Bad_Luck_Brigade
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- Jan 25, 2024
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EDIT: I am still editing this because it's rough, and isn't saying what I want it too. Please be patient.
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.
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 too had planned their trip months in advance. They too had not been dissuaded. Among them were Gary York, John Walter, Bill Romaniello, and Jeff Watson. All four of these men died in the months before I entered Buckskin Gulch.
From the very beginning, my trip was troubled.
In the years since, and even at the time, I looked back and could not help but feel as if 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 first encountered a crash; Someone towing a trailer put together by their uncle had seen the entire trailer come off the hitch, and that had jackknifed them into the side of an overpass. The trailer ball had been about half an inch too small, and that was why all had come loose. 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 motocylcist going sixty miles an hour 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 tornequit I keep in my vehicle, I raced for him, the debris having settled, though some pieces of plastic rocked and spun on the pavement. A few others got there before I did, including a nurse. As she was not supplied, and I was, I ended up racing back to my vehicle and pulling out my first aid kit from my backpack, and supplied her with a pair of shears 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.
My trip was just beginning.
When I got down to the Pariah Station to collect my permits, the forecast was about as bad as the trip down had been. Remember; Four people had died in the three moths before I went into Buckskin Gulch. 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 significantly. Careful discussion with the rangers ensued. I had not come blind and uprepared. My fallback strategy was simple; A place ten to thirteen miles deep into Buckskin gulch called the Middle Exit.
The Middle Exit is a well known route that connects the lower Pariah Plateau with the Upper Pariah Plateau. In prehistoric times, the ancients that called the land home had identified this route, a class three sramble, and had carved handholds and footholds on either side of the canyon, creating a crossing.
My plan was simple; I would start early in the morning just as day broke. Traveling those 10-12 mile as swift as I could, I would reach the middle exit at noon. There I would ascend into the mesa and make camp. If a flash flood happened, it would roar past me during the night, and I could continue in the morning if it didn't. As I had a permit for the Pariah-Vermillion wilderness, that permit entitled me to dispersed camp up on the Mesa, or at least that was what the ranger at the station claimed. As he seemed well-knowledgeable, I took him at his word.
DAY ONE
I was at my starting point at the break of dawn, ready to begun my first overnight trip ever.
As most people would be, I was nervous; This was the first time I'd done anything of the sort. Due to my inexperience, I had overpacked, and in some instances missed bringing things I should have, like a hat, which was left in my car, or sunglasses. Not to be dissuaded, I improved, taking a strap from my head lantern and using it to keep my hair back. 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.
I made good time.
Moving through the Canyon, I could not help but marvel at the immense forces that had created. There were sticks lodged twenty or thirty feet up in the canyon, showing how high the water could go, and the rocks bore signs of stress the likes of which I had never seen before. It was isolated. At times, it was dark. Wet.
Beautiful.
When I got to the middle exit, I paused, set my pack down, and checked the time. It was about eleven o'clock. I'd been moving fast and was hungry. It was time for a quick snack. Settling down 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?
It was then my adventure kicked into gear.
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?"
A little context is required here to understand my shock at the question.
Before going into that canyon, I had been under the impression seven people had died in Buckskin Gulch the three months prior. In truth, it was a mere four, but that was still two multi-fatality events. The year was abysmal. It was like the monsoon season had never ended. Many of the local guides had gone so far as to refuse to take people into Buckskin Gulch, and had given quotes to local media advising people to call off their own trips because of how unpredictable and savage the weather had proved. I was about thirteen miles into a slot canyon that was twenty miles long, and had a sword of damocles hanging over it's head in the form of a 30% flash flood risk starting at noon.
Another fifteen minutes, and she would have missed me. I would have been in the Mesa.
As questions went, hers was beyond concerning, and I started asking questions of my own. I don't remember her name. Let's call her 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 waterbottles had been in the fashion at the time, and I'd seen them everywhere I went, used by trendy hipsters. It was less than half the water I usually took even on short day trips in southern Utah, and 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.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the area, allow me to explain.
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. The the right is the confluence for Buckskin Gulch and the Pariah River, about another ten miles as the wolf runs.
Every bit of those twenty miles is confined, and not a good place to be in a flash flood.
The middle exit is special because it is the only good way out in the length of those twenty miles.
Another five miles from the confluence is Whitehouse campground. It's better, and the canyon opens up, but it doesn't have drinking water.
Look back to the left; Find 'Buckskin Gulch Petroglyph'. That was where she was supposed to turn.
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.
It is located about a mile and a half from the wire pass trailhead.
Jane had missed her turnoff by about twelve miles.
Far more alarmed than before, I asked more questions. "Do you know what the forecast is?"
Jane smiled, and admitted that she did not.
This was trouble.
I explained some simple facts to Jane, mostly about 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 that was the fifth point; It did not matter what she did. I was going up.
Deciding to give a short amount of time to think about it, 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.
Though the sky seen from the bottom of the canyon had been a vivid blue, up top the summer monsoon clouds were visible in the distance, and rain was falling upon our drainage area as a wall of precipitation. That wall came closer 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 later.
Please note the two ledges you see in the middle left, and the lower right. These are important. Ascent and decent is made through a series of Moki steps which are not visible here, which 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. At least within the month I would say.
Jane was not as spry as she had used to be. Ascending to the top, I pulled up my pack and detached the rope from it. Tying off my fifty feet of static line to these bolts, I threw the rope down for Jane. Grabbing it, she ascended up and off the canyon floor. 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 ledge, but she was having a difficult time of it. I helped her up to the second ledge, but the Moki steps that had been there for centuries if not millennia had been made for a limber individual. Even for a tall individual such as myselff, the gaps between each step were uncomfortably large, and the middle exit was too steep in places to safely climb without them. Jane was shorter than I was, and not as young as she had once been.
Worse; Her feet were slipping.
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, "If you tumble here and roll, you are going to fall at least eighty feet to the canyon floor."
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 a 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 also 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 waterbottles, 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?"
"Jane." I looked down at her. From where we were in the tend, her feet were by my head, and my feet were by hers. "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?"
The answer was mind-boggled.
I didn't know how to reply to it. The 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 laying, my trip looked like it was over. I'd only brought so much water, and I didn't know how long rescue would take. 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 intermidairies, 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 getting thundered on 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 even 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 all of them. But I did learn something from her, and that was that experience did not compensate for a lack of preparation. Years later, I still often find myself asking for Beta on routes rather than going it blind.
I was not entirely happy to be involved in this. As I have already said, I thought my trip was at an end. That was a hard thing to grapple with. But I do hope that I kept any irritation I felt to myself.
Jane didn't need that at the moment.
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. This was an unusual things for me, and it had never happened. Young, eager, a bit of a fool, I was having an adventure. 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 bowed my head and waited my turn to explain why I was here, and what had happened. I didn't add much, just some person context, and 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.
The Sheriff pointed to the bolts, and asked "Did you do that?"
I shook my head. "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.
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 to reach an inch or three farther, and climb up to where she needed to be.
Here is Jane on the fold.
She climbed the rest of the way herself. I joined the Rope-man and the Sheriff up on top. There, another conversation was had. This time, the Sheriff had different questions. He wanted to know how this all happened, and why. Over the years, I've seen people get angry. But that Sheriff got calm. When the explanation was over; All of it, including how Jane had all the gear, had failed to take basic precautions, and told no one where she was going, he turned to her.
"Now," he said in a soft tone, "What do you think the lessons to learn here are?"
The rest of the Sar team hadn't arrived yet, so we waited for them. I started talking to him, explaining why I had made for the middle exit, and the fears that had driven me to move fast to get there before noon. I talked about the people who had died.
At this, the Sheriff grew angry. I was enthralled; The passion was obvious. This was a man who cared. "There was a seventy percent chance of flash flooding that day. The rangers warned them, and they refused to listen. He had to give them the permits. People come to this canyon arrogant, and they just die to it!" Quick as lightning, he spun, his finger pointing at me. "Don't think I'm talking about you!" He barked. "You came here prepared!"
Jane's shoulders hunched.
Other things were said. I remember them well. "I'm glad you found her," the Sheriff said, indicating Jane. "We would have never thought to look for her body at the confluence."
This too was something Jane heard.
Other people arrived.
Yuup. That's me in the middle.
Talking with Ropes-Man, the Sheriff pointed out that my campsite was illegal. He also said that because of what had happened, he didn't want to cite me. It hadn't exactly been my preference to erect that tent. Grabbing me by the shoulder, he pointed at the sky, and the dark, angry storm clouds in the distance. "If it's clear tomorrow morning, make for the Confluence. If still looks like this, go out through the Mesa."
In hindsight, there are things I regret.
I regret not asking for water from the Sheriff. I was down to a single bottle. That wasn't great. But I figured it was enough to reach the confluence, and the springs in Pariah. My time here had drained some of my water, and I was now cutting it close. But I didn't. Before he left, the Sheriff gave me his number, and told me to text him when I got out. As I had said before, his passion was clear. He was worried about me.
By now, it was getting late. I climbed back down to my tent, which sat on the first shelf. There, I got a final image of the entire rescue team.
DAY TWO
I got up bright and early. The sun had risen, the skies were clear as could be. The summer thunderstorms of yesterday had passed, and I had a clear shot at the confluence. I was pleased by this. Breakfast happened on the side of a cliff. As soon as I could, cognizant of the fact that there was a 30% chance of flash flooding starting at noon, I packed as quick as I could, intending to make for the Confluence. Fed and watered, and with a fourth of a gallon of water left, I tossed some almonds into my water and took off.
Walking two miles, I began to feel ill.
Kneeling, I vomited.
It was now my turn to make stupid mistakes. In hindsight, so much is clear.
I should have turned around. I should have gone back to the middle exit, and asked for help. I should have- would have- could have. But I didn't. At the time, I thought the problem was just me. It was a hot day, I was moving fast, and I'd never carried a pack like this. My body was just stressed. Deep down, I think I just didn't want to disappoint the Sheriff, who had left an impression on me. He had approved of my preparations, and I couldn't stand the thought of looking him in the eye the day after I had said farewell.
I drank more water, and continued, going another two miles.
There, I vomited again.
It was that moment I realized I was in trouble. The day before, I'd felt so well, and the vomitting had been sudden, and unexpected. I thought I had been food poisoned.
There are few pictures of that day. Unlike with Jane, there was little time to consider my situation. I had a 30% chance of flash flooding starting at noon, and was under a time limit. I was low on water, and needed to reach a source. And I was all alone. It was unlikely that anyone would be entering the canyon today. Faced with a difficult circumstance, I decided to push forward, hoping to reach an elevated site close to the Buckskin-Pariah confluence, and a stable water source.
The lack of food in my belly and the lack of water took it's toll.
I made it eight miles that day before I collapsed. Picking my spot, I found a place that had nearby high ground. I lay in the shade at the bottom of the canyon, exhausted. All I wanted was to sleep, but I couldn't risk it. There was a 30% chance of flash flooding that day. If I was not away in time to hear it, and run for safety where my pack waited on the high ground, I would not survive. I knew that.
To my surprise, hours later, a couple passed me by. "Are you alright?"
"No," I replied. "I need help."
How quickly the tables had turned. I was given an apple, and it was the best thing I had ever tasted. Even to this day, I always pack an apple in my pack in memory of this couple. Their names were Kacy and Jazz. Kacy was a real lad, and carried my pack because I could not. They brought me to the campground just before the confluence, gave me the rest of their apples, and set up my tent for me while I vomited.
It was only later that I learned my entire family was ill, and they were vomitting as well up in a cabin on the Kolob Terrace.
Kacy hiked a six mile round trip to get water for all of us.
That night, my sleep was troubled and feverish. Around me, the Canyon moaned and groaned like a living thing. I could have sworn it was angry. At odd times, loud cracks were heard. Not thunder. Falling rocks.
It was like the same troubled spirit that had haunted my trip the entire time was howling at me.
DAY THREE
Sometime during the night, my fever broke. I woke up weak, but much better. I managed to eat another apple, which was unfortunately the last, and discussed my options with Kacy and Jazz.
"I feel well enough to continue my trip and walk all the way to Lee's Ferry!" I said with a serious expression. The instant their faces changed, I grinned. "And that's why I am heading North instead of South, and will make an emergency exit at Whitehouse. Something does not want me in this Canyon. It's time I listen to it."
So, with an apple in my belly, we set out.
I was still weak from the night before, but this time I was carrying my pack. We soon reached the Pariah-Buckskin confluence. It was magnificent.
My body decided to protest against my exertions. I vomited again shortly before this picture was taken. But not to be outdone, and determined to self-rescue for the most part, I continued to walk carrying a heavy pack, Kacy and Jazz next to me. In a cruel twist of fate, just as I had thought my trip would be ended by the need to help Jane, so too had Kacy and Jazz decided that their trip was at an end. Unlike me, I suspect that they had always intended to end the trip; Their car happened to be at White House, while mine was at Lee's Ferry.
Regardless, we continued.
Kacy is on the far left. Jazz is in the middle. I am on the right.
The terrain began to open up. Things got easier. But unable to keep food down, I was getting weak again. I never complained. Simply continued to hike. But there came a point where Kacy told me to give him my pack, and I complied. With one back pack on his back, and another on his front, he carried both our packs as we left Pariah Canyon.
Eventually, we got out. I expected that was the end of that, and wished Kacy and Jazz farewell. I had family vacationing in the general area (for a given measure of general), and intended on asking them for a ride to Lee's Ferry so I could pick up my vehicle. Yet again, Kacy and Jazz surprised me. They refused to leave me there, and instead offered to drop me off at the Pariah Ranger station.
I accepted.
Most the day was spent waiting for my ride. I never saw Kacy or Jazz ever again. I wish I knew who they were so I could send them a gift. As far as I know, Buckskin Gulch never flooded. But this risk was real. And without their aid, I would have been in a very difficult position. No water. Deep in a canyon with no signal for satellite aid. I like to think I would have made it to drinkable water by myself.
But that is no guarantee.
Whether they saved my life or eased my passage, I am grateful all the same.
At the ranger's station, I took the chance to tell the Sheriff I was out, and had made an emergency exit up White Hall because I'd gotten violently ill.
The sheriff's response? "Noro Virus!"
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.
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 kill themselves (or trying at least), this builds up a seething resentment towards fools. We bitched about tourists. We bitched about people who didn't belong in the area. We bitched about how full Zion's was. We debated whether 'Touron' was more insulting than 'Concrete Ninny'.
It was actually pretty fun.
His shift ended, and I got kicked out of the station. 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. Fifty percent chance of flash flooding or higher. Had things gone to plan, by now I would have been in Pariah Canyon past the point where things widened out, prepared and willing to endure the wrath of a flash flood. I had enough food for it, enough supplies. I considered the suggestion offered by Yermo, Cathedral Canyon. I considered how my trip had gone.
A single certainty ran through my head; 'Bad Luck, something wants you dead. And if you go into that slot today, that is what is going to happen.'
I asked the ranger manning the counter if she had any suggestions for today. She suggested Antelope canyon.
The thing 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. I giggled at the ranger, and took my leave. 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."
The rangers at Glenn damn were nice, but useless. It was a fancy place.
Another station that dealt with dinosaurs was better. They knew what they were talking about, but still couldn't help.
I arrive at the Pariah station. "Hello Motherfucker!" The ranger whose company I enjoyed was manning that station. "I've got an idea," I declared. "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 over the middle exit was safe. I still had time on my permit, so I could camp up there. 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 had been boring as well. I had hoped to wake to a gigantic roar, but none ever materialized, and I slept like a babe. Disappointed, and with my vacation time ending, I resolved to head down and depart for Salt Lake. However, my adventure wasn't done.
I walked into the ranger's station, and the ranger looked up at me. His face lit like a firecracker. "Duuude," he said. "Come back here." He beckoned me behind the counter, and there, he showed me a doppler radar chart, which showed the area. "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, unwilling to take a chance.
There was a strange complication.
Up top, there was a vehicle, and that vehicle had been parked right next to wear mine was. It hadn't been there at the trailhead when I had left in the morning. Someone had come up after I had left, and there was only one reason to come up and park at that trailhead.
The gulch.
Worried for their safety, I tracked the party down to the dive, and the desert sands beyond it. The day before, I had been curious, and I had followed the SAR team's tracks back to the middle exit, so I knew where it was. There were three or four fresh tracks, I couldn't tell. Strangest of all, however, was the person walking barefoot, each toe visible. Who were these people? And what madman accompanied them?
Sure enough, when I reached the middle exit, and looked down, I saw a set of backpacks down in the gulch.
Dread pooled in my stomach. I did not want to have to contact the rangers again explaining that I had watched a flash flood tear through here and carry away a set of hiking packs, and the people that had gone with them. Unwilling to risk getting caught up in the looming disaster by going down and searching for the poor souls beneath, I waited. Eventually, people 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 went wide. "I'm coming down!" I cried. And sure enough, I scrambled down. It was the bloody sheriff!
As it so happened, the Sheriff did some moonlighting as a helper for Yermo, the local guide he had directed me too, and today, Yermo 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 in the area.
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 those 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, these people who had never seen Buckskin from the air, a canyon that stretched twenty miles, had produced a map that didn't pale when compared to my modern, satellite provided maps.
I was stunned, and in awe.
After this, Yermo began to lead the team back to the car. Rather than part ways, I accompanied them, explaining I just wanted to make sure they got out okay. We traveled together until the base of the dive, where I said farewell, and we parted.
Determined to find the Cobra arch I missed the day before, I searched longer and harder than I had, retracing my steps, taking more pictures of the dino tracks and the petroglyph site, and saw all sorts of cool rock formations. I even found a formation that looked like a cobra, and I liked to think that was Cobra arch. I'm not sure, however, and perhaps I shall never know.
With a need to get back to my home so I could show up to work, I was forced to leave sooner than I wished.
Buckskin had not flooded this day either.
Hiking up the Dive, I got to the top. Back in cell service, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Yermo. He said he had hidden a gift in my wheel well. I returned to my car as the sun began to get low in the sky. Circling my vehicle to put away my gear, I found the gift.
It was a drink.
I thanked Yermo for it- And make no mistake. I was touched. Though I don't drink, I still have that bottle as a memento of a strange trip that went everywhere except where I thought it would, and it sits upon my shelf, unopened, untouched. There it will stay. And yet...
My trip wasn't done.
Not quite.
You see, the road up into the Vermillion Mesa ran right alongside a sizable slot canyon. At times, you even drove over bare rock scoured clean by flash floods that had torn through the area months and years before. And, at a certain point, a large wash passed over the road, where it fed into this large slot canyon.
As I came down, I turned a corner and saw someone standing there with a rifle.
I never did get their picture. They were shooting at bottles that had erected, and because of course they were, they were firing across the road. I waved them as I passed by. Man with rifle? Check. Campchairs set up in the middle of this wash to the left of where it crossed the road? Check. Seventy percent chance of flash flooding today? Check. A large tent set up smack dab in the center of that wash? That large wash that fed into a massive slot canyon with a dryfall of at least fifty feet?
Check, check, and check.
Driving around the corner, my brows furrowed. Wait. What the fuck had I just seen?
My foot slammed on the breaks. Driven by a desperate need to make sure that I had not imagined things, I threw my car into reverse. To my great horror, I had not imagined things. This was a massive wash, the largest in the canyon, and the slot began not a hundred feet from where these people were. Putting my car in park, I get out and turn slowly, a full three sixty degrees. "Hey," I hollered. "You guys realize your in a wash! Right!?"
A cornfield accent greeted. "What's a wash?"
Fuck me. Not again.
I politely explained that this was a bad idea, and they should move. Preferably, before they went to sleep. Surely, it wasn't too much to ask they displace that tent by ten feet. Skepticism was my reply. I had a good ol' boy with a thick, twangy accent, and he knew what he was about. Shrugging my shoulders, I got back into my vehicle. "Well! If you're sure! 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 with this four person party picking up chairs and taking 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.
Yermos reply was simple. "Nah. Let 'em learn a lesson."
With official sanction, or at least all the official sanction I needed, I shrugged my shoulders. If the people who would have to come find the bodies if our corn-country guests didn't survive the night didn't care about this, then it wasn't my job either. Let the chips fall where they may. Sending a quick pray asking god to have mercy on fools like me, I turned my attention to finding a place to sleep.
It was a beautiful place, but a hard, cruel place, and the people there were tired of fools who didn't respect the territory.
I understood that.
Asking Yermo for advice on a decent place to sleep, he gave me advice. I turned my car out into some BLM land used by the local cattle ranchers. Cow-patties ahoy. I set up my tent there. Rainbows streaked the sky while I opene two tin cans of chili and ate them. Mmm.
DAY SIX.
As if nature existed to mess with me, yet again, the night had been without rain. I suppose god had taken pity on fools, and I was glad enough to not have the duty of sitting next to the wash where the 201 slot canyon fed out, waiting for corpses or possessions to float past me. The people who had camped in that wash had been fools, but they had been earnest fools.
Setting course, I began to make my way up north, moving through the lower hackberry. There were slots there, and as I moved down, I saw water creeping into 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 so miserable. They were everywhere. I couldn't handle it. Hurling my collapsed tent into my vehicle, I drove for another half-hour, gaining a lot of altitude. In the upper Hackberry, that was where I camped at the top of a hill. There were still flies, but they were much-reduced, and I could eat my food in an acceptable level of peace. The second the foot was cooked, I shut my stove off, and at inside my closed tent.
Day 7
Though I wanted to spent more time in the area, I had none. This was it. I had to be at work tomorrow, no excuses. Waking up, 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, and met 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. 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. 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 was directed to a different place, and I followed those directions.
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 am pleased to report that I managed to avoid coming into contact with any tourists who had been stricken with heat exhaustion. I was grateful.
Passing through several towns, I stopped at the birthplace of Butch Cassidy.
Butch's birthplace was deserted, and I had the entire place to myself. Not only was the day hot, but I was afflicted with something even worse; Lens flare.
The rest of my trip was spent driving back north. Nothing exceptional happened along the way.
That left me uneasy. After the absolute catastrophe that had been my first backpacking trip, I had expected something more. Maybe an oil truck to overturn and explode in a massive fireball. But somehow, all was well. Perhaps it was the spirit that had cursed me. Now I was finally on my way, leaving Buckskin gulch behind, it was content, and had returned to it's slumber.
In the aftermath of this trip, I sat down and considered my trip.
Mistakes had been made. Some had been made by others. Some by my. Regardless of whose they were, I learned from them. A great deal of weight was dropped from my packing list. More efforts were made to tighten things up. One day, I texted Jane's children, and asked them if they would like some of the pictures I had taken of Jane while she had been pulled out from Buckskin Gulch. Jane's children responded with enthusiasm.
As my adventure had continued, she had made it to safety where many a worried phone call had awaited her.
It had become clear to Jane's children that she had been in considerable danger. I was told Jane had been scolded (I couldn't blame them for that), and yes, they did want those pictures. In addition, I was also promised the finest BBQ in Michigan if I was ever in that area. The offer touched me. I hadn't expected it.
To this day, I have yet to take them up on that offer. After all; The good hiking is in Utah.
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.
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 too had planned their trip months in advance. They too had not been dissuaded. Among them were Gary York, John Walter, Bill Romaniello, and Jeff Watson. All four of these men died in the months before I entered Buckskin Gulch.
From the very beginning, my trip was troubled.
In the years since, and even at the time, I looked back and could not help but feel as if 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 first encountered a crash; Someone towing a trailer put together by their uncle had seen the entire trailer come off the hitch, and that had jackknifed them into the side of an overpass. The trailer ball had been about half an inch too small, and that was why all had come loose. 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 motocylcist going sixty miles an hour 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 tornequit I keep in my vehicle, I raced for him, the debris having settled, though some pieces of plastic rocked and spun on the pavement. A few others got there before I did, including a nurse. As she was not supplied, and I was, I ended up racing back to my vehicle and pulling out my first aid kit from my backpack, and supplied her with a pair of shears 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.
My trip was just beginning.
When I got down to the Pariah Station to collect my permits, the forecast was about as bad as the trip down had been. Remember; Four people had died in the three moths before I went into Buckskin Gulch. 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 significantly. Careful discussion with the rangers ensued. I had not come blind and uprepared. My fallback strategy was simple; A place ten to thirteen miles deep into Buckskin gulch called the Middle Exit.
The Middle Exit is a well known route that connects the lower Pariah Plateau with the Upper Pariah Plateau. In prehistoric times, the ancients that called the land home had identified this route, a class three sramble, and had carved handholds and footholds on either side of the canyon, creating a crossing.
My plan was simple; I would start early in the morning just as day broke. Traveling those 10-12 mile as swift as I could, I would reach the middle exit at noon. There I would ascend into the mesa and make camp. If a flash flood happened, it would roar past me during the night, and I could continue in the morning if it didn't. As I had a permit for the Pariah-Vermillion wilderness, that permit entitled me to dispersed camp up on the Mesa, or at least that was what the ranger at the station claimed. As he seemed well-knowledgeable, I took him at his word.
DAY ONE
I was at my starting point at the break of dawn, ready to begun my first overnight trip ever.
As most people would be, I was nervous; This was the first time I'd done anything of the sort. Due to my inexperience, I had overpacked, and in some instances missed bringing things I should have, like a hat, which was left in my car, or sunglasses. Not to be dissuaded, I improved, taking a strap from my head lantern and using it to keep my hair back. 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.
I made good time.
Moving through the Canyon, I could not help but marvel at the immense forces that had created. There were sticks lodged twenty or thirty feet up in the canyon, showing how high the water could go, and the rocks bore signs of stress the likes of which I had never seen before. It was isolated. At times, it was dark. Wet.
Beautiful.
When I got to the middle exit, I paused, set my pack down, and checked the time. It was about eleven o'clock. I'd been moving fast and was hungry. It was time for a quick snack. Settling down 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?
It was then my adventure kicked into gear.
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?"
A little context is required here to understand my shock at the question.
Before going into that canyon, I had been under the impression seven people had died in Buckskin Gulch the three months prior. In truth, it was a mere four, but that was still two multi-fatality events. The year was abysmal. It was like the monsoon season had never ended. Many of the local guides had gone so far as to refuse to take people into Buckskin Gulch, and had given quotes to local media advising people to call off their own trips because of how unpredictable and savage the weather had proved. I was about thirteen miles into a slot canyon that was twenty miles long, and had a sword of damocles hanging over it's head in the form of a 30% flash flood risk starting at noon.
Another fifteen minutes, and she would have missed me. I would have been in the Mesa.
As questions went, hers was beyond concerning, and I started asking questions of my own. I don't remember her name. Let's call her 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 waterbottles had been in the fashion at the time, and I'd seen them everywhere I went, used by trendy hipsters. It was less than half the water I usually took even on short day trips in southern Utah, and 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.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the area, allow me to explain.
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. The the right is the confluence for Buckskin Gulch and the Pariah River, about another ten miles as the wolf runs.
Every bit of those twenty miles is confined, and not a good place to be in a flash flood.
The middle exit is special because it is the only good way out in the length of those twenty miles.
Another five miles from the confluence is Whitehouse campground. It's better, and the canyon opens up, but it doesn't have drinking water.
Look back to the left; Find 'Buckskin Gulch Petroglyph'. That was where she was supposed to turn.
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.
It is located about a mile and a half from the wire pass trailhead.
Jane had missed her turnoff by about twelve miles.
Far more alarmed than before, I asked more questions. "Do you know what the forecast is?"
Jane smiled, and admitted that she did not.
This was trouble.
I explained some simple facts to Jane, mostly about 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 that was the fifth point; It did not matter what she did. I was going up.
Deciding to give a short amount of time to think about it, 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.
Though the sky seen from the bottom of the canyon had been a vivid blue, up top the summer monsoon clouds were visible in the distance, and rain was falling upon our drainage area as a wall of precipitation. That wall came closer 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 later.
Please note the two ledges you see in the middle left, and the lower right. These are important. Ascent and decent is made through a series of Moki steps which are not visible here, which 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. At least within the month I would say.
Jane was not as spry as she had used to be. Ascending to the top, I pulled up my pack and detached the rope from it. Tying off my fifty feet of static line to these bolts, I threw the rope down for Jane. Grabbing it, she ascended up and off the canyon floor. 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 ledge, but she was having a difficult time of it. I helped her up to the second ledge, but the Moki steps that had been there for centuries if not millennia had been made for a limber individual. Even for a tall individual such as myselff, the gaps between each step were uncomfortably large, and the middle exit was too steep in places to safely climb without them. Jane was shorter than I was, and not as young as she had once been.
Worse; Her feet were slipping.
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, "If you tumble here and roll, you are going to fall at least eighty feet to the canyon floor."
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 a 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 also 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 waterbottles, 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?"
"Jane." I looked down at her. From where we were in the tend, her feet were by my head, and my feet were by hers. "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?"
The answer was mind-boggled.
I didn't know how to reply to it. The 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 laying, my trip looked like it was over. I'd only brought so much water, and I didn't know how long rescue would take. 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 intermidairies, 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 getting thundered on 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 even 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 all of them. But I did learn something from her, and that was that experience did not compensate for a lack of preparation. Years later, I still often find myself asking for Beta on routes rather than going it blind.
I was not entirely happy to be involved in this. As I have already said, I thought my trip was at an end. That was a hard thing to grapple with. But I do hope that I kept any irritation I felt to myself.
Jane didn't need that at the moment.
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. This was an unusual things for me, and it had never happened. Young, eager, a bit of a fool, I was having an adventure. 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 bowed my head and waited my turn to explain why I was here, and what had happened. I didn't add much, just some person context, and 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.
The Sheriff pointed to the bolts, and asked "Did you do that?"
I shook my head. "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.
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 to reach an inch or three farther, and climb up to where she needed to be.
Here is Jane on the fold.
She climbed the rest of the way herself. I joined the Rope-man and the Sheriff up on top. There, another conversation was had. This time, the Sheriff had different questions. He wanted to know how this all happened, and why. Over the years, I've seen people get angry. But that Sheriff got calm. When the explanation was over; All of it, including how Jane had all the gear, had failed to take basic precautions, and told no one where she was going, he turned to her.
"Now," he said in a soft tone, "What do you think the lessons to learn here are?"
The rest of the Sar team hadn't arrived yet, so we waited for them. I started talking to him, explaining why I had made for the middle exit, and the fears that had driven me to move fast to get there before noon. I talked about the people who had died.
At this, the Sheriff grew angry. I was enthralled; The passion was obvious. This was a man who cared. "There was a seventy percent chance of flash flooding that day. The rangers warned them, and they refused to listen. He had to give them the permits. People come to this canyon arrogant, and they just die to it!" Quick as lightning, he spun, his finger pointing at me. "Don't think I'm talking about you!" He barked. "You came here prepared!"
Jane's shoulders hunched.
Other things were said. I remember them well. "I'm glad you found her," the Sheriff said, indicating Jane. "We would have never thought to look for her body at the confluence."
This too was something Jane heard.
Other people arrived.
Yuup. That's me in the middle.
Talking with Ropes-Man, the Sheriff pointed out that my campsite was illegal. He also said that because of what had happened, he didn't want to cite me. It hadn't exactly been my preference to erect that tent. Grabbing me by the shoulder, he pointed at the sky, and the dark, angry storm clouds in the distance. "If it's clear tomorrow morning, make for the Confluence. If still looks like this, go out through the Mesa."
In hindsight, there are things I regret.
I regret not asking for water from the Sheriff. I was down to a single bottle. That wasn't great. But I figured it was enough to reach the confluence, and the springs in Pariah. My time here had drained some of my water, and I was now cutting it close. But I didn't. Before he left, the Sheriff gave me his number, and told me to text him when I got out. As I had said before, his passion was clear. He was worried about me.
By now, it was getting late. I climbed back down to my tent, which sat on the first shelf. There, I got a final image of the entire rescue team.
DAY TWO
I got up bright and early. The sun had risen, the skies were clear as could be. The summer thunderstorms of yesterday had passed, and I had a clear shot at the confluence. I was pleased by this. Breakfast happened on the side of a cliff. As soon as I could, cognizant of the fact that there was a 30% chance of flash flooding starting at noon, I packed as quick as I could, intending to make for the Confluence. Fed and watered, and with a fourth of a gallon of water left, I tossed some almonds into my water and took off.
Walking two miles, I began to feel ill.
Kneeling, I vomited.
It was now my turn to make stupid mistakes. In hindsight, so much is clear.
I should have turned around. I should have gone back to the middle exit, and asked for help. I should have- would have- could have. But I didn't. At the time, I thought the problem was just me. It was a hot day, I was moving fast, and I'd never carried a pack like this. My body was just stressed. Deep down, I think I just didn't want to disappoint the Sheriff, who had left an impression on me. He had approved of my preparations, and I couldn't stand the thought of looking him in the eye the day after I had said farewell.
I drank more water, and continued, going another two miles.
There, I vomited again.
It was that moment I realized I was in trouble. The day before, I'd felt so well, and the vomitting had been sudden, and unexpected. I thought I had been food poisoned.
There are few pictures of that day. Unlike with Jane, there was little time to consider my situation. I had a 30% chance of flash flooding starting at noon, and was under a time limit. I was low on water, and needed to reach a source. And I was all alone. It was unlikely that anyone would be entering the canyon today. Faced with a difficult circumstance, I decided to push forward, hoping to reach an elevated site close to the Buckskin-Pariah confluence, and a stable water source.
The lack of food in my belly and the lack of water took it's toll.
I made it eight miles that day before I collapsed. Picking my spot, I found a place that had nearby high ground. I lay in the shade at the bottom of the canyon, exhausted. All I wanted was to sleep, but I couldn't risk it. There was a 30% chance of flash flooding that day. If I was not away in time to hear it, and run for safety where my pack waited on the high ground, I would not survive. I knew that.
To my surprise, hours later, a couple passed me by. "Are you alright?"
"No," I replied. "I need help."
How quickly the tables had turned. I was given an apple, and it was the best thing I had ever tasted. Even to this day, I always pack an apple in my pack in memory of this couple. Their names were Kacy and Jazz. Kacy was a real lad, and carried my pack because I could not. They brought me to the campground just before the confluence, gave me the rest of their apples, and set up my tent for me while I vomited.
It was only later that I learned my entire family was ill, and they were vomitting as well up in a cabin on the Kolob Terrace.
Kacy hiked a six mile round trip to get water for all of us.
That night, my sleep was troubled and feverish. Around me, the Canyon moaned and groaned like a living thing. I could have sworn it was angry. At odd times, loud cracks were heard. Not thunder. Falling rocks.
It was like the same troubled spirit that had haunted my trip the entire time was howling at me.
DAY THREE
Sometime during the night, my fever broke. I woke up weak, but much better. I managed to eat another apple, which was unfortunately the last, and discussed my options with Kacy and Jazz.
"I feel well enough to continue my trip and walk all the way to Lee's Ferry!" I said with a serious expression. The instant their faces changed, I grinned. "And that's why I am heading North instead of South, and will make an emergency exit at Whitehouse. Something does not want me in this Canyon. It's time I listen to it."
So, with an apple in my belly, we set out.
I was still weak from the night before, but this time I was carrying my pack. We soon reached the Pariah-Buckskin confluence. It was magnificent.
My body decided to protest against my exertions. I vomited again shortly before this picture was taken. But not to be outdone, and determined to self-rescue for the most part, I continued to walk carrying a heavy pack, Kacy and Jazz next to me. In a cruel twist of fate, just as I had thought my trip would be ended by the need to help Jane, so too had Kacy and Jazz decided that their trip was at an end. Unlike me, I suspect that they had always intended to end the trip; Their car happened to be at White House, while mine was at Lee's Ferry.
Regardless, we continued.
Kacy is on the far left. Jazz is in the middle. I am on the right.
The terrain began to open up. Things got easier. But unable to keep food down, I was getting weak again. I never complained. Simply continued to hike. But there came a point where Kacy told me to give him my pack, and I complied. With one back pack on his back, and another on his front, he carried both our packs as we left Pariah Canyon.
Eventually, we got out. I expected that was the end of that, and wished Kacy and Jazz farewell. I had family vacationing in the general area (for a given measure of general), and intended on asking them for a ride to Lee's Ferry so I could pick up my vehicle. Yet again, Kacy and Jazz surprised me. They refused to leave me there, and instead offered to drop me off at the Pariah Ranger station.
I accepted.
Most the day was spent waiting for my ride. I never saw Kacy or Jazz ever again. I wish I knew who they were so I could send them a gift. As far as I know, Buckskin Gulch never flooded. But this risk was real. And without their aid, I would have been in a very difficult position. No water. Deep in a canyon with no signal for satellite aid. I like to think I would have made it to drinkable water by myself.
But that is no guarantee.
Whether they saved my life or eased my passage, I am grateful all the same.
At the ranger's station, I took the chance to tell the Sheriff I was out, and had made an emergency exit up White Hall because I'd gotten violently ill.
The sheriff's response? "Noro Virus!"
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.
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 kill themselves (or trying at least), this builds up a seething resentment towards fools. We bitched about tourists. We bitched about people who didn't belong in the area. We bitched about how full Zion's was. We debated whether 'Touron' was more insulting than 'Concrete Ninny'.
It was actually pretty fun.
His shift ended, and I got kicked out of the station. 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. Fifty percent chance of flash flooding or higher. Had things gone to plan, by now I would have been in Pariah Canyon past the point where things widened out, prepared and willing to endure the wrath of a flash flood. I had enough food for it, enough supplies. I considered the suggestion offered by Yermo, Cathedral Canyon. I considered how my trip had gone.
A single certainty ran through my head; 'Bad Luck, something wants you dead. And if you go into that slot today, that is what is going to happen.'
I asked the ranger manning the counter if she had any suggestions for today. She suggested Antelope canyon.
The thing 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. I giggled at the ranger, and took my leave. 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."
The rangers at Glenn damn were nice, but useless. It was a fancy place.
Another station that dealt with dinosaurs was better. They knew what they were talking about, but still couldn't help.
I arrive at the Pariah station. "Hello Motherfucker!" The ranger whose company I enjoyed was manning that station. "I've got an idea," I declared. "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 over the middle exit was safe. I still had time on my permit, so I could camp up there. 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 had been boring as well. I had hoped to wake to a gigantic roar, but none ever materialized, and I slept like a babe. Disappointed, and with my vacation time ending, I resolved to head down and depart for Salt Lake. However, my adventure wasn't done.
I walked into the ranger's station, and the ranger looked up at me. His face lit like a firecracker. "Duuude," he said. "Come back here." He beckoned me behind the counter, and there, he showed me a doppler radar chart, which showed the area. "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, unwilling to take a chance.
There was a strange complication.
Up top, there was a vehicle, and that vehicle had been parked right next to wear mine was. It hadn't been there at the trailhead when I had left in the morning. Someone had come up after I had left, and there was only one reason to come up and park at that trailhead.
The gulch.
Worried for their safety, I tracked the party down to the dive, and the desert sands beyond it. The day before, I had been curious, and I had followed the SAR team's tracks back to the middle exit, so I knew where it was. There were three or four fresh tracks, I couldn't tell. Strangest of all, however, was the person walking barefoot, each toe visible. Who were these people? And what madman accompanied them?
Sure enough, when I reached the middle exit, and looked down, I saw a set of backpacks down in the gulch.
Dread pooled in my stomach. I did not want to have to contact the rangers again explaining that I had watched a flash flood tear through here and carry away a set of hiking packs, and the people that had gone with them. Unwilling to risk getting caught up in the looming disaster by going down and searching for the poor souls beneath, I waited. Eventually, people 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 went wide. "I'm coming down!" I cried. And sure enough, I scrambled down. It was the bloody sheriff!
As it so happened, the Sheriff did some moonlighting as a helper for Yermo, the local guide he had directed me too, and today, Yermo 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 in the area.
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 those 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, these people who had never seen Buckskin from the air, a canyon that stretched twenty miles, had produced a map that didn't pale when compared to my modern, satellite provided maps.
I was stunned, and in awe.
After this, Yermo began to lead the team back to the car. Rather than part ways, I accompanied them, explaining I just wanted to make sure they got out okay. We traveled together until the base of the dive, where I said farewell, and we parted.
Determined to find the Cobra arch I missed the day before, I searched longer and harder than I had, retracing my steps, taking more pictures of the dino tracks and the petroglyph site, and saw all sorts of cool rock formations. I even found a formation that looked like a cobra, and I liked to think that was Cobra arch. I'm not sure, however, and perhaps I shall never know.
With a need to get back to my home so I could show up to work, I was forced to leave sooner than I wished.
Buckskin had not flooded this day either.
Hiking up the Dive, I got to the top. Back in cell service, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Yermo. He said he had hidden a gift in my wheel well. I returned to my car as the sun began to get low in the sky. Circling my vehicle to put away my gear, I found the gift.
It was a drink.
I thanked Yermo for it- And make no mistake. I was touched. Though I don't drink, I still have that bottle as a memento of a strange trip that went everywhere except where I thought it would, and it sits upon my shelf, unopened, untouched. There it will stay. And yet...
My trip wasn't done.
Not quite.
You see, the road up into the Vermillion Mesa ran right alongside a sizable slot canyon. At times, you even drove over bare rock scoured clean by flash floods that had torn through the area months and years before. And, at a certain point, a large wash passed over the road, where it fed into this large slot canyon.
As I came down, I turned a corner and saw someone standing there with a rifle.
I never did get their picture. They were shooting at bottles that had erected, and because of course they were, they were firing across the road. I waved them as I passed by. Man with rifle? Check. Campchairs set up in the middle of this wash to the left of where it crossed the road? Check. Seventy percent chance of flash flooding today? Check. A large tent set up smack dab in the center of that wash? That large wash that fed into a massive slot canyon with a dryfall of at least fifty feet?
Check, check, and check.
Driving around the corner, my brows furrowed. Wait. What the fuck had I just seen?
My foot slammed on the breaks. Driven by a desperate need to make sure that I had not imagined things, I threw my car into reverse. To my great horror, I had not imagined things. This was a massive wash, the largest in the canyon, and the slot began not a hundred feet from where these people were. Putting my car in park, I get out and turn slowly, a full three sixty degrees. "Hey," I hollered. "You guys realize your in a wash! Right!?"
A cornfield accent greeted. "What's a wash?"
Fuck me. Not again.
I politely explained that this was a bad idea, and they should move. Preferably, before they went to sleep. Surely, it wasn't too much to ask they displace that tent by ten feet. Skepticism was my reply. I had a good ol' boy with a thick, twangy accent, and he knew what he was about. Shrugging my shoulders, I got back into my vehicle. "Well! If you're sure! 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 with this four person party picking up chairs and taking 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.
"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?"
Yermos reply was simple. "Nah. Let 'em learn a lesson."
With official sanction, or at least all the official sanction I needed, I shrugged my shoulders. If the people who would have to come find the bodies if our corn-country guests didn't survive the night didn't care about this, then it wasn't my job either. Let the chips fall where they may. Sending a quick pray asking god to have mercy on fools like me, I turned my attention to finding a place to sleep.
It was a beautiful place, but a hard, cruel place, and the people there were tired of fools who didn't respect the territory.
I understood that.
Asking Yermo for advice on a decent place to sleep, he gave me advice. I turned my car out into some BLM land used by the local cattle ranchers. Cow-patties ahoy. I set up my tent there. Rainbows streaked the sky while I opene two tin cans of chili and ate them. Mmm.
DAY SIX.
As if nature existed to mess with me, yet again, the night had been without rain. I suppose god had taken pity on fools, and I was glad enough to not have the duty of sitting next to the wash where the 201 slot canyon fed out, waiting for corpses or possessions to float past me. The people who had camped in that wash had been fools, but they had been earnest fools.
Setting course, I began to make my way up north, moving through the lower hackberry. There were slots there, and as I moved down, I saw water creeping into 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 so miserable. They were everywhere. I couldn't handle it. Hurling my collapsed tent into my vehicle, I drove for another half-hour, gaining a lot of altitude. In the upper Hackberry, that was where I camped at the top of a hill. There were still flies, but they were much-reduced, and I could eat my food in an acceptable level of peace. The second the foot was cooked, I shut my stove off, and at inside my closed tent.
Day 7
Though I wanted to spent more time in the area, I had none. This was it. I had to be at work tomorrow, no excuses. Waking up, 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, and met 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. 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. 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 was directed to a different place, and I followed those directions.
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 am pleased to report that I managed to avoid coming into contact with any tourists who had been stricken with heat exhaustion. I was grateful.
Passing through several towns, I stopped at the birthplace of Butch Cassidy.
Butch's birthplace was deserted, and I had the entire place to myself. Not only was the day hot, but I was afflicted with something even worse; Lens flare.
The rest of my trip was spent driving back north. Nothing exceptional happened along the way.
That left me uneasy. After the absolute catastrophe that had been my first backpacking trip, I had expected something more. Maybe an oil truck to overturn and explode in a massive fireball. But somehow, all was well. Perhaps it was the spirit that had cursed me. Now I was finally on my way, leaving Buckskin gulch behind, it was content, and had returned to it's slumber.
In the aftermath of this trip, I sat down and considered my trip.
Mistakes had been made. Some had been made by others. Some by my. Regardless of whose they were, I learned from them. A great deal of weight was dropped from my packing list. More efforts were made to tighten things up. One day, I texted Jane's children, and asked them if they would like some of the pictures I had taken of Jane while she had been pulled out from Buckskin Gulch. Jane's children responded with enthusiasm.
As my adventure had continued, she had made it to safety where many a worried phone call had awaited her.
It had become clear to Jane's children that she had been in considerable danger. I was told Jane had been scolded (I couldn't blame them for that), and yes, they did want those pictures. In addition, I was also promised the finest BBQ in Michigan if I was ever in that area. The offer touched me. I hadn't expected it.
To this day, I have yet to take them up on that offer. After all; The good hiking is in Utah.
And that was my trip.
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