There is a strange atmospheric anomaly at work in Zion. Perhaps it is because your body is so close to the soaring red sandstone cliffs, their edges traced by the undulating flight patterns of Condors. Maybe it’s the icy stillness that permeates every corner in the early morning chill before the sun climbs above the tallest peaks and sets the wind to work. Then again it could be the soft constant sound of the river that courses over the gravel at the canyon’s bottom. Whatever it is, the results are always the same. Your tear ducts will spontaneously seep and the clean cold air will catch in your throat leaving you unable to speak. And so there you stand, looking and feeling yourself opening outward to fill the universe before you. Zion. While the Grand Canyon
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