getting There
From Bernalillo NM, take US 550 north to San Ysidro, then turn right onto State Route 4 toward Jemez Pueblo. Just past Jemez Pueblo, turn right onto SR 290. Continue for about nine miles to Paliza Family Campground on the right. If you are going directly to the trailhead, turn left on Forest Road 10 (just before the camp) and continue about 0.4 miles to a small parking area where FR 290 joins FR 10. Park here and hike to the north on the old road bed. It’s just over 1.5 miles to the goblins (stay left at intersections). Alternatively, if FR 10 is open past the parking area, you can drive to the top of the goblins and park on the side of the road and climb over the ridge on the east side to get to the top of the goblin area – but that is cheating, and I don’t recommend cheating!
Best Time to Go
Spring, summer, and fall. The goblin colony is at around 7,400 feet elevation, so it will be cooler than the surrounding desert.
Maps and Books
USGS maps Ponderosa and Bear Springs Peak cover the area of the Paliza Goblin Colony and surrounding canyons. A New Mexico Atlas can be useful for getting to and from trailheads, and 50 Hikes in Northern New Mexico details other hiking opportunities in the Northern New Mexico area.