I wake the next morning with that singular passion that all travelers carry with them - to go. And so I do, towards Zion Canyon in Southwestern Utah. I've conveniently forgotten my observations from the night before; I am no social commentator, I am just a landscape photographer. There are stereotypes even about people like me. The landscape photographer is patient, and yet also a bore. He is rural, and poor, but fakes the suburban life. He seeks what a thousand before him did.

My goal in Zion Canyon is to wade slowly up the Virgin Narrows, a segment of the Virgin River which tunnels into a slot canyon - the most famous slot canyon in the world. The entire stretch is sixteen miles. Hikers hoping to wade this entire stretch begin upriver. I'm carrying a forty pound camera pack. I hope only to wade as far upriver as the day will take me.

The walk up these famed waters is beyond enjoyable. This narrow slot of wind and water is the most famous for a reason - the colors of spring, the color of the southwest, the steep cliffs: this narrow swatch of Americana is simply unbelievable.

The wade upriver, however, is also an inward pursuit. After the first mile, all the gentle-mannered tourists turn back, and the canyon goes empty. My sloshy steps echo.

My thoughts turn to that guy - you know, the gay mormon.

As an American, I'm kind of predisposed to travails of the suppressed. That gay mormon, he's just bugging me.

Every step up the Virgin narrows is slow. The river in Spring is ripe, the threat of a deadly flood is real. Each step is a wander into destiny. But, okay, - this is what I am thinking - the gay guy - what does his religion really say about him? Should his religion hold him back?