Hiking the Subway (Bottom-Up) in Zion National Park

Deep within the heart of Zion National Park, hidden among towering cliffs and winding canyons, lies one of the most surreal and breathtaking hikes in the American Southwest—The Subway. This otherworldly slot canyon, sculpted by time and the relentless force of water, stands as a masterpiece of nature, a place where adventure and beauty collide in the most dramatic way.

To hike The Subway is to step into a dream—a world of swirling sandstone, emerald pools, and cascading waterfalls. The canyon walls, curved and smoothed by eons of rushing water, create a tunnel-like passage that glows with shades of orange and gold as sunlight filters through. The perfectly carved chute, where water flows like liquid glass over smooth stone, forms a scene so magical it seems almost unreal. This is not just a hike; it is a journey through time, a passage into the wild heart of Zion, where nature’s artistry reaches its pinnacle.

Trailhead elevation

Water throughout but not filterable due to cyanobacteria

Don't miss wading to the waterfall at the end of The Subway

Hiking the Subway (Bottom-Up)

After a quiet night beneath the shadowy cliffs of Watchman Campground, the sun crests over the canyon walls, casting golden light on a new day. Dave picks up our permits from the park’s Visitor Center, and we set off on a thirty minute drive to the Left Fork Trailhead east of Springdale. We arrive at the trailhead around 10:30 AM, excited for what lies ahead. Dave and Brent suit up in rented waders, neoprene socks, and water shoes. I go lighter, sticking with neoprene socks and shoes alone.

We begin our hike winding through a forest of gnarled pinyon pines. The trail descends gently at first, a deceiving invitation into the wilderness.

At the 0.6-mile mark, the trees part like curtains, revealing an epic view of Great West Canyon, a vast sandstone amphitheater carved by time and cloaked in lush desert flora.

We scramble briefly over slick rock and loose earth until we find ourselves staring at what appears to be a sharp, 90-degree bend in the trail. Without hesitation, we veer right—unknowingly abandoning the true path for a well-worn mistake made by many before us. If we’d been paying closer attention, we would’ve noticed that the actual— and far easier—trail continued straight ahead.

The descent that follows is steep, punishing, and unstable. Gravel skitters beneath our feet. The canyon does not welcome fools lightly. We slip, we fall, we get back up and do it all over again.

After a tense and grueling descent, we reach the Left Fork of North Creek, where the real adventure begins.

Rather than follow the sandy footpath that parallels the creek, we step directly into the water—cold, refreshing, and surprisingly gentle.

We wade upstream for miles, rarely deeper than our knees, our pace slow and deliberate. The canyon is quiet but alive: bare cottonwoods and maples stand like sculptures, and the only sound is the splash of boots through crystal clear water.

As the walls draw closer, we reach Arch Angel Falls, a stunning cascade flanked by towering sandstone cliffs and flagrant Ponderosa pines. We pause and raise our cameras every few feet. Each shutter click feels like a spell cast, capturing fragments of a realm untouched by time. It’s as if we’ve stepped through a hidden veil—left behind the familiar and crossed into something sacred, surreal. Anticipation coils in our bones, alive and urgent.

Just beyond, after a brief ascent and a graceful curve carved into the canyon’s flesh, it reveals itself—The Subway. Not merely a destination, but a cathedral of stone and light, emerging from the shadows like a secret long guarded by the earth itself. We pause again.

It's surreal—an arched tunnel of smooth sandstone, shaped by eons of water. A shallow trickle flows over the slickrock floor, leading us into a sculpted corridor filled with potholes brimming with water and sand. We step carefully through this cathedral of stone. The very air trembles with reverence, thick and electric, as if the heavens themselves are holding their breath.

It’s breathtaking—as if we’ve wandered into the waking dream of the Earth itself. The world slows around us; our steps become reverent. To rush now would be sacrilege. This is not a moment for movement—it’s a moment for awe. We linger, spellbound, our eyes devouring every curve, every shimmer, as if trying to etch it into our souls forever.

Then we hit them—three waist-deep pools of crystal clarity. We jump in. The shock is instant, the cold seizing breath and thought alike. We push through quickly, finally reaching a small waterfall crashing down from the upper canyon. It’s a dead-end—but a magnificent one.

We retrace our steps to a sun-warmed patch near the entrance. We eat, thaw out, and reflect. Before leaving, we slip back into the Subway one last time, cameras clicking, trying to hold onto what can’t truly be captured.

And then, the moment comes—it’s time to turn back, retracing our steps through the sacred stillness that has etched itself into us. The canyon, with its haunting silence, its raw power, and its breathtaking beauty, has left its mark. We reach the trailhead, and just like that, the dream dissolves into daylight. But its memory will linger, vivid and eternal, echoing within us long after this journey has ended.