Bad_Luck_Brigade
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- Jan 25, 2024
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EDIT: Alright, despite accidently hitting the post button when I didn't mean to, this is finally at a semi-acceptable state.
I've been meaning to discuss this trip report for awhile, but never really gotten around to it. But inspired by @Gretchen Millward 's post here, I have decided to push past that and actually talk about what happened.
2023 was a wild year for Southern Utah. That year, a ranger at the Pariah station told me it was like monsoon season had never ended, and I believed him. The year was wet. It was unpredictable. It was, in a word, dangerous. I had planned permits months in advance, and was not about to be dissuaded. There were others like me that year, and they had also planned their trip months in advance. Like me, the risk had not dissuaded them. Among them were Gary York, John Walter, Bill Romaniello, and Jeff Watson. All four of these men died in Buckskin Gulch in the months before I entered that canyon myself.
From the very beginning, my trip was troubled.
In the years since, and even at the time, I couldn't help but feel something had not wanted me inside that Canyon. Perhaps I had offended a dead spirit, or perhaps mother nature just looked at me and said "Hey. Fuck you."
On the drive down from Northern Utah, I encountered not one, but two crashes, both of which I stopped at. The first had been relatively simple; Someone towing a trailer put together by their uncle had seen the entire trailer come off the hitch, and it had jackknifed them and their car into the side of an freeway overpass. The trailer ball had been about half an inch too small, and that was why it had popped off. Thankfully, no one was injured, though I made it quite clear to the young driver that it was important to check his own load to ensure it had been done right, because if his chains had failed as well, he would have killed someone.
The second crash I encountered was near Red Canyon, and the driver was not so lucky.
Debris were still skidding across the pavement when I stopped, put on my blinkers, and hurled myself out of my vehicle. A motorcylcist going sixty had hit a deer and badly damaged his knee, skidding across the pavement with his bike until he had stopped. Grabbing my Garmin and a tourniquet I keep in my vehicle for such incidents, I raced for him. Most of the debris had settled, though some plastic still rocked on the road. A few others got there before I did, including a nurse. As she was not supplied with first aid gear and, I ended up racing back to my vehicle and pulling out my first aid kit from my backpack, and gave her a pair of shears for the man's broken knee and disposable gloves for the blood. Together, we stayed with the man, making him as comfortable as we could without moving him until Fire EMS and an ambulance could arrive.
It was a foretaste for what was about to happen, an ominous warning that at the time, I was blind to.
When I got down to the Pariah Station to collect my permits, the forecast was about as bad as the trip down to southern Utah. The day I was supposed to go in, there was a 30% chance of flash flooding each day starting at noon. The next two days were the same, after which the chance of flash flooding increased to fifty or seventy percent. Reluctant to call off my trip, I discussed the situation with the rangers.
My fallback strategy was simple; 10 to 13 miles deep into Buckskin gulch was a place called the Middle Exit, a well-known crossing for the gulch that connects the old spanish trail from the lower vermillion plateau to the upper plateau. Starting early in the morning as day broke, I would be at the middle exit before noon, and ascend into the mesa to await whatever came. If a flash flood tore through during the night? Fine. If it didn't, I would begin again in the morning, this time reaching the confluence.
The ranger agreed that this seemed sensible, so away I went.
DAY ONE
I was at my starting point at the break of dawn, ready to begun my first overnight backpacking trip. .
Due to my inexperience, I had overpacked, and in some instances missed bringing simple items, like a hat, which was left in my car, or sunglasses. Not to be dissuaded, I improviseD, taking a strap from my head lantern and using it to keep my hair back from my eyes. Others here have described the Buckskin gulch better than I have, so I'll gloss over it, instead focusing on the trip itself. In the early morning, Buckskin Gulch was a place of singular beauty.
There were petroglyphs, confined walls where a man could reach out with either hand and touch both walls, and hidden secrets abounded. In short, it was everything I loved about southern Utah.
Moving through the Canyon, I could not help but marvel at the immense forces that had created it. Sticks lodged twenty or thirty feet up in the canyon, showing how high the water could go, there were marks everywhere. rocks bore signs of stress the likes of which I had never seen before. It was isolated. At times, it was dark. Wet.
Beautiful.
I made good time.
Arriving at the middle exit at about eleven O-clock, I set my pack down and had a snack break. Sitting on the canyon floor, I gazed up at the Middle exit while I ate, thinking. There were fifty feet of static line in my pack, brought for the haul, but it was also the first time I'd done a class three scramble, and the skies looked clear. Did I really have the brave what appeared to be a treacherous ascent?
The answer was yes.
It was then an elderly woman of about fifty to sixty years of age strolled past my resting place wearing the smallest daypack I had ever seen, glanced at me with a smile, and asked, with total confidence; "Is this Buckskin?"
The question shocked me.
I was about thirteen miles into a slot canyon that was twenty miles long, and had a sword of Damocles hung over my head in the form of a 30% flash flood risk starting at noon. It was not a place you ever wanted to hear "Is this X place?" Rather than answer, I started asking questions of my own. The woman's name was Jane.
"Jane," says I, "What do you mean 'is this Buckskin?'"
Jane looked back at me, and withdrew a small, transparent smart water bottle. Those water bottles had been in the fashion at the time, and I'd seen them everywhere I went, used by trendy hipsters. It carried less than half the water I usually took even on short day trips in southern Utah, and was far from adequate for the summer heat. "I am looking for Buckskin Wash."
That was when I realized a simple fact; This woman was going to die if I did not help her.
This is an overview of Buckskin Gulch.
To the left, there is a little green hiking man labeled 'Trailhead'. That is the Wire Pass trailhead, where we both started from. In the middle below 'Cobra Arch Trailhead' is a nice blue marker. That is the middle exit, where we were at the time, and is about twelve miles from the Wire Pass-Buckskin Gulch confluence. To the right is the confluence for Buckskin Gulch and the Pariah River, about ten miles from the Middle Exit as the wolf runs.
About a mile from the trailhead, the Wire Pass-Buckskin Gulch confluence is a striking place, with a recessed hollow in the side of the walls where the occasional rattlesnake likes to sit, petroglyphs on the right wall a little further ahead that are often vandalized from the tourists who converged on the spot due to the marker in google maps. A T-junction, it presents three choices to those who are in. You may go left. You may go right. You may turn around and head back. The walls are too sheer for anything else.
Jane had missed her turnoff by about twelve miles.
Far more alarmed than before, more questions poured from my mouth. "Do you know what the forecast is?"
Jane smiled, and admitted that she did not.
This was trouble.
I explained the situation she had found herself in. In brief, I covered the forecast, where she was, how far away she was from safety, and where she could go.
But I made one thing very clear, and it was this; It did not matter what she did. I was going up. She could come with me, or find her own way out.
Deciding to give her a moment to think about what I had just told her, I left my pack behind, grabbed my Garmin Inreach, and scrambled up into the mesa to get a good look around us.
What I saw chilled my blood.
The sky seen from the bottom of the canyon had been a vivid, cloudless blue. In contrast, up top the summer monsoon clouds were visible in the distance, and rain was falling upon our drainage area as a wall of precipitation coming towards us by the minute. Returning to the bottom, I told Jane that if she was going to ascend, she had to do so now, because we might not have much time.
This is the middle exit seen from the opposite side of the canyon. I came back and took this picture later.
Please note the two ledges you see in the middle left, and the lower right. These are important, and we will come back to them. Ascent and decent is made through a series of Moki steps which are too small to be visible here, and they give you just enough grip to get up and down. Please also note the tree you see at the very top in the sand. We will come back to that as well.
Some time before I arrived, some enterprising individual had decided that the exposure in the middle exit was too steep for their liking, and had implanted a pair of bolts in one of the lower ledges. Note the dust around the bolts. I am not sure who did it, but it was very shortly before my trip. Within the month I would say.
Jane was not as spry as she had used to be. Ascending to the first shelf, I pulled up my pack and detached the rope from it. Tying my static line to these bolts, I threw the rope down for Jane. Grabbing it, she managed to ascend up from the canyon floor. So far, so good. We were out of immediate danger, but I did not want to be here. The ledge was a decent place to camp, but it counted as part of the canyon, and it was illegal to sleep in the canyon.
Remember the ledges I asked you to remember? Here is where we return to them.
Jane had gotten up to the first shelf, but it had been difficult for her, and she was scuffed up and bleeding. I helped her up to the second ledge, but the Moki steps carved into the walls of the canyon had been made for a limber individual. Even for a tall man such as myself, the gaps between each step were uncomfortably large, and the middle exit was too steep in places to safely climb without them.
Shorter than I, Jane was not the youthful lady she had once been.
As she tried to climb higher, beyond a point where I could no longer push her up, I watched her feet slip. Looking behind her, I considered the slope of the slickrock. The probability of a roll.
And I said "Enough."
Grabbing my rope, I ascended into the Mesa without her, looking for a place to secure my fifty feet of static.
The only thing I had was the tree I asked you to note.
The distance was far too great. Fifty feet of rope could not reach from that tree to Jane, who was on the upper ledge.
I returned down to Jane and explained the situation to her again. "Jane," I said, "I think we need to call in the rangers, because you need help."
Jane did not want to call in the rangers.
I shook my head and explained all I had seen. Pointing to the fall behind her, "If you tumble here and roll, you are going to fall at least eighty feet to the canyon floor. Then I'll have to call the rangers anyway, but the helicopter probably won't make it in time. Jane, because of your choices, you have ended up in a situation where a bad decision will mean your death. Now, do you want me to call the rangers?"
In the end, it was decided that the rangers should be called.
Looking back, I'm not sure why I didn't use the SOS signal. But I didn't. Using the number on my permit, I tried contacting the rangers directly. No one ever responded. Undeterred, I turned to family instead.
"Man, my luck is just awful. At the moment, I'm sitting on the lowest bench of the middle exit attempting to get into contact with the rangers. Do me a favour and call this number"
A back and forth ensued that went on for some time. With the rains fast approaching, and with no way to know how long rescue would take, I began to settle in for the long haul. We were exposed on the side of a canyon, and I was concerned about hypothermia. Jane couldn't really move, so I erected my tent there and then on the side of the cliff.
It was a tight fit.
Communications were slow. We were still inside the canyon itself, high enough we could get messages out, but low enough those messages only came and went when there was a satellite directly overhead. In the time it took for each message to be sent or received, there was time for me and Jane to talk.
As it turned out, Jane was an experienced hiker from Michigan who had spent a lot of time in the Appalachians. As she had gotten older, she had gotten the wanderlust again, and gone a traveling. She probably knew more than I did. My gear was fancy enough, but she knew hers better, and had the experience to match.
There was only one problem; All of it, and I do mean all of it, had been left in her car.
The extra water bottles, the map of the area, her compass, the trekking poles, extra food, even a Garmin her kids had bought from her because they were worried. In short, every tool she had possessed that could have avoided her current situation had been left behind. But it got worse; Jane had failed to tell anyone where she was, or where she was going.
"Jane," I asked inside the tent with her. "Your turn-off was a single mile into the hike. You are now thirteen miles into your hike. Did you ever get the feeling that maybe something was wrong, and you should turn around?"
"I did. But I kept going," she replied.
I didn't know how to reply to that.
Our conversation bent around back to me. She asked if I thought I'd enjoy the rest of the trip. I was honest; From where I was sitting, my trip looked like it was over. I'd only brought so much water, and I didn't know how long rescue would take. By the time SAR arrived, I might not have enough water to make it to my next spring. Jane cried at this. I tried to reassure her. The important thing was that she would be getting back to her family, right? That was what mattered.
Around this time, the Kane county SAR got tired of talking to me through intermediaries, and demanded I be directly passed onto them. A number was provided for my use, and I used it.
"I've been told this is the lane county sheriff? My name is [Bad Luck Brigade]. I'm the dude you have watching over the lady in buckskin gulch."
"Be advised, signal is bad. Probably only getting messages in and out when satellite travels overhead"
"N37.031326° W111.921964°"
Not much had changed in our circumstances except this; We were getting rained on, and there was thunder as well.
As the need to communicate with the SAR team slowed, and it became a waiting game, I offered Jane if she wanted to contact her family and let them know she was alright. I still have those messages. I still don't know what to think about them. Her family didn't know she was in danger, didn't even know she was in the general area to begin with. Then, out of the blue, they get a message like this; "
I can only imagine their panic.
In some ways, I don't blame Jane for being in this situation.
Looking back, I can think of many times when I have been arrogant. The difference between me and Jane is a mixture of luck and circumstance. My foot went where I wanted it too. The rain was not as bad as I'd feared. Somehow, things worked out well for me, not just in this trip, but in the ones that followed. Jane wasn't so different from me. Her luck had simply run out, and this time... This time no amount of experience in the Appalachians could overcome a lack of foresight in red-rock territory.
The hours passed.
Sooner than I had ever expected, I heard a holler from above, and opened my tent to look outside. The first member of the SAR party had arrived. I was astonished at how this man moved. He looked older than Jane, but I admired the way he slid down that slidrock like a mountain goat, two trekking poles in hand. On the side of that cliff, we talked.
Mostly, he wanted to know what was going on, and if anyone was hurt.
Speaking of arrogance, I was excited. As I was not the one in need of rescue, I found it a novel experience, and was eager to talk. It was the point where this man, a Sheriff, had to tell me to be quiet so he could hear Jane speak. Appropriately chastised, I waited my turn to explain why I was here, and what had happened. I didn't add much, just some personal context such as the fact that I'd known the risks of the day and had planned to be up the mesa by now. Displaying my rope, I explained it was too short to tie off for Jane.
The Sheriff pointed to the bolts, and asked "Did you do that?"
"No."
"It's unnecessary. Those bolts shouldn't be there."
Deep down, I agreed with him. While Jane had difficulty ascending, the Moki steps made it relatively easy for me. Once you understood the secret of the Middle Exit, it was not hard to climb up or down as long as you were flexible and fit enough. Had Jane been a decade younger, or as spry as the Sheriff was, there would not have been the slightest issue. Whoever had put those bolts in hadn't stopped to take the time to consider their descent, and realize it was safer than it looked.
A second man arrived from above, part of the rope team.
After assessing the situation, the Sheriff and the second man decided they could get Jane out without needing to wait for the rest of the team. Using each other as anchors, they roped Jane up, and she managed climb up into the mesa.
Up top, we ended up talking even more.
As the conversation drifted to the conga-train of errors that had led up Jane being in such a dangerous position where she needed to get out Buckskin but couldn't, the Sheriff got irritated. Some people go loud. He went quiet. Turning Jane, he asked, in a simple, matter-of-fact tone, "Now. What do you think the lessons to learn here are?"
I didn't hear the mumble Jane gave in reply.
Turning to me, the Sheriff said; "I'm glad you found her, because we never would have thought to look for her body at the confluence."
The conversation drifted to the people who had died in the canyon the three months previously.
At this, the Sheriff grew angry. The passion was captivating. He explained that there had been a seventy percent chance of flood that day, and those who had died had been warned not to go in. They had gone in anyways. They had died for it. He ranted for a good two minutes on the topic of people who came to the area without doing any research before he turned and pointed at me and barked "Now don't think I'm talking about you! You came here prepared!"
I was flattered.
With Jane safely out of the canyon, I prepared to descend back to my camp for the night. The Sheriff stopped me. Grabbing my shoulder, he pointed to the sky, and at the storm clouds. "If it's clear tomorrow, make for the Confluence. If the clouds look like this or worse in the morning , come up and leave through the Mesa."
Before he left, he gave me his number, and told me to call him after I got out.
In hindsight, I regret not asking the SAR team for more water before they left. They were probably carrying a fair bit of it. But that's hindsight. It makes a fool out of men.
Making dinner, I ate, cleaned up, and climbed into my tent, spending the night on the side of a cliff. It was a good thing I don't roll in my sleep.
DAY TWO
I got up bright and early, eating as the dawn sky lightened. Above, black turned to a a nice blue. The skies were clear, and that meant my trip was a go. Cognizant of the fact that there was a 30% chance of flash flooding starting at noon, I packed as quick as I could and descended, intent on making for the Confluence where there would be springs and the promise of fresh water.
Fate laughed.
Two miles into my day, I vomited.
Speaking of arrogance? Yuuuup. Here I am. That's me.
I should have stopped there and turned around. I should have considered the assumptions I made. But I was new and inexperienced. The pack was heavy, I had never carried something like it during a walk, and while I was fit, I believed my body was simply upset at the unusual strain it was enduring. Drinking more water and eating a small snack, I decided to be on my way. It was the Sheriff, I think. I had made a good impression on him, and he had made a good impression on me. The thought of having to call him again the day after we had said goodbye, and face his disappointment was unbearable.
Bad judgement calls followed.
Another two miles in, I vomited again, and that was when I realized I was in trouble. Though I did not know it at the time, a violent illness was ripping through my whole family.
I took few pictures that day.
Unlike the SAR rescue, there was little time to sit down at think. For a start, the night and breakfast had depleted my water supplies, and there was about half a galleon left. Enough to get to the next water source if I was healthy, but far from sufficient if I was losing water through vomiting. There was also my position; Four miles from the Middle Exit, I was almost half way to the confluence. Self-rescue was a real possibility here, and I was overstocked with food. As long as I got to water, I could wait this sickness out.
Making a decision, I committed and went forward. Wise or not, I did all I could do.
Eight miles from my last campsite, I collapsed unable to go further. Exhausted, hungry, weak from illness, I had vomited several times, and no longer had any water. Even in my exhaustion, I picked my spot. It was near high ground, but with a large rock on the canyon floor that could provide shade from the hot sun. Leaving my pack on the high ground, I lay down in the shade. I was tired and wished to go to sleep, but fearful of missing the approach of a flash flood, I forced myself to stay awake.
There was only one certainty; No one would be so foolish as to enter the canyon after me.
I was on my own.
Imagine my surprise when a couple hours later, a young couple wandered past my feverish, fool-self. "Are you alright?" they asked.
"No," I replied, shaking my head. "I am not. And I could use some help."
The irony of the situation does not escape me. In less than 24 hours, I had gone from being the rescuer to being the victim. It was a sudden, unexpected turn in fortune.
The names of these kind strangers were Kacy and Jazz. They talked to me, and gave me an apple from their pack. It was the best thing I have ever tasted. Even ambrosia from mount Olympus could not compare. To this day, I still pack an apple in my sack each trip in honor of these two strangers. Kacy took my pack and carried all the way to the nearest campsite a mile from the confluence. I was too weak to carry it myself.
There, they set up my tent while I napped, and I crawled inside before falling asleep.
While I was out, Kacy made a six mile round trip to get us fresh water. I was given what food I thought I might be able to keep down, and tried to go to sleep. It was fitful and feverish. That night, I thought the Gulch was alive. I could hear a groaning breath pass through the canyon, inhaling and exhaling, and at times, loud cracks were heard. I know what they were, having made a later trip to the gulch that was successful, but that is a mystery for another time. (Hint; An overhead air route combined with crows that delighted in sending rocks falling down into the canyon.)
It had to be the spirit that had cursed me.
DAY THREE
Sometime during the night, my fever broke. I woke up weak, but much improved, and managed to eat another apple. It was the last apple Kacy and Jazz had. After they had eaten, we discussed my situation.
Again, the symmetry was a thing to behold. The day before, I had engaged in a similar conversation with Jane, and here I was, having the same discussion.
"How are you?" Kacy asked.
"I feel so good I could walk all the way to Lee's Ferry," I replied, hiding my grin. When Kacy's expression fell, I added, "That's why I'm going north, and making an emergency exit at Whitehouse." After such a violent bout of vomiting the day before, I was not such a fool as to think I was well.
Starting the day by carrying my own pack, we set out, and soon reached the Pariah-Buckskin confluence.
It was magnificent.
Kacy is on the left. Jazz in the middle. I was the fool on the right.
As we walked, I began to feel ill again. Another bout of vomiting ensued. My suspicion of the general sense of well-being had proven correct. I was far from well. We continued to walk, but my inability to keep anything down took a toll once more. The canyon widened, and I slowed, struggling. I never asked for help, but there came a point where Kacy told me to give him my pack. I would have carried it until I collapsed rather than force either of them to do more for me than they already had, but Kacy refused to hear of it.
Placing my pack on his front, his own on his back, he carried both of ours.
When we made Whitehouse, I bid them my farewell, intend on resting for a spell at the campground before I made for the Pariah Ranger Station. Again, the kindness of my rescuers surprised me. They refused to leave me there, and drove me all the way to the ranger station.
I never saw Kacy or Jazz ever again, and at the time, I failed to get their number, something I regret. There has never been a way for me to thank either of them for what they did. And while I like to think that I could have pushed forward after a while and reached water myself, that is a question that can never be answered. Regardless, I am grateful for their aid.
At the ranger's station, I took the chance to text the Sheriff, informing him I was out of the canyon, asked, and explained I had to cut my trip short and why.
The sheriff's response? "Noro Virus!"
Apparently, it had been a real issue there.
Desperate to salvage some of my trip, I asked for bounce-back hikes, and was given the number of a man named Yermo. Yermo was a member of the SAR team who had come to help Jane two days prior, and the founder of a local guide company called Seeking Treasure Adventures. He suggested a slot canyon called Cathedral Canyon, which was near Lee's Ferry, where my car was located.
While I waited for my ride, I talked with the ranger manning the Pariah station.
Together, we bitched.
As it turns out, when someone's job consists of not letting fools like me kill themselves (or trying at least), this builds up a seething resentment towards fools such as myself. This attention was turned outwards towards the worst sort of visitors at the national parks. Think vandals and those who take safety for granted. The debates were fierce and without end. Was 'Touron' more insulting than 'Concrete ninny'?
We never settled that.
Remember, four people in three months. Everyone in that area had reason to be irritated, and it passed the time. I had fun at least.
When the visiting center closed, I was kicked out. Soon after, my ride arrived. The day was getting late when I arrived at a little campground near Lee's Ferry, having fetched my own vehicle, and I elected to spend the night there. It was windy.
That campground is always windy.
I do not like that campground.
DAY FOUR.
Waking up, I went to a nearby ranger station and asked for a forecast.
It was bad.
The entire area was under a loaded gun that day, with a fifty percent chance of flash flooding. Had things gone to plan, by now I would have been past the narrows of Pariah Canyon with enough supplies to wait out a flash flood. There was enough food in my pack for it. Yermo suggested Cathedral canyon, but the rangers advised against it. Considering how my trip had gone, I agreed with them, convinced that if I dared to brave Cathedral with that kind of flash flood risk, I was certain to die.
Something wanted me dead, and so I laughed, and left the area.
Making a loop, I stopped at Glenn damm and asked the rangers at the counter if they had any suggestions. They suggested Antelope Canyon.
The thing I remember most about Antelope Canyon is that it is the only slot canyon I know that wiped out three distinct generations of the same family in a single flood. With the area under a loaded gun, I giggled at the ranger, and took my leave. It was a very nice ranger station, but I was not impressed by the ranger's lack of knowledge. From there, I proceeded to hit every ranger station on the way back up to the Pariah station asking them the same question; "Considering this weather, what would you suggest?"
There was a station that with dinosaurs, I can't remember their name. They were knowledgeable, but had few suggestions.
Eventually, I arrived at the Pariah station, and slammed the door open. "I've got an idea," I declared to the ranger I'd hit it off with, "and on a scale from one to 'you belong in Zions where the rocks are padded for your convenience', I want you to tell me how stupid it is."
The idea was simple; Since the entire area was under a loaded gun, I couldn't go into a slot canyon. Too dangerous.
But that didn't mean I couldn't watch a flash flood. The forecasts were dire, but plateau were safe, and a good place to watch water rip through the canyon below me. Since I still had time on my permit, so I could camp up on the Vermillion Mesa near Buckskin gulch.
The ranger admitted to having done that before, and thought it was a good idea. I set out at once.
Parking for the middle pass trailhead was about half a mile from the edge of 'The Dive', a place where the mesa took a sudden plunge. It wasn't that bad compared to the middle exit. I spent much of the day rambling around looking for Cobra's arch. I never did find it. Apparently the map was all wrong. But I saw a bunch of wildlife, and found some cool stuff in it's own right.
DAY FIVE
While I had gotten drizzled on the day before, the day passed without any flash floods. The night had disappointed with how boring it was. Dashing my hopes, there had been no loud roar to awaken me, and the canyon bottom was bone dry. With my vacation time ending, I resolved to head down and depart for the Salt Lake area.
Nature laughed at my plans.
Walking into the Pariah station intent on saying goodbye and thanks for the memories, the second I entered the ranger looked up at me and his face lit like a firecracker.
"Duuude," he drawled. "Come back here." Beckoning me behind the counter, he showed me his computer screen. Doppler radar splashed the surrounding areas in green. See this?" he pointed at a spot of green. "It looked exactly like this the last time it flash flooded. Y'know, the time people died."
"When was this taken?" I demanded.
"About five minutes ago."
I departed and headed right back up into the Vermillion Mesa, my hopes kindled again.
Up top, I found something that made me frown. At the trailhead for the middle exit, a vehicle had been parked, and it had not been there when I had set out in the morning. After I had left, someone had come up, and that boded ill because there was only one good reason to be at that trailhead, and it was the gulch I had come up here to see flash flood.
Worried, I tracked the party down the dive, and into the desert sands beyond. There were three or four fresh sets of feet, though I couldn't determine the exact number. Strangest of all, however, was the person walking barefoot, each toe visible in the imprint they had made in the blow sand. Who were these people? And what madman accompanied them who dared walk barefoot in terrain like this?
Sure enough the trail led to the middle exit. When I looked down, I saw two backpacks discarded at the bottom of the gulch.
Dread pooled in my stomach, my hopes inverted in an instant. Forget the flash flood; I did not want to have to contact the rangers again explaining that I had watched water tear through the canyon below me and carry away a set of hiking packs, the people those packs belonged to nowhere to be seen. But I was equally unwilling to descend and expose myself to the risk of the flood. Instead, I waited up top. Eventually a party came into view.
"Ho!" I cried.
"Hello!" they cried back. "Won't you come down?"
"No! It's too dangerous. You realize there's a seventy percent chance of flash flooding today, right?"
"Don't you recognize me?" a figure below called back.
"No-" I stopped mid sentence. My eyes widened. "I'm coming down!" And sure enough, I scrambled down.
Waiting for me at the bottom was the bloody sheriff!
As fate would have it, the Sheriff did some moonlighting as a helper for Yermo so he could put extra money into his retirement fund. Yermo, the local guide who worked at Seeking Treasure Adventures, was being paid a lot of money to take a photographer from Australia and her boyfriend down into the gulch for some pictures. Because of the flash flooding risk, it was to be quick, in and out, and they were coming back up, done with their photography at the bottom of the gulch.
The rest of the area awaited them.
Photographer on the right. Sheriff in the middle. Boyfriend on the left.
I guess they were touched by my concern, and I suspect the rescue I had been involved in the four days prior had left an impression, because Yermo and the Sheriff allowed me to tag along on this paid guided experience for free. We navigated through the Vermillion plateau while Yermo talked about all these neat little facts. Leading us to a patch of stone, he pointed down with his stick.
Dinosaur tracks.
There were dinosaur tracks in the Pariah plateau. We walked farther. And what I saw blew me away.
Taking a long, circuitous route that led us far, Yermo led us to one of the largest petroglyph sites I have ever seen. On the walls exposed to the wind and the sand, the petroglyphs were difficult to see. But hidden between two rocks, they were well preserved and clear. One set spanned at least thirty feet. The other maybe twenty.
But that wasn't the true jewel. Not in my opinion.
Located high on the wall was a map of Buckskin gulch itself. The map showed the confluence of Wire Pass and Buckskin gulch. It showed the curves in the canyon where the middle exit was. The map was so good, it even showed how the canyon widened at the end.
Somehow, the native americans who had lived in this area had produced an incredibly accurate map of the gulch thousands of years ago.
After all the time I had spent pouring over my own maps, I knew exactly what I was looking at. The curves were there. The tributaries- It was all corrected.
It is probably the coolest thing I saw the entire trip.
His tour over, Yermo set out for the dive and the trailhead. Concerned, I accompanied them. Better safe than sorry, right? A third person to help in case of an accident seemed sensible, and I was grateful for being allowed to tag along. We traveled together until the base of the dive, where I said farewell, and we parted ways.
Determined to find the Cobra arch I missed the day before, I searched again retracing my steps. I even found a formation that looked like a cobra, and I like to think that was Cobra arch. I'm not sure, however, and may shall never know for certain.
With my permit out of time, I was forced to descend the mesa as the sun set.
Buckskin had not flooded this day either.
At the top of the dive, my phone vibrated as I re-entered cell-service. It was a text from Yermo, who had hidden a gift in the wheel well of my vehicle. Putting away my gear, I found the gift. I still have it too; It lies on top of one of my bookshelves, it's cap dusted by blow sand.
The day had a few hours left to burn, and one last surprise for me.
The road up into the Vermillion Mesa ran right alongside a sizable slot canyon. At times, dirt faded, and bare rock scoured clean by flash floods began as washes passed over it. The largest wash which fed the slot canyon crossed over the road not on hundred feet from the dryfall that marked the slot's beginning, and I had to pass over that wash on my way out.
Rounding a corner, I saw someone standing in the road, rifle pressed their shoulder.
I never did get their picture.
This strange individual was shooting at bottles lined up on a rock, firing across the road to do so. I waved at them as I passed. Man with rifle? Check. Camp chairs set up in the middle of this wash to the left of where it crossed the road? Check. Two people sitting in those camp chairs? Check. Seventy percent chance of flash flooding today? Check. A large tent set up smack dab in the center of that wash a hundred feet from a large dryfall?
Check, check, and check.
Some things are too strange to comprehend without thought. I rounded the next corner before my brows furrowed, and my foot slammed on the breaks. Had it been a dream, a hallucinations? Whatever it was, I needed to find out.
A short reverse later, I learned that I had imagined nothing.
Reality was cruel, and once again, fate laughed. The wash was massive, the largest in the entire canyon, and these people intended to sleep right in the middle of it. If a heavy rain came, it was certain death. Putting my car in park, I got out and turned a full three-sixty degrees, taking in the entire scene. "Hey," I hollered. "You guys realize your in a wash! Right!?"
A cornfield accent greeted me. "What's a wash?"
Fuck. Not again.
Above; The slot canyon in question.
Vehicle humming beside me, I explained the precarious nature of their campsite, and suggested they move it. As soon as possible was best, but before they went to sleep was fine too.
Unfortunately, a good ol' boy with twangy accent insisted things were fine were they were. He knew what he was about. This was not the gentlemen who had been firing over the road.
Choosing discretion as the better part of arguing with an armed party, I shrugged my shoulders and got back into my vehicle. "Alright!" I guess I'll listen to the news. If there's a flood tonight, I'll wait at the bottom of the canyon and collect your stuff as it floats by. Make sure it gets to your surviving relatives."
And with that, I drove off, glancing at my rear view mirror as I rounded the corner.
I like to think that I saw the older daughter who had been in this four person party picking up chairs and carrying them up the steep banks of that wash. I like to think many things. To this day, I am not sure. Down in the Valley, I texted Yermo a message, wondering if anyone should do something about this considering the danger they were in. The conversation went something like this;
With official sanction, I dismissed my worries. If the people who would have to come find the bodies if our guests from out of state didn't survive the night couldn't be bothered to care about this, then it wasn't my job either. Let the chips fall where they may.
Sending a quick prayer asking whatever might be listening to have mercy on fools like me, I turned my attention to finding a place to sleep.
Asking Yermo for advice, he suggested some BLM land used by the local ranchers to graze their cattle. Cow-patties ahoy. Rainbows streaked the sky while I opened two tin cans of chili and ate them. With a belly full of warm salty goodness, I went to sleep.
DAY SIX.
Nature spited me yet again. It had been a rainless night.
I suppose my prayer had been heard, and pity taken on those fools up in the canyon. I was glad enough for it. The idea of trying to fish a survivor or a body out of the water while I waited for a proper SAR team to arrive did not appeal. I was all rescued out for five trips, let alone one. Setting course, I began to make my way up north, moving through the lower hackberry. There were slots there, and I hit them as I passed. In one them, water crept through the wash.
Excited, I pulled out my camera and began to film.
Was it a flash flood? I hoped it was a flash flood. I didn't care if it was a small one. I wanted a flash flood!
With the benefit of hindsight, I suspect what I saw was merely a diurnal stream releasing it's waters. But after the better part of a week seeking a flash flood, I was hopeful. I hit several more slots again. They were short, but quite high, and reminded me of Zions national park.
L:ater that day, I tried to make camp in the lower Hackberry. The flies were miserable, and like sand, they were everywhere. I couldn't handle it the swarms. Hurling my collapsed tent into my vehicle, I drove for another half-hour, gaining a few hundred feet of altitude and stopping in Upper Hackberry on top of a hill. The flies still bothered me while I cooked, but they were tolerable compared to before, and I ate in my tent once the food was done to avoid them.
The night was hot.
Day 7
I would have spent more time in the area if I could have, but unfortunately, time was running out. I had to be at work tomorrow, no excuses.
Waking up early, I put my tent away and resolved to push all the way up to northern Utah where I lived. Along the way, I made some detours in Kodachrome basin, saw some arches, and made some friends. Never got their pictures, never saw them again.
It was hot.
I continued driving, and ended up at a little place called Red Canyon. I'd made good time, so I decided to see what Red Canyon had to offer hiking-wise. Walking into the Ranger's station, I explained that I'd had a week, and that week had been special. Things had happened, good or bad, but they had happened consistently. The highest highs and the lowest lows all combined into some real madhouse fun. At the end, I said "So. I am looking for a short hike, and preferably, I would like it to be a hike where I am not going to run into a tourist in distress. I don't have any more time for that." By this point, I had provided aid in at least four different incidents, and was rather sick of it.
The ranger's hand drifted away from where he'd been pointing. "I guess you don't want to to this trail then."
"What happens there?" I replied. "Animal attacks? Sudden falls from cliffs? Murder?"
"Heat exhaustion."
That was fair. I settled on a different place.
Red Canyon was pretty enough for what it was. High enough that it had pines, but on the edge of the Colorado plateau so it had some blow sand. I did my hike, took my pictures, and left. No entanglements occurred involving heat exhaustion.
The rest of my trip was spent driving back north. Nothing exceptional happened along the way.
That alone made me uneasy. The trip so far had been as catastrophic as it had been wonderful. Why should the drive home not be any different? Perhaps there was a gas tanker waiting to crash just as I was passing it by. But as if to spite my expectations yet again, the drive was uneventful, and I made it home safely. I thought back to the groaning canyon I had heard in my feverish state, and wondered if whatever spirit I had angered had decided it's mission was done, and had returned to it's rest.
In the aftermath, I took the opportunity to sit down and examine all that had happened.
Mistakes had been made. Some had been made by others. Others by me. Regardless of whose they were, I considered the importance of the decisions made, and decided on the lessons to learn from them. The next trip I took saw a much, much lighter pack. While I still carried weight, they were the right things.
Remembering the photos I had taken of the rescue, I texted Jane's children and asked if they would like those photos.
The response was enthusiastic to say the least. Sometime during the rescue, one of the children had contacted the Kane County Sheriff and had leaned what was going on. Through text, I was promised the finest BBQ in Michigan if I was ever passing through the area. It was a touching offer, but one that I never took them up on to this day. While I hope Jane remains well, and continues to hike, all the good hiking is in Utah, and I am already there.
And that was my trip.
I've been meaning to discuss this trip report for awhile, but never really gotten around to it. But inspired by @Gretchen Millward 's post here, I have decided to push past that and actually talk about what happened.
2023 was a wild year for Southern Utah. That year, a ranger at the Pariah station told me it was like monsoon season had never ended, and I believed him. The year was wet. It was unpredictable. It was, in a word, dangerous. I had planned permits months in advance, and was not about to be dissuaded. There were others like me that year, and they had also planned their trip months in advance. Like me, the risk had not dissuaded them. Among them were Gary York, John Walter, Bill Romaniello, and Jeff Watson. All four of these men died in Buckskin Gulch in the months before I entered that canyon myself.
From the very beginning, my trip was troubled.
In the years since, and even at the time, I couldn't help but feel something had not wanted me inside that Canyon. Perhaps I had offended a dead spirit, or perhaps mother nature just looked at me and said "Hey. Fuck you."
On the drive down from Northern Utah, I encountered not one, but two crashes, both of which I stopped at. The first had been relatively simple; Someone towing a trailer put together by their uncle had seen the entire trailer come off the hitch, and it had jackknifed them and their car into the side of an freeway overpass. The trailer ball had been about half an inch too small, and that was why it had popped off. Thankfully, no one was injured, though I made it quite clear to the young driver that it was important to check his own load to ensure it had been done right, because if his chains had failed as well, he would have killed someone.
The second crash I encountered was near Red Canyon, and the driver was not so lucky.
Debris were still skidding across the pavement when I stopped, put on my blinkers, and hurled myself out of my vehicle. A motorcylcist going sixty had hit a deer and badly damaged his knee, skidding across the pavement with his bike until he had stopped. Grabbing my Garmin and a tourniquet I keep in my vehicle for such incidents, I raced for him. Most of the debris had settled, though some plastic still rocked on the road. A few others got there before I did, including a nurse. As she was not supplied with first aid gear and, I ended up racing back to my vehicle and pulling out my first aid kit from my backpack, and gave her a pair of shears for the man's broken knee and disposable gloves for the blood. Together, we stayed with the man, making him as comfortable as we could without moving him until Fire EMS and an ambulance could arrive.
It was a foretaste for what was about to happen, an ominous warning that at the time, I was blind to.
When I got down to the Pariah Station to collect my permits, the forecast was about as bad as the trip down to southern Utah. The day I was supposed to go in, there was a 30% chance of flash flooding each day starting at noon. The next two days were the same, after which the chance of flash flooding increased to fifty or seventy percent. Reluctant to call off my trip, I discussed the situation with the rangers.
My fallback strategy was simple; 10 to 13 miles deep into Buckskin gulch was a place called the Middle Exit, a well-known crossing for the gulch that connects the old spanish trail from the lower vermillion plateau to the upper plateau. Starting early in the morning as day broke, I would be at the middle exit before noon, and ascend into the mesa to await whatever came. If a flash flood tore through during the night? Fine. If it didn't, I would begin again in the morning, this time reaching the confluence.
The ranger agreed that this seemed sensible, so away I went.
DAY ONE
I was at my starting point at the break of dawn, ready to begun my first overnight backpacking trip. .
Due to my inexperience, I had overpacked, and in some instances missed bringing simple items, like a hat, which was left in my car, or sunglasses. Not to be dissuaded, I improviseD, taking a strap from my head lantern and using it to keep my hair back from my eyes. Others here have described the Buckskin gulch better than I have, so I'll gloss over it, instead focusing on the trip itself. In the early morning, Buckskin Gulch was a place of singular beauty.
There were petroglyphs, confined walls where a man could reach out with either hand and touch both walls, and hidden secrets abounded. In short, it was everything I loved about southern Utah.
Moving through the Canyon, I could not help but marvel at the immense forces that had created it. Sticks lodged twenty or thirty feet up in the canyon, showing how high the water could go, there were marks everywhere. rocks bore signs of stress the likes of which I had never seen before. It was isolated. At times, it was dark. Wet.
Beautiful.
I made good time.
Arriving at the middle exit at about eleven O-clock, I set my pack down and had a snack break. Sitting on the canyon floor, I gazed up at the Middle exit while I ate, thinking. There were fifty feet of static line in my pack, brought for the haul, but it was also the first time I'd done a class three scramble, and the skies looked clear. Did I really have the brave what appeared to be a treacherous ascent?
The answer was yes.
It was then an elderly woman of about fifty to sixty years of age strolled past my resting place wearing the smallest daypack I had ever seen, glanced at me with a smile, and asked, with total confidence; "Is this Buckskin?"
The question shocked me.
I was about thirteen miles into a slot canyon that was twenty miles long, and had a sword of Damocles hung over my head in the form of a 30% flash flood risk starting at noon. It was not a place you ever wanted to hear "Is this X place?" Rather than answer, I started asking questions of my own. The woman's name was Jane.
"Jane," says I, "What do you mean 'is this Buckskin?'"
Jane looked back at me, and withdrew a small, transparent smart water bottle. Those water bottles had been in the fashion at the time, and I'd seen them everywhere I went, used by trendy hipsters. It carried less than half the water I usually took even on short day trips in southern Utah, and was far from adequate for the summer heat. "I am looking for Buckskin Wash."
That was when I realized a simple fact; This woman was going to die if I did not help her.
This is an overview of Buckskin Gulch.
To the left, there is a little green hiking man labeled 'Trailhead'. That is the Wire Pass trailhead, where we both started from. In the middle below 'Cobra Arch Trailhead' is a nice blue marker. That is the middle exit, where we were at the time, and is about twelve miles from the Wire Pass-Buckskin Gulch confluence. To the right is the confluence for Buckskin Gulch and the Pariah River, about ten miles from the Middle Exit as the wolf runs.
About a mile from the trailhead, the Wire Pass-Buckskin Gulch confluence is a striking place, with a recessed hollow in the side of the walls where the occasional rattlesnake likes to sit, petroglyphs on the right wall a little further ahead that are often vandalized from the tourists who converged on the spot due to the marker in google maps. A T-junction, it presents three choices to those who are in. You may go left. You may go right. You may turn around and head back. The walls are too sheer for anything else.
Jane had missed her turnoff by about twelve miles.
Far more alarmed than before, more questions poured from my mouth. "Do you know what the forecast is?"
Jane smiled, and admitted that she did not.
This was trouble.
I explained the situation she had found herself in. In brief, I covered the forecast, where she was, how far away she was from safety, and where she could go.
But I made one thing very clear, and it was this; It did not matter what she did. I was going up. She could come with me, or find her own way out.
Deciding to give her a moment to think about what I had just told her, I left my pack behind, grabbed my Garmin Inreach, and scrambled up into the mesa to get a good look around us.
What I saw chilled my blood.
The sky seen from the bottom of the canyon had been a vivid, cloudless blue. In contrast, up top the summer monsoon clouds were visible in the distance, and rain was falling upon our drainage area as a wall of precipitation coming towards us by the minute. Returning to the bottom, I told Jane that if she was going to ascend, she had to do so now, because we might not have much time.
This is the middle exit seen from the opposite side of the canyon. I came back and took this picture later.
Please note the two ledges you see in the middle left, and the lower right. These are important, and we will come back to them. Ascent and decent is made through a series of Moki steps which are too small to be visible here, and they give you just enough grip to get up and down. Please also note the tree you see at the very top in the sand. We will come back to that as well.
Some time before I arrived, some enterprising individual had decided that the exposure in the middle exit was too steep for their liking, and had implanted a pair of bolts in one of the lower ledges. Note the dust around the bolts. I am not sure who did it, but it was very shortly before my trip. Within the month I would say.
Jane was not as spry as she had used to be. Ascending to the first shelf, I pulled up my pack and detached the rope from it. Tying my static line to these bolts, I threw the rope down for Jane. Grabbing it, she managed to ascend up from the canyon floor. So far, so good. We were out of immediate danger, but I did not want to be here. The ledge was a decent place to camp, but it counted as part of the canyon, and it was illegal to sleep in the canyon.
Remember the ledges I asked you to remember? Here is where we return to them.
Jane had gotten up to the first shelf, but it had been difficult for her, and she was scuffed up and bleeding. I helped her up to the second ledge, but the Moki steps carved into the walls of the canyon had been made for a limber individual. Even for a tall man such as myself, the gaps between each step were uncomfortably large, and the middle exit was too steep in places to safely climb without them.
Shorter than I, Jane was not the youthful lady she had once been.
As she tried to climb higher, beyond a point where I could no longer push her up, I watched her feet slip. Looking behind her, I considered the slope of the slickrock. The probability of a roll.
And I said "Enough."
Grabbing my rope, I ascended into the Mesa without her, looking for a place to secure my fifty feet of static.
The only thing I had was the tree I asked you to note.
The distance was far too great. Fifty feet of rope could not reach from that tree to Jane, who was on the upper ledge.
I returned down to Jane and explained the situation to her again. "Jane," I said, "I think we need to call in the rangers, because you need help."
Jane did not want to call in the rangers.
I shook my head and explained all I had seen. Pointing to the fall behind her, "If you tumble here and roll, you are going to fall at least eighty feet to the canyon floor. Then I'll have to call the rangers anyway, but the helicopter probably won't make it in time. Jane, because of your choices, you have ended up in a situation where a bad decision will mean your death. Now, do you want me to call the rangers?"
In the end, it was decided that the rangers should be called.
Looking back, I'm not sure why I didn't use the SOS signal. But I didn't. Using the number on my permit, I tried contacting the rangers directly. No one ever responded. Undeterred, I turned to family instead.
"Man, my luck is just awful. At the moment, I'm sitting on the lowest bench of the middle exit attempting to get into contact with the rangers. Do me a favour and call this number"
A back and forth ensued that went on for some time. With the rains fast approaching, and with no way to know how long rescue would take, I began to settle in for the long haul. We were exposed on the side of a canyon, and I was concerned about hypothermia. Jane couldn't really move, so I erected my tent there and then on the side of the cliff.
It was a tight fit.
Communications were slow. We were still inside the canyon itself, high enough we could get messages out, but low enough those messages only came and went when there was a satellite directly overhead. In the time it took for each message to be sent or received, there was time for me and Jane to talk.
As it turned out, Jane was an experienced hiker from Michigan who had spent a lot of time in the Appalachians. As she had gotten older, she had gotten the wanderlust again, and gone a traveling. She probably knew more than I did. My gear was fancy enough, but she knew hers better, and had the experience to match.
There was only one problem; All of it, and I do mean all of it, had been left in her car.
The extra water bottles, the map of the area, her compass, the trekking poles, extra food, even a Garmin her kids had bought from her because they were worried. In short, every tool she had possessed that could have avoided her current situation had been left behind. But it got worse; Jane had failed to tell anyone where she was, or where she was going.
"Jane," I asked inside the tent with her. "Your turn-off was a single mile into the hike. You are now thirteen miles into your hike. Did you ever get the feeling that maybe something was wrong, and you should turn around?"
"I did. But I kept going," she replied.
I didn't know how to reply to that.
Our conversation bent around back to me. She asked if I thought I'd enjoy the rest of the trip. I was honest; From where I was sitting, my trip looked like it was over. I'd only brought so much water, and I didn't know how long rescue would take. By the time SAR arrived, I might not have enough water to make it to my next spring. Jane cried at this. I tried to reassure her. The important thing was that she would be getting back to her family, right? That was what mattered.
Around this time, the Kane county SAR got tired of talking to me through intermediaries, and demanded I be directly passed onto them. A number was provided for my use, and I used it.
"I've been told this is the lane county sheriff? My name is [Bad Luck Brigade]. I'm the dude you have watching over the lady in buckskin gulch."
"Copy can you send me coord to your exact location I have a deputy and search and rescue headed to you now"
"Be advised, signal is bad. Probably only getting messages in and out when satellite travels overhead"
"Copy can you send me coord."
"N37.031326° W111.921964°"
Not much had changed in our circumstances except this; We were getting rained on, and there was thunder as well.
As the need to communicate with the SAR team slowed, and it became a waiting game, I offered Jane if she wanted to contact her family and let them know she was alright. I still have those messages. I still don't know what to think about them. Her family didn't know she was in danger, didn't even know she was in the general area to begin with. Then, out of the blue, they get a message like this; "
"It's mom. I'm safe and will get out safely. Don't worry. I'm with [Bad Luck Brigade] and the rangers will be here. Love you."
I can only imagine their panic.
In some ways, I don't blame Jane for being in this situation.
Looking back, I can think of many times when I have been arrogant. The difference between me and Jane is a mixture of luck and circumstance. My foot went where I wanted it too. The rain was not as bad as I'd feared. Somehow, things worked out well for me, not just in this trip, but in the ones that followed. Jane wasn't so different from me. Her luck had simply run out, and this time... This time no amount of experience in the Appalachians could overcome a lack of foresight in red-rock territory.
The hours passed.
Sooner than I had ever expected, I heard a holler from above, and opened my tent to look outside. The first member of the SAR party had arrived. I was astonished at how this man moved. He looked older than Jane, but I admired the way he slid down that slidrock like a mountain goat, two trekking poles in hand. On the side of that cliff, we talked.
Mostly, he wanted to know what was going on, and if anyone was hurt.
Speaking of arrogance, I was excited. As I was not the one in need of rescue, I found it a novel experience, and was eager to talk. It was the point where this man, a Sheriff, had to tell me to be quiet so he could hear Jane speak. Appropriately chastised, I waited my turn to explain why I was here, and what had happened. I didn't add much, just some personal context such as the fact that I'd known the risks of the day and had planned to be up the mesa by now. Displaying my rope, I explained it was too short to tie off for Jane.
The Sheriff pointed to the bolts, and asked "Did you do that?"
"No."
"It's unnecessary. Those bolts shouldn't be there."
Deep down, I agreed with him. While Jane had difficulty ascending, the Moki steps made it relatively easy for me. Once you understood the secret of the Middle Exit, it was not hard to climb up or down as long as you were flexible and fit enough. Had Jane been a decade younger, or as spry as the Sheriff was, there would not have been the slightest issue. Whoever had put those bolts in hadn't stopped to take the time to consider their descent, and realize it was safer than it looked.
A second man arrived from above, part of the rope team.
After assessing the situation, the Sheriff and the second man decided they could get Jane out without needing to wait for the rest of the team. Using each other as anchors, they roped Jane up, and she managed climb up into the mesa.
Up top, we ended up talking even more.
As the conversation drifted to the conga-train of errors that had led up Jane being in such a dangerous position where she needed to get out Buckskin but couldn't, the Sheriff got irritated. Some people go loud. He went quiet. Turning Jane, he asked, in a simple, matter-of-fact tone, "Now. What do you think the lessons to learn here are?"
I didn't hear the mumble Jane gave in reply.
Turning to me, the Sheriff said; "I'm glad you found her, because we never would have thought to look for her body at the confluence."
The conversation drifted to the people who had died in the canyon the three months previously.
At this, the Sheriff grew angry. The passion was captivating. He explained that there had been a seventy percent chance of flood that day, and those who had died had been warned not to go in. They had gone in anyways. They had died for it. He ranted for a good two minutes on the topic of people who came to the area without doing any research before he turned and pointed at me and barked "Now don't think I'm talking about you! You came here prepared!"
I was flattered.
With Jane safely out of the canyon, I prepared to descend back to my camp for the night. The Sheriff stopped me. Grabbing my shoulder, he pointed to the sky, and at the storm clouds. "If it's clear tomorrow, make for the Confluence. If the clouds look like this or worse in the morning , come up and leave through the Mesa."
Before he left, he gave me his number, and told me to call him after I got out.
In hindsight, I regret not asking the SAR team for more water before they left. They were probably carrying a fair bit of it. But that's hindsight. It makes a fool out of men.
Making dinner, I ate, cleaned up, and climbed into my tent, spending the night on the side of a cliff. It was a good thing I don't roll in my sleep.
DAY TWO
I got up bright and early, eating as the dawn sky lightened. Above, black turned to a a nice blue. The skies were clear, and that meant my trip was a go. Cognizant of the fact that there was a 30% chance of flash flooding starting at noon, I packed as quick as I could and descended, intent on making for the Confluence where there would be springs and the promise of fresh water.
Fate laughed.
Two miles into my day, I vomited.
Speaking of arrogance? Yuuuup. Here I am. That's me.
I should have stopped there and turned around. I should have considered the assumptions I made. But I was new and inexperienced. The pack was heavy, I had never carried something like it during a walk, and while I was fit, I believed my body was simply upset at the unusual strain it was enduring. Drinking more water and eating a small snack, I decided to be on my way. It was the Sheriff, I think. I had made a good impression on him, and he had made a good impression on me. The thought of having to call him again the day after we had said goodbye, and face his disappointment was unbearable.
Bad judgement calls followed.
Another two miles in, I vomited again, and that was when I realized I was in trouble. Though I did not know it at the time, a violent illness was ripping through my whole family.
I took few pictures that day.
Unlike the SAR rescue, there was little time to sit down at think. For a start, the night and breakfast had depleted my water supplies, and there was about half a galleon left. Enough to get to the next water source if I was healthy, but far from sufficient if I was losing water through vomiting. There was also my position; Four miles from the Middle Exit, I was almost half way to the confluence. Self-rescue was a real possibility here, and I was overstocked with food. As long as I got to water, I could wait this sickness out.
Making a decision, I committed and went forward. Wise or not, I did all I could do.
Eight miles from my last campsite, I collapsed unable to go further. Exhausted, hungry, weak from illness, I had vomited several times, and no longer had any water. Even in my exhaustion, I picked my spot. It was near high ground, but with a large rock on the canyon floor that could provide shade from the hot sun. Leaving my pack on the high ground, I lay down in the shade. I was tired and wished to go to sleep, but fearful of missing the approach of a flash flood, I forced myself to stay awake.
There was only one certainty; No one would be so foolish as to enter the canyon after me.
I was on my own.
Imagine my surprise when a couple hours later, a young couple wandered past my feverish, fool-self. "Are you alright?" they asked.
"No," I replied, shaking my head. "I am not. And I could use some help."
The irony of the situation does not escape me. In less than 24 hours, I had gone from being the rescuer to being the victim. It was a sudden, unexpected turn in fortune.
The names of these kind strangers were Kacy and Jazz. They talked to me, and gave me an apple from their pack. It was the best thing I have ever tasted. Even ambrosia from mount Olympus could not compare. To this day, I still pack an apple in my sack each trip in honor of these two strangers. Kacy took my pack and carried all the way to the nearest campsite a mile from the confluence. I was too weak to carry it myself.
There, they set up my tent while I napped, and I crawled inside before falling asleep.
While I was out, Kacy made a six mile round trip to get us fresh water. I was given what food I thought I might be able to keep down, and tried to go to sleep. It was fitful and feverish. That night, I thought the Gulch was alive. I could hear a groaning breath pass through the canyon, inhaling and exhaling, and at times, loud cracks were heard. I know what they were, having made a later trip to the gulch that was successful, but that is a mystery for another time. (Hint; An overhead air route combined with crows that delighted in sending rocks falling down into the canyon.)
It had to be the spirit that had cursed me.
DAY THREE
Sometime during the night, my fever broke. I woke up weak, but much improved, and managed to eat another apple. It was the last apple Kacy and Jazz had. After they had eaten, we discussed my situation.
Again, the symmetry was a thing to behold. The day before, I had engaged in a similar conversation with Jane, and here I was, having the same discussion.
"How are you?" Kacy asked.
"I feel so good I could walk all the way to Lee's Ferry," I replied, hiding my grin. When Kacy's expression fell, I added, "That's why I'm going north, and making an emergency exit at Whitehouse." After such a violent bout of vomiting the day before, I was not such a fool as to think I was well.
Starting the day by carrying my own pack, we set out, and soon reached the Pariah-Buckskin confluence.
It was magnificent.
Kacy is on the left. Jazz in the middle. I was the fool on the right.
As we walked, I began to feel ill again. Another bout of vomiting ensued. My suspicion of the general sense of well-being had proven correct. I was far from well. We continued to walk, but my inability to keep anything down took a toll once more. The canyon widened, and I slowed, struggling. I never asked for help, but there came a point where Kacy told me to give him my pack. I would have carried it until I collapsed rather than force either of them to do more for me than they already had, but Kacy refused to hear of it.
Placing my pack on his front, his own on his back, he carried both of ours.
When we made Whitehouse, I bid them my farewell, intend on resting for a spell at the campground before I made for the Pariah Ranger Station. Again, the kindness of my rescuers surprised me. They refused to leave me there, and drove me all the way to the ranger station.
I never saw Kacy or Jazz ever again, and at the time, I failed to get their number, something I regret. There has never been a way for me to thank either of them for what they did. And while I like to think that I could have pushed forward after a while and reached water myself, that is a question that can never be answered. Regardless, I am grateful for their aid.
At the ranger's station, I took the chance to text the Sheriff, informing him I was out of the canyon, asked, and explained I had to cut my trip short and why.
The sheriff's response? "Noro Virus!"
Apparently, it had been a real issue there.
Desperate to salvage some of my trip, I asked for bounce-back hikes, and was given the number of a man named Yermo. Yermo was a member of the SAR team who had come to help Jane two days prior, and the founder of a local guide company called Seeking Treasure Adventures. He suggested a slot canyon called Cathedral Canyon, which was near Lee's Ferry, where my car was located.
While I waited for my ride, I talked with the ranger manning the Pariah station.
Together, we bitched.
As it turns out, when someone's job consists of not letting fools like me kill themselves (or trying at least), this builds up a seething resentment towards fools such as myself. This attention was turned outwards towards the worst sort of visitors at the national parks. Think vandals and those who take safety for granted. The debates were fierce and without end. Was 'Touron' more insulting than 'Concrete ninny'?
We never settled that.
Remember, four people in three months. Everyone in that area had reason to be irritated, and it passed the time. I had fun at least.
When the visiting center closed, I was kicked out. Soon after, my ride arrived. The day was getting late when I arrived at a little campground near Lee's Ferry, having fetched my own vehicle, and I elected to spend the night there. It was windy.
That campground is always windy.
I do not like that campground.
DAY FOUR.
Waking up, I went to a nearby ranger station and asked for a forecast.
It was bad.
The entire area was under a loaded gun that day, with a fifty percent chance of flash flooding. Had things gone to plan, by now I would have been past the narrows of Pariah Canyon with enough supplies to wait out a flash flood. There was enough food in my pack for it. Yermo suggested Cathedral canyon, but the rangers advised against it. Considering how my trip had gone, I agreed with them, convinced that if I dared to brave Cathedral with that kind of flash flood risk, I was certain to die.
Something wanted me dead, and so I laughed, and left the area.
Making a loop, I stopped at Glenn damm and asked the rangers at the counter if they had any suggestions. They suggested Antelope Canyon.
The thing I remember most about Antelope Canyon is that it is the only slot canyon I know that wiped out three distinct generations of the same family in a single flood. With the area under a loaded gun, I giggled at the ranger, and took my leave. It was a very nice ranger station, but I was not impressed by the ranger's lack of knowledge. From there, I proceeded to hit every ranger station on the way back up to the Pariah station asking them the same question; "Considering this weather, what would you suggest?"
There was a station that with dinosaurs, I can't remember their name. They were knowledgeable, but had few suggestions.
Eventually, I arrived at the Pariah station, and slammed the door open. "I've got an idea," I declared to the ranger I'd hit it off with, "and on a scale from one to 'you belong in Zions where the rocks are padded for your convenience', I want you to tell me how stupid it is."
The idea was simple; Since the entire area was under a loaded gun, I couldn't go into a slot canyon. Too dangerous.
But that didn't mean I couldn't watch a flash flood. The forecasts were dire, but plateau were safe, and a good place to watch water rip through the canyon below me. Since I still had time on my permit, so I could camp up on the Vermillion Mesa near Buckskin gulch.
The ranger admitted to having done that before, and thought it was a good idea. I set out at once.
Parking for the middle pass trailhead was about half a mile from the edge of 'The Dive', a place where the mesa took a sudden plunge. It wasn't that bad compared to the middle exit. I spent much of the day rambling around looking for Cobra's arch. I never did find it. Apparently the map was all wrong. But I saw a bunch of wildlife, and found some cool stuff in it's own right.
DAY FIVE
While I had gotten drizzled on the day before, the day passed without any flash floods. The night had disappointed with how boring it was. Dashing my hopes, there had been no loud roar to awaken me, and the canyon bottom was bone dry. With my vacation time ending, I resolved to head down and depart for the Salt Lake area.
Nature laughed at my plans.
Walking into the Pariah station intent on saying goodbye and thanks for the memories, the second I entered the ranger looked up at me and his face lit like a firecracker.
"Duuude," he drawled. "Come back here." Beckoning me behind the counter, he showed me his computer screen. Doppler radar splashed the surrounding areas in green. See this?" he pointed at a spot of green. "It looked exactly like this the last time it flash flooded. Y'know, the time people died."
"When was this taken?" I demanded.
"About five minutes ago."
I departed and headed right back up into the Vermillion Mesa, my hopes kindled again.
Up top, I found something that made me frown. At the trailhead for the middle exit, a vehicle had been parked, and it had not been there when I had set out in the morning. After I had left, someone had come up, and that boded ill because there was only one good reason to be at that trailhead, and it was the gulch I had come up here to see flash flood.
Worried, I tracked the party down the dive, and into the desert sands beyond. There were three or four fresh sets of feet, though I couldn't determine the exact number. Strangest of all, however, was the person walking barefoot, each toe visible in the imprint they had made in the blow sand. Who were these people? And what madman accompanied them who dared walk barefoot in terrain like this?
Sure enough the trail led to the middle exit. When I looked down, I saw two backpacks discarded at the bottom of the gulch.
Dread pooled in my stomach, my hopes inverted in an instant. Forget the flash flood; I did not want to have to contact the rangers again explaining that I had watched water tear through the canyon below me and carry away a set of hiking packs, the people those packs belonged to nowhere to be seen. But I was equally unwilling to descend and expose myself to the risk of the flood. Instead, I waited up top. Eventually a party came into view.
"Ho!" I cried.
"Hello!" they cried back. "Won't you come down?"
"No! It's too dangerous. You realize there's a seventy percent chance of flash flooding today, right?"
"Don't you recognize me?" a figure below called back.
"No-" I stopped mid sentence. My eyes widened. "I'm coming down!" And sure enough, I scrambled down.
Waiting for me at the bottom was the bloody sheriff!
As fate would have it, the Sheriff did some moonlighting as a helper for Yermo so he could put extra money into his retirement fund. Yermo, the local guide who worked at Seeking Treasure Adventures, was being paid a lot of money to take a photographer from Australia and her boyfriend down into the gulch for some pictures. Because of the flash flooding risk, it was to be quick, in and out, and they were coming back up, done with their photography at the bottom of the gulch.
The rest of the area awaited them.
Photographer on the right. Sheriff in the middle. Boyfriend on the left.
I guess they were touched by my concern, and I suspect the rescue I had been involved in the four days prior had left an impression, because Yermo and the Sheriff allowed me to tag along on this paid guided experience for free. We navigated through the Vermillion plateau while Yermo talked about all these neat little facts. Leading us to a patch of stone, he pointed down with his stick.
Dinosaur tracks.
There were dinosaur tracks in the Pariah plateau. We walked farther. And what I saw blew me away.
Taking a long, circuitous route that led us far, Yermo led us to one of the largest petroglyph sites I have ever seen. On the walls exposed to the wind and the sand, the petroglyphs were difficult to see. But hidden between two rocks, they were well preserved and clear. One set spanned at least thirty feet. The other maybe twenty.
But that wasn't the true jewel. Not in my opinion.
Located high on the wall was a map of Buckskin gulch itself. The map showed the confluence of Wire Pass and Buckskin gulch. It showed the curves in the canyon where the middle exit was. The map was so good, it even showed how the canyon widened at the end.
Somehow, the native americans who had lived in this area had produced an incredibly accurate map of the gulch thousands of years ago.
After all the time I had spent pouring over my own maps, I knew exactly what I was looking at. The curves were there. The tributaries- It was all corrected.
It is probably the coolest thing I saw the entire trip.
His tour over, Yermo set out for the dive and the trailhead. Concerned, I accompanied them. Better safe than sorry, right? A third person to help in case of an accident seemed sensible, and I was grateful for being allowed to tag along. We traveled together until the base of the dive, where I said farewell, and we parted ways.
Determined to find the Cobra arch I missed the day before, I searched again retracing my steps. I even found a formation that looked like a cobra, and I like to think that was Cobra arch. I'm not sure, however, and may shall never know for certain.
With my permit out of time, I was forced to descend the mesa as the sun set.
Buckskin had not flooded this day either.
At the top of the dive, my phone vibrated as I re-entered cell-service. It was a text from Yermo, who had hidden a gift in the wheel well of my vehicle. Putting away my gear, I found the gift. I still have it too; It lies on top of one of my bookshelves, it's cap dusted by blow sand.
The day had a few hours left to burn, and one last surprise for me.
The road up into the Vermillion Mesa ran right alongside a sizable slot canyon. At times, dirt faded, and bare rock scoured clean by flash floods began as washes passed over it. The largest wash which fed the slot canyon crossed over the road not on hundred feet from the dryfall that marked the slot's beginning, and I had to pass over that wash on my way out.
Rounding a corner, I saw someone standing in the road, rifle pressed their shoulder.
I never did get their picture.
This strange individual was shooting at bottles lined up on a rock, firing across the road to do so. I waved at them as I passed. Man with rifle? Check. Camp chairs set up in the middle of this wash to the left of where it crossed the road? Check. Two people sitting in those camp chairs? Check. Seventy percent chance of flash flooding today? Check. A large tent set up smack dab in the center of that wash a hundred feet from a large dryfall?
Check, check, and check.
Some things are too strange to comprehend without thought. I rounded the next corner before my brows furrowed, and my foot slammed on the breaks. Had it been a dream, a hallucinations? Whatever it was, I needed to find out.
A short reverse later, I learned that I had imagined nothing.
Reality was cruel, and once again, fate laughed. The wash was massive, the largest in the entire canyon, and these people intended to sleep right in the middle of it. If a heavy rain came, it was certain death. Putting my car in park, I got out and turned a full three-sixty degrees, taking in the entire scene. "Hey," I hollered. "You guys realize your in a wash! Right!?"
A cornfield accent greeted me. "What's a wash?"
Fuck. Not again.
Above; The slot canyon in question.
Vehicle humming beside me, I explained the precarious nature of their campsite, and suggested they move it. As soon as possible was best, but before they went to sleep was fine too.
Unfortunately, a good ol' boy with twangy accent insisted things were fine were they were. He knew what he was about. This was not the gentlemen who had been firing over the road.
Choosing discretion as the better part of arguing with an armed party, I shrugged my shoulders and got back into my vehicle. "Alright!" I guess I'll listen to the news. If there's a flood tonight, I'll wait at the bottom of the canyon and collect your stuff as it floats by. Make sure it gets to your surviving relatives."
And with that, I drove off, glancing at my rear view mirror as I rounded the corner.
I like to think that I saw the older daughter who had been in this four person party picking up chairs and carrying them up the steep banks of that wash. I like to think many things. To this day, I am not sure. Down in the Valley, I texted Yermo a message, wondering if anyone should do something about this considering the danger they were in. The conversation went something like this;
"Wait, they're in the wash that crosses the 201?"
"Yeah. Right as it crosses the road."
"Wow. They're really dumb."
"Think I should go back and tell them no, they really need to move?"
"Nah. Let 'em learn a lesson."
With official sanction, I dismissed my worries. If the people who would have to come find the bodies if our guests from out of state didn't survive the night couldn't be bothered to care about this, then it wasn't my job either. Let the chips fall where they may.
Sending a quick prayer asking whatever might be listening to have mercy on fools like me, I turned my attention to finding a place to sleep.
Asking Yermo for advice, he suggested some BLM land used by the local ranchers to graze their cattle. Cow-patties ahoy. Rainbows streaked the sky while I opened two tin cans of chili and ate them. With a belly full of warm salty goodness, I went to sleep.
DAY SIX.
Nature spited me yet again. It had been a rainless night.
I suppose my prayer had been heard, and pity taken on those fools up in the canyon. I was glad enough for it. The idea of trying to fish a survivor or a body out of the water while I waited for a proper SAR team to arrive did not appeal. I was all rescued out for five trips, let alone one. Setting course, I began to make my way up north, moving through the lower hackberry. There were slots there, and I hit them as I passed. In one them, water crept through the wash.
Excited, I pulled out my camera and began to film.
Was it a flash flood? I hoped it was a flash flood. I didn't care if it was a small one. I wanted a flash flood!
With the benefit of hindsight, I suspect what I saw was merely a diurnal stream releasing it's waters. But after the better part of a week seeking a flash flood, I was hopeful. I hit several more slots again. They were short, but quite high, and reminded me of Zions national park.
L:ater that day, I tried to make camp in the lower Hackberry. The flies were miserable, and like sand, they were everywhere. I couldn't handle it the swarms. Hurling my collapsed tent into my vehicle, I drove for another half-hour, gaining a few hundred feet of altitude and stopping in Upper Hackberry on top of a hill. The flies still bothered me while I cooked, but they were tolerable compared to before, and I ate in my tent once the food was done to avoid them.
The night was hot.
Day 7
I would have spent more time in the area if I could have, but unfortunately, time was running out. I had to be at work tomorrow, no excuses.
Waking up early, I put my tent away and resolved to push all the way up to northern Utah where I lived. Along the way, I made some detours in Kodachrome basin, saw some arches, and made some friends. Never got their pictures, never saw them again.
It was hot.
I continued driving, and ended up at a little place called Red Canyon. I'd made good time, so I decided to see what Red Canyon had to offer hiking-wise. Walking into the Ranger's station, I explained that I'd had a week, and that week had been special. Things had happened, good or bad, but they had happened consistently. The highest highs and the lowest lows all combined into some real madhouse fun. At the end, I said "So. I am looking for a short hike, and preferably, I would like it to be a hike where I am not going to run into a tourist in distress. I don't have any more time for that." By this point, I had provided aid in at least four different incidents, and was rather sick of it.
The ranger's hand drifted away from where he'd been pointing. "I guess you don't want to to this trail then."
"What happens there?" I replied. "Animal attacks? Sudden falls from cliffs? Murder?"
"Heat exhaustion."
That was fair. I settled on a different place.
Red Canyon was pretty enough for what it was. High enough that it had pines, but on the edge of the Colorado plateau so it had some blow sand. I did my hike, took my pictures, and left. No entanglements occurred involving heat exhaustion.
The rest of my trip was spent driving back north. Nothing exceptional happened along the way.
That alone made me uneasy. The trip so far had been as catastrophic as it had been wonderful. Why should the drive home not be any different? Perhaps there was a gas tanker waiting to crash just as I was passing it by. But as if to spite my expectations yet again, the drive was uneventful, and I made it home safely. I thought back to the groaning canyon I had heard in my feverish state, and wondered if whatever spirit I had angered had decided it's mission was done, and had returned to it's rest.
In the aftermath, I took the opportunity to sit down and examine all that had happened.
Mistakes had been made. Some had been made by others. Others by me. Regardless of whose they were, I considered the importance of the decisions made, and decided on the lessons to learn from them. The next trip I took saw a much, much lighter pack. While I still carried weight, they were the right things.
Remembering the photos I had taken of the rescue, I texted Jane's children and asked if they would like those photos.
The response was enthusiastic to say the least. Sometime during the rescue, one of the children had contacted the Kane County Sheriff and had leaned what was going on. Through text, I was promised the finest BBQ in Michigan if I was ever passing through the area. It was a touching offer, but one that I never took them up on to this day. While I hope Jane remains well, and continues to hike, all the good hiking is in Utah, and I am already there.
And that was my trip.
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