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The hike was only supposed to take ten hours, it took us twenty-nine. I expected the trek to be dangerous, thrilling and surprising, what I hadn’t anticipated was the chest gripping anxiety and pure fear that raced through my veins. We had been hiking through slot canyons in back-country of Zion National Park all day. The heat of the day had vanished, and the canyon walls towered taller as we struggled to find a way down. There was no going back. We hiked with twenty-pound packs, rappelled down boulders, and swam through frozen spring water just to get stranded here, miles away from help, warmth and safety. Mom and I were shivering to our bones, my little sister Lucy, was crying in fear. The only visible way down was to rappel down a rock face into deep water and swim out. I was scared. There was no possible way I could swim, my limbs were stiff and shaking, I couldn’t open my fingers from the clawed position they were stuck in. It would be impossible for me to control the rope on the way down, no way I could tread water and unhook myself from the rope and swim twenty feet to the nearest rock. I was crying, imagining myself drowning when one member of our party saw a rappel point across the wide canyon. This rappel would put us in shallow water, and we wouldn’t have to swim again, but there was a four-and-a-half-foot jump over an angry waterfall to get there. I was terrified. It was impossible, me, seventeen, standing five foot three to jump that far and risk falling into the white frothing waters below. I am panicking. My brain is in survival mode, so the rest of our trip is blacked out in sections. Dad jumps. Mom screams. Dad points to me. I’m next. No. Please don’t make me. I must jump, or my sister won’t. Show no fear. Impossible. Rope. Yes. A rope. Put the rope through the carabiner. Carabiner hooked to the harness. Twist to lock. Look up. My turn. Jump? Impossible. So many unknowns. Crying. What if I fall? What if I pull dad down into the waters below? What if we can’t all make it? Petrified. Don’t look down. Only… Way… Out… Four steps back. Don’t look down. Just do it. Run. Three steps forward. Push. Leap. Impossible. Empty air… Falling… Panic. Hitting a rock. Hands out. Please catch me. Dad reaches. Knees hit rock. Hands hit. Solid ground. Panting. Crying. I did it. Scrambling upward. Slick moss. Still crying. Turning around. Lucy. Crying. “Mommy I can’t do it.” Fear in her eyes. We have to. “I can’t.” she cries. “Don’t look down. Daddy will catch you.” I say shakily. “I cant do it!" There is no other way. The sun sets. Precious minutes tick by. I hold my breath. She jumps. Soon the others follow. Freezing. Cold. Shaking. Tripping over cold feet. More water. Darkness. Headlamp. Light. More rushing water. Mountain Lion? No, just the wind. Slow walking. Getting colder. Can’t feel my feet. Miserable. Scared. So cold. So many unknowns. Sand bank. Sleep? Yes, finally. Darkness. Fire. Bivy bags. No food. Look up. Millions of stars. Peel shoes off sore feet. Electric pain. Feeling comes back to fingertips. Fear. What if… Mountain Lion? Cougar? Bear? Panic attack. Crying. Puking. Shaking. Hyperventilating. More retching. No help for miles. Not safe. No sleep. Will we get out? Leaping to conclusions. Too many unknowns.