Bad_Luck_Brigade
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- Joined
- Jan 25, 2024
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- 13
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 rose. I would travel those 10-12 miles before noon, and when I reached the Middle Exit, I would ascend into the Mesa and see how things were going. The idea was that if a flash flood happened, it would roar past me during the night. 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.
It was, to be blunt, my first overnight trip ever. And being the overachiever I was, I had decided to do a five day waltz in one of the most dangerous places to be in the year of 2023, namely, the desert, in a slot canyon, with a thirty percent chance of rain.
I was nervous. I had never done something like this before. But I had purchased all the gear; The ultralight backpack, the foam pad, the ultralight tent. And, because I was new and inexpeirenced, I overpacked. By a lot. My pack was heavy, it was not fun, but I was happy to be out there. There were issues of course; I forgot my hat. As a result, I improved, pulling out my headlamp and removing the head strap so I could keep my ample hair out of my face. In the early morning, Buckskin Gulch was a place of singular beauty. I will not dwell on that too much. Other trip reports have been given for this area, and they have covered it far better than I have. 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 decided to eat some food, my back to the canyon wall as I stared up at the middle exit, figuring out how I would get up. I had brought fifty feet of static line for a pack haul, but even so, this was the first time I had ever done a class three scramble with a pack haul in this manner, and the skies looked clear. While I ate my honeyed granola bar, I waited and enjoyed the rising temperatures.
Something happened then.
Something I still find difficult to describe.
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?"
You must pay close attention to the circumstances in order to understand what went through my head at this question. At the time, I believed seven people had died in Buckskin Gulch the three months before I entered this particular canyon. It was only four, but that was still two multi-fatality events. 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 my trip, thirteen miles into a slot canyon that was twenty miles long, and had a sword of damocles hanging over it's head. There was a 30% chance of flash flooding starting at noon. I was carrying overnight gear. I had with me two gallons of water, which was very heavy. It was the middle of summer. The day was getting hot.
She had a single 'smart' waterbottle that held less water than I carried going on a short day trip.
And I was preparing to rope up my pack and ascend into the mesa.
For many, many reasons, I found this question extremely concerning, and started asking questions of my own. Her name, I do not remember. And even if I did, I doubt she would have appreciated her mistakes being blasted over the internet. We shall call Jane.
"Jane," says I, "What do you mean 'is this Buckskin?'"
Jane looked back at me, and withdrew one of the smallest waterbottles I have ever seen. it was one of those transparent smart water bottles that were in fashion at the time, and was about half the water I took on even a short two mile day trip into the Utah desert in the middle of summer. "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 a fine overview of Buckskin gulch itself. If you look to the left, you see a little hiking man in green labeled 'Trailhead'. That is the Wire Pass trailhead, which we both appeared to have started from, though I had started much earlier than her, and moved slower to a heavy pack. 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.
It is confined, and not a good place to be in a flash flood.
To the north, another five miles, is Whitehouse campground. Better. More open. But without good drinking water.
And, if you look back at out 'trailhead' to the left, just to the right of it is another marker that says 'Buckskin Gulch Petroglyph'.
This is the Wire Pass-Buckskin Gulch confluence. It is quite distinctive a recessed hollow in the side of the walls where the occassional rattlesnake likes to sit with petroglyphs on the right wall that see much vandalism from the tourists who converge on the spot due to the marker in google maps. It is a T-junction. You may go left. You may go right. You may turn around and head back. There are no other options unless you brought pitons, ropes, and a drill, and even then, it would an unpleasant trip up because the rock walls are smooth slickrock.
The Wire Pass-Buckskin Gulch confluence about a mile to a mile and a half from the Wire Pass Trailhead.
Jane's turnoff had been about a mile into her trip. Referring back to the map I showed, she was now in the middle of the map. Jane had missed her turnoff by twelve whole miles.
Far more alarmed than before, I started asking more questions. "Do you know what the forecast is?"
She smiled, and admitted that she did not.
Remember, I had come here with a thirty percent chance of flash flooding starting about right now. In fact, I had been finishing up my snack, and in another fifteen minutes, I would have scaled the Middle Exit.
In a very serious tone, I explain to Jane some very simple facts.
First; This canyon had seen two multi-fatality events in the past three months.
Second; She had missed her turnoff by twelve miles, and was now in Buckskin Gulch, the very heart of it in fact.
Three; There was a thirty percent chance of flooding starting now.
Four; She had choices avalaible to her. But those choices were not good. She could go to the west, and attempt to return to Wire Pass. It was thirteen miles through confined slot canyon that had a drainage area of 800 square miles. If she went left, she might get hit by a flash flood. She could go to the east, and attempt to exit through whitehouse. But again, that was at least another ten miles to the Buckskin-Pariah confluence, and another five to Whitehouse. If she did that, her chances of being hit by a flash flood were just as grave. Her final choice was to go with me up into mesa, and up into the death trap that was the canyon floor.
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 attaching it to my belt, I scrampled up into the mesa to get a good look around us.
What I saw chilled my blood.
Though the skies within the canyon had been clear, up top, the summer monsoon clouds were visible in the distance, and rain was falling upon our drainage area well within my view. That wall was coming closer. Returning to the bottom, I told her that if she was going to ascend, she had to do so now, because we might not have much time.
For those of you who have never scrambled up the middle exit, you need to know two simple things to understand my story.
The first; The ancients carved their steps out with spry individuals in mind.
The second; There were two ledges in the middle exit that formed the end of pitches between scrambles.
The first ledge, and the lowest, was relatively large, and you can see it here. In places, it had rock, but hidden just out of view is a nice sandy place. From where I am standing, I looking down at the middle exit, which is on the other side of the canyon from where I stand. This picture is from a later trip. It was perhaps thirty to forty feet above the Canyon floor, and the exposure, depending on where you were, was considerable.
Here, both the second and the first ledge are visible. The second ledge is to the left, and it is the taller ledge of the two. The second ledge is to the right, and it is the shorter of the two. Ascent and decent is made through a series of Moki steps, which are not visible, which give you just enough grip to get up and down.
Please note these important details; The small tree in the upper left corner in the sand. The steepness of the terain around each ledge. The exposure for the upper ledge in the left side.
These will be important later.
Some time before I arrived, some enterprising (and rather foolish) individual had decided that the exposure here was too steep for their liking. As a result, in the first ledge, a pair of bolts had been implanted. 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, which someone had installed, I threw the rope down for Jane. This helped her get up and off the Canyon floor. So far, so good. We were out of immediate danger, but I did not want to be here. Here was a decent place, but it was an illegal place. The only place I could legally camp was up on the Mesa. Camping within Buckskin itself was strictly prohibited because of the risk, and these ledges count as part of the canyon itself, because they are part of the canyon.
If you look to our pictures of the middle exit, you will note that the second, higher ledge has some very bad exposure. At least an eighty foot sheer drop. Probably more. There is nothing between you and the canyon floor should you fall. The Moki steps which allow one to climb higher are located to the right of the ledge, not the to the left, placing someone closer to the exposure by necessity. There is a good two to five feet between someone and a fall, so it is not too terrible. But the space between the moki steps carved into the rock is uncomfortably large, even for someone like me. It is to the point that the entire reason I brought the rope was so I did not have to deal with these ledges with a heavy pack throwing off my balance.
Jane had managed to climb up to the first ledge. This was good.
Through a great deal of effort, I managed to get Jane up to the second ledge. By this time, we could see the rain fast approaching us. The monsoon season had never ended, and her sudden afternnoon thunderstorms were upon us.
Here is where complications arose.
Jane was not as young as she had once been. While she had managed to get off the canyon floor with great difificulty, and up to the second ledge with considerable help from me, her feet could bridge the gaps between the Moki steps that led from the second ledge up into the Mesa. Worse; As I watched her try to go without the Moki steps to get from one step to the next, 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. But the distance was far too great. Fifty feet of rope could not reach from that tree to Jane, who was on the second 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. "Jane, whatever you choose to do, I will support you as much as I can. But this is how things stand; We have a thirty percent chance of flash flooding starting right now. You see the rains that are approaching us. You may descend and try to reach either White Hall or you can try to reach Wire Pass. There is no guarantee you will succeed. I will not go with you because of how dangerous this is. I cannot anchor you. There is a tree, but it is too far. I would need to use myself as an anchor, but I would be forced to anchor you on a slope. I am not heavy enough to anchor you by myself. If you fall, you will pull me to my death with you. If you try to climb without rope, and you slip the way you have been slipping, and you tumble after you slide down this slope you are trying to climb, you will only need to roll five feet to go over the edge. Then, you will fall at least eight feet to the canyon floor."
Lifting a hand, I pointed out each detail, one by one, as we spoke.
"If you fall, it will not longer matter what you want. You will be wounded, and I will need to call the rangers regardless. They will send an emergency helicopter, and I am sorry, but it is likely that even if they do, you will not survive long enough for them to get here. We are far from civilization, and deep in the back country. Help could take days to arrive. Because of your choices, you have put yourself in a situation where a bad decision here is likely to end your life. Now. Would you like me to call the rangers for you? Or would you like me to try and help you another way to the best of my abilities."
Jane looked at me. "I guess I don't have much choice."
I shook my head. "I am in charge. Okay?"
Looking back, I'm not sure why I didn't use the SOS signal. But I didn't. Part of it was I'd signed up for the unlimited Garmin Inreach plan for this trip, and had no worry of data rates. I tried contacting the rangers directly using the phone number on the permits I had, but I never got any reply. I contact my family, and told them that they needed to contact the rangers for the Pariah station.
And I started to deluge them with information they needed to tell the rangers. The ranger contact line did not have an SMS capability, and that was why I used my family. Messages went out.
"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"
"877 644 2349"
"Tell them I have an elderly woman on the lower bench of the middle exit for buckskin gulch who cannot get out."
"She intended to hike from wire pass trailhead to buckskin trailhead, but got confused and wandered all the way down the canyon."
"Seeing rain rain falling to my west, I urged her to ascend. She did. But she can't get all the way up out of the canyon."
"I lack the length of rope necessary to safely anchor her, and a great deal of the technical skills required to do so."
"I also feel that descent is not an option for her, and believe that to even attent it places her at great risk of injury or death."
"I have enough water to last us two days if we ration it."
"I need someone to come to the top of the emergency exit with a harness and a length of rope to help her eascend out of the canyon."
About this time, I get a text from my father. He tells me to contact my mother. So I do. This is the first time I've had satellite connection since going in, so I start getting other messages. This pops up in my inbox:
"Too late, I think. My hike is probably over."
"N37.032803° W111.933659°"
"Tell them we are also getting hit by light rain, but are in a good position."
"We were about to get hit by rain, so I told her what her options were:head back to wire pass TH, WHITEHOUSE, OR ascend with me."
"She chose to ascend."
"I managed to help her up to the first bench, but she couldn't get up to the second and into the Mesa. I lack the length of rope to help her ascend or descend."
"I can get both up and down. She cannot."
"Helicopter not needed, and not ideal In current circumstances. Food: ok Water
k Shelterkay Injuries:none"
"Suggestion: rangers with rope and harness hike to emergency exit. Herness her up, help her ascend safely out of the canyon."
This back and forth 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 hall. My first concern was simple; We were exposed on the side of a canyon, and it looked like we were going to get rained on. Hypothermia becomes a bigger issue when you are wet, tired, and cannot move. This lady could not be safely moved from our position.
Deciding that it was necessary to keep our condition from worsening, I erected a tent there on the side of the cliff. We started to get rained on, as noted by the messages, and I had her get inside the tent with me.
A 1 man tent, this was a tight fit.
Communications were slow. With where we were, my Garmin was outside getting sprinkled on, and it only had a small patch of the sky. Messages came only when the sattelites were directly over head. There was time to talk.
I learned a lot about Jane while we waited for messages.
Jane was an experienced hiker from Michigan who had spent a lot of time in the Appalachia's. As she had gotten older, she had gotten the wanderlust again, and had decided to wander. In truth, Jane probably knew more than I did. She had all the gear, and she knew how to use it too.
See, Jane had a nice big backpack with enough waterbottles to carry four galleons.
These had been left in the car.
Jane also had a map of the area. This too had been left in the car. Hiking sticks? Trekking pulls? More food? A compass? All left in the car. But the biggest shocker was this; Jane had a Garmin too. You see, she had a family, children, grandchildren too, and as she had returned to the wilds, her family had gotten concerned for Jane. At no cost to her, they had purchased her a garmin, the same model I had, and at the time, these were reasonably expensive.
This too had been left in the car.
As noted before, Jane had not checked the weather at all.
But she also revealed she not told anyone where she was going. As far as her family were concerned, she was somewhere very, very different, hundreds of miles away. There would be no one coming for her if it had not been for me.
"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?"
"Yeah," Jane replied. "But I decided to keep going."
This boggled my mind. Jane had decided to keep going. At that moment, I wanted, so badly, to tell her that the little voice inside her head had been her survival instinct, and it was saying 'Live!'. But our situation was difficult enough, so I held my tongue.
In turn, Jane asked me questions. "Do you think you'll enjoy the rest of your hike?"
I shook my head. "Jane," I said. "I only brought two galleons of water, and I do not know how long we will be here. Chances are that by the time the rangers get here, I will no longer have enough water to continue this trip, and I will be forced to make an emergency exit somewhere else."
At this, the understanding of the consequences of her situation, not just for herself, but for those around her seemed to sink in to Jane. I had not meant to be cruel. The answer was simple, and matter of fact. But Jane began to cry.
I did my best to console. "No, no! It's okay! I am going to make sure you get back to your family."
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."
Kane county SAR sent a reply.
"Be advised, signal is bad. Probably only getting messages in and out when satellite travels overhead"
"N37.031326° W111.921964°"
"At emergency exit, lowest shelf. Current situation: 60+ feet above canyon floor safe from potential flood. Water:two days if rationed Food: same Sheltergood"
"I have 50 feet of rope, and can safely both ascend and descend. I do not have enough rope to provide safe anchorage for the woman."
"I COULD attempt to help her descend, but am hesitant to try. Woman not up to buckskin hike. Wasn't trying to do buckskin hike period."
"Woman attempting to hike from wire pass TH to buckskin TH thru wash. Is 60 years old. Not nimble. Fall from height significant concern. Worried aggravate situa
"Advise rangers: am hearing thunder. been sprinkled on twice. Am prepared, planned to, and willing to wait bad weather out. Rescue needed, but"
"Rescue needed, but lives are not in immediate danger. Time not a concern."
"Gear necessary: at LEAST 100 feet of rope. I would consider more ideal as am not able to measure exact length needed"
"Harness for woman, or enough rope to make harness."
"Extra water suggested. I have enough, at LEAST 1 gallon, but she only carried small water bottle."
Even now, I cannot help but wonder what it was like to be an SAR volunteer that day.
Imagine this; You live in the area. Four people in this canyon had died in three months. It is a known mankiller. And suddenly, people are calling you, freaking out because their son is talking about rain and slot canyons and being unable to get out. And all you can think of are the bodies that have already been pulled out of this Canyon.
Suddenly, they start getting messages. "I am with a person on the middle shelf of the Buckskin. We are trapped, getting rained on, and cannot get out."
I pity them for their panic, and am grateful they are around.
While driving down to southern Utah, before I had talked to my first ranger at the Pariah Station in order to pick up my permits, I had sat next to a man who had hit a deer on his motorcycle, and both he, and the motor cycle were busted up. Then, I had asked him the same question as Jane. "Do you want to call your family to let them know you are alright?"
"No," said the man on the ground. "I'd much rather be in the hospital when that happens, so my wife is not as scared."
Two days later, I sat inside a tent, and I turned to a woman I call Jane. My urgent need for the Garmin was over. Jane's family did not know where she was, or what was happening. "Jane," I said, "while we wait, would you like to send your family a simple message?"
As I write this, I debate whether or not I should keep these messages quiet. In one sense, they were meant to be private. In another, they could not be. This is my phone, my data plan, and even years after the fact, I still have these messages. After consideration, I have decided to include some of these messages, but not all. But only to make a simple point;
Arrogance is what led Jane to this situation.
She was every bit as experienced as me. More, in fact. This was my first overnight trip. But she had broken every rule that keeps people like us alive. She had not checked the forecasts. She had left emergency devices back in her car. Refused to take a map. Had traveled with dangerously little water.
And she had told no one where she was going.
Imagine you are home. Your mother is off adventuring in a distant state from you. You love her, enough that you purchased an expensive piece of gear so she could always get help if she needed to. It is a monday. You are eating lunch, or at work. A number you do not recognize texts you. There is a message.
Because of the need to communicate with the rangers, I received several replies from this number. All of them went unnoticed because I was trying to give the rangers as much information as I could about our current state of affairs. Not just what we had, but Jane's condition. Medication is a good example. I was in for the long haul, figuring out what we needed, what we had, and what we needed but didn't have. Jane was a little banged up from trying to get up off the ground, but I'd brought a first aid kit.
In between waiting for messages, I patched her up. I assessed our condition. I prepared Jane for a long haul if it was required.
Still, a reply was given.
Sometimes, things happen to us. We try our best to prepare, but no amount of preparation can stop mother nature when she decides we do not belong in her territory. Other times, we make stupid mistakes. Mistakes we should not have. Most of the time, nothing happens. Maybe we never even realize that we made a mistake, and we could have died for it.
I like to think I was as kind as I would have hoped another person to be in that situation. This was difficult for Jane. All I can say is that I tried my best, and hope some of the irritation I felt never showed in my tone.
Time passed. I heard a call. Coming out of my tent, I looked up.
The forerunner for the SAR team had arrived. He had been sent out to assess the situation before the bulk of the team had arrived.
He was the man in the yellow shirt, and he was a Sheriff for Kane County. I was astonished at how he moved. He slid down that slope like a mountain goat, two trecking poles in hand. There, on the side of a cliff, we had ourselves a conversation.
He wanted to know what was going on, and if anyone was hurt.
I will admit, I was excited. Maybe I shouldn't have been. But these people had arrived much faster than I had ever expected. It was my first trip in the backcountry. Much had happened. I was hopeful, and no one was hurt.
The sheriff had to tell me to be quick so he could talk to Jane.
I was quiet.
After wards, it was my turn to explain what had happened. I talked about my trip, and how thoroughly it had been planned. I showed him my gear, including the ropes. He pointed to the bolts, and asked "Did you do that?"
I shook my head. "No."
"It's unnecessary. Those bolts should be there."
What could I do except agree with him? Between the Moki steps and the nature of the rock, the Middle Exit is one of the nicer scrambles I have done in southern Utah. Even to my inexperienced self, it hadn't been that bad. The Sheriff was only here because Jane was not as spry as she had once been.
A second man arrived from above. He was the man on the right, the stick-figure man.
This was the rope man I had asked for.
After assessing the situation, the Sheriff talked with Rope-man. It was decided that they could get her our right now. Together, they roped each other up, and they sat on the side of that cliff, acting as living anchors for Jane. Together, they gave her the leverage she needed to reach just a little bit farther, and lift her feet high enough to get to the Moki steps Jane needed.
We got up to a slender fold in the slick rock where it was necessary to step to the side to get to a better way up.
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, I looked down.
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 rose. I would travel those 10-12 miles before noon, and when I reached the Middle Exit, I would ascend into the Mesa and see how things were going. The idea was that if a flash flood happened, it would roar past me during the night. 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.
It was, to be blunt, my first overnight trip ever. And being the overachiever I was, I had decided to do a five day waltz in one of the most dangerous places to be in the year of 2023, namely, the desert, in a slot canyon, with a thirty percent chance of rain.
I was nervous. I had never done something like this before. But I had purchased all the gear; The ultralight backpack, the foam pad, the ultralight tent. And, because I was new and inexpeirenced, I overpacked. By a lot. My pack was heavy, it was not fun, but I was happy to be out there. There were issues of course; I forgot my hat. As a result, I improved, pulling out my headlamp and removing the head strap so I could keep my ample hair out of my face. In the early morning, Buckskin Gulch was a place of singular beauty. I will not dwell on that too much. Other trip reports have been given for this area, and they have covered it far better than I have. 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 decided to eat some food, my back to the canyon wall as I stared up at the middle exit, figuring out how I would get up. I had brought fifty feet of static line for a pack haul, but even so, this was the first time I had ever done a class three scramble with a pack haul in this manner, and the skies looked clear. While I ate my honeyed granola bar, I waited and enjoyed the rising temperatures.
Something happened then.
Something I still find difficult to describe.
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?"
You must pay close attention to the circumstances in order to understand what went through my head at this question. At the time, I believed seven people had died in Buckskin Gulch the three months before I entered this particular canyon. It was only four, but that was still two multi-fatality events. 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 my trip, thirteen miles into a slot canyon that was twenty miles long, and had a sword of damocles hanging over it's head. There was a 30% chance of flash flooding starting at noon. I was carrying overnight gear. I had with me two gallons of water, which was very heavy. It was the middle of summer. The day was getting hot.
She had a single 'smart' waterbottle that held less water than I carried going on a short day trip.
And I was preparing to rope up my pack and ascend into the mesa.
For many, many reasons, I found this question extremely concerning, and started asking questions of my own. Her name, I do not remember. And even if I did, I doubt she would have appreciated her mistakes being blasted over the internet. We shall call Jane.
"Jane," says I, "What do you mean 'is this Buckskin?'"
Jane looked back at me, and withdrew one of the smallest waterbottles I have ever seen. it was one of those transparent smart water bottles that were in fashion at the time, and was about half the water I took on even a short two mile day trip into the Utah desert in the middle of summer. "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 a fine overview of Buckskin gulch itself. If you look to the left, you see a little hiking man in green labeled 'Trailhead'. That is the Wire Pass trailhead, which we both appeared to have started from, though I had started much earlier than her, and moved slower to a heavy pack. 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.
It is confined, and not a good place to be in a flash flood.
To the north, another five miles, is Whitehouse campground. Better. More open. But without good drinking water.
And, if you look back at out 'trailhead' to the left, just to the right of it is another marker that says 'Buckskin Gulch Petroglyph'.
This is the Wire Pass-Buckskin Gulch confluence. It is quite distinctive a recessed hollow in the side of the walls where the occassional rattlesnake likes to sit with petroglyphs on the right wall that see much vandalism from the tourists who converge on the spot due to the marker in google maps. It is a T-junction. You may go left. You may go right. You may turn around and head back. There are no other options unless you brought pitons, ropes, and a drill, and even then, it would an unpleasant trip up because the rock walls are smooth slickrock.
The Wire Pass-Buckskin Gulch confluence about a mile to a mile and a half from the Wire Pass Trailhead.
Jane's turnoff had been about a mile into her trip. Referring back to the map I showed, she was now in the middle of the map. Jane had missed her turnoff by twelve whole miles.
Far more alarmed than before, I started asking more questions. "Do you know what the forecast is?"
She smiled, and admitted that she did not.
Remember, I had come here with a thirty percent chance of flash flooding starting about right now. In fact, I had been finishing up my snack, and in another fifteen minutes, I would have scaled the Middle Exit.
In a very serious tone, I explain to Jane some very simple facts.
First; This canyon had seen two multi-fatality events in the past three months.
Second; She had missed her turnoff by twelve miles, and was now in Buckskin Gulch, the very heart of it in fact.
Three; There was a thirty percent chance of flooding starting now.
Four; She had choices avalaible to her. But those choices were not good. She could go to the west, and attempt to return to Wire Pass. It was thirteen miles through confined slot canyon that had a drainage area of 800 square miles. If she went left, she might get hit by a flash flood. She could go to the east, and attempt to exit through whitehouse. But again, that was at least another ten miles to the Buckskin-Pariah confluence, and another five to Whitehouse. If she did that, her chances of being hit by a flash flood were just as grave. Her final choice was to go with me up into mesa, and up into the death trap that was the canyon floor.
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 attaching it to my belt, I scrampled up into the mesa to get a good look around us.
What I saw chilled my blood.
Though the skies within the canyon had been clear, up top, the summer monsoon clouds were visible in the distance, and rain was falling upon our drainage area well within my view. That wall was coming closer. Returning to the bottom, I told her that if she was going to ascend, she had to do so now, because we might not have much time.
For those of you who have never scrambled up the middle exit, you need to know two simple things to understand my story.
The first; The ancients carved their steps out with spry individuals in mind.
The second; There were two ledges in the middle exit that formed the end of pitches between scrambles.
The first ledge, and the lowest, was relatively large, and you can see it here. In places, it had rock, but hidden just out of view is a nice sandy place. From where I am standing, I looking down at the middle exit, which is on the other side of the canyon from where I stand. This picture is from a later trip. It was perhaps thirty to forty feet above the Canyon floor, and the exposure, depending on where you were, was considerable.
Here, both the second and the first ledge are visible. The second ledge is to the left, and it is the taller ledge of the two. The second ledge is to the right, and it is the shorter of the two. Ascent and decent is made through a series of Moki steps, which are not visible, which give you just enough grip to get up and down.
Please note these important details; The small tree in the upper left corner in the sand. The steepness of the terain around each ledge. The exposure for the upper ledge in the left side.
These will be important later.
Some time before I arrived, some enterprising (and rather foolish) individual had decided that the exposure here was too steep for their liking. As a result, in the first ledge, a pair of bolts had been implanted. 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, which someone had installed, I threw the rope down for Jane. This helped her get up and off the Canyon floor. So far, so good. We were out of immediate danger, but I did not want to be here. Here was a decent place, but it was an illegal place. The only place I could legally camp was up on the Mesa. Camping within Buckskin itself was strictly prohibited because of the risk, and these ledges count as part of the canyon itself, because they are part of the canyon.
If you look to our pictures of the middle exit, you will note that the second, higher ledge has some very bad exposure. At least an eighty foot sheer drop. Probably more. There is nothing between you and the canyon floor should you fall. The Moki steps which allow one to climb higher are located to the right of the ledge, not the to the left, placing someone closer to the exposure by necessity. There is a good two to five feet between someone and a fall, so it is not too terrible. But the space between the moki steps carved into the rock is uncomfortably large, even for someone like me. It is to the point that the entire reason I brought the rope was so I did not have to deal with these ledges with a heavy pack throwing off my balance.
Jane had managed to climb up to the first ledge. This was good.
Through a great deal of effort, I managed to get Jane up to the second ledge. By this time, we could see the rain fast approaching us. The monsoon season had never ended, and her sudden afternnoon thunderstorms were upon us.
Here is where complications arose.
Jane was not as young as she had once been. While she had managed to get off the canyon floor with great difificulty, and up to the second ledge with considerable help from me, her feet could bridge the gaps between the Moki steps that led from the second ledge up into the Mesa. Worse; As I watched her try to go without the Moki steps to get from one step to the next, 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. But the distance was far too great. Fifty feet of rope could not reach from that tree to Jane, who was on the second 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. "Jane, whatever you choose to do, I will support you as much as I can. But this is how things stand; We have a thirty percent chance of flash flooding starting right now. You see the rains that are approaching us. You may descend and try to reach either White Hall or you can try to reach Wire Pass. There is no guarantee you will succeed. I will not go with you because of how dangerous this is. I cannot anchor you. There is a tree, but it is too far. I would need to use myself as an anchor, but I would be forced to anchor you on a slope. I am not heavy enough to anchor you by myself. If you fall, you will pull me to my death with you. If you try to climb without rope, and you slip the way you have been slipping, and you tumble after you slide down this slope you are trying to climb, you will only need to roll five feet to go over the edge. Then, you will fall at least eight feet to the canyon floor."
Lifting a hand, I pointed out each detail, one by one, as we spoke.
"If you fall, it will not longer matter what you want. You will be wounded, and I will need to call the rangers regardless. They will send an emergency helicopter, and I am sorry, but it is likely that even if they do, you will not survive long enough for them to get here. We are far from civilization, and deep in the back country. Help could take days to arrive. Because of your choices, you have put yourself in a situation where a bad decision here is likely to end your life. Now. Would you like me to call the rangers for you? Or would you like me to try and help you another way to the best of my abilities."
Jane looked at me. "I guess I don't have much choice."
I shook my head. "I am in charge. Okay?"
Looking back, I'm not sure why I didn't use the SOS signal. But I didn't. Part of it was I'd signed up for the unlimited Garmin Inreach plan for this trip, and had no worry of data rates. I tried contacting the rangers directly using the phone number on the permits I had, but I never got any reply. I contact my family, and told them that they needed to contact the rangers for the Pariah station.
And I started to deluge them with information they needed to tell the rangers. The ranger contact line did not have an SMS capability, and that was why I used my family. Messages went out.
"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"
"877 644 2349"
"Tell them I have an elderly woman on the lower bench of the middle exit for buckskin gulch who cannot get out."
"She intended to hike from wire pass trailhead to buckskin trailhead, but got confused and wandered all the way down the canyon."
"Seeing rain rain falling to my west, I urged her to ascend. She did. But she can't get all the way up out of the canyon."
"I lack the length of rope necessary to safely anchor her, and a great deal of the technical skills required to do so."
"I also feel that descent is not an option for her, and believe that to even attent it places her at great risk of injury or death."
"I have enough water to last us two days if we ration it."
"I need someone to come to the top of the emergency exit with a harness and a length of rope to help her eascend out of the canyon."
About this time, I get a text from my father. He tells me to contact my mother. So I do. This is the first time I've had satellite connection since going in, so I start getting other messages. This pops up in my inbox:
"Do you have a photo of your permit? I'm hoping that with your photo of it and your id with you that you will be ok."
"Too late, I think. My hike is probably over."
"I finally got a signal"
"N37.032803° W111.933659°"
"Tell them we are also getting hit by light rain, but are in a good position."
"I was able to pull your latitude and longitude from your text message. So I sent them that"
"[Bad Luck] The search and rescue team needs to know why the elderly lady needs help. Is it medical issue or she is out of energy etc. they need to know if"
"they need to send a helicopter"
"What is her medical issue"
"[Bad Luck] The search and rescue team needs to know why the elderly lady needs help. Is it medical issue or she is out of energy etc. they need to know if"
"they need to send a helicopter"
"What is her medical issue"
"We were about to get hit by rain, so I told her what her options were:head back to wire pass TH, WHITEHOUSE, OR ascend with me."
"She chose to ascend."
"I managed to help her up to the first bench, but she couldn't get up to the second and into the Mesa. I lack the length of rope to help her ascend or descend."
"I can get both up and down. She cannot."
"Helicopter not needed, and not ideal In current circumstances. Food: ok Water
k Shelterkay Injuries:none""Suggestion: rangers with rope and harness hike to emergency exit. Herness her up, help her ascend safely out of the canyon."
This back and forth 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 hall. My first concern was simple; We were exposed on the side of a canyon, and it looked like we were going to get rained on. Hypothermia becomes a bigger issue when you are wet, tired, and cannot move. This lady could not be safely moved from our position.
Deciding that it was necessary to keep our condition from worsening, I erected a tent there on the side of the cliff. We started to get rained on, as noted by the messages, and I had her get inside the tent with me.
A 1 man tent, this was a tight fit.
Communications were slow. With where we were, my Garmin was outside getting sprinkled on, and it only had a small patch of the sky. Messages came only when the sattelites were directly over head. There was time to talk.
I learned a lot about Jane while we waited for messages.
Jane was an experienced hiker from Michigan who had spent a lot of time in the Appalachia's. As she had gotten older, she had gotten the wanderlust again, and had decided to wander. In truth, Jane probably knew more than I did. She had all the gear, and she knew how to use it too.
See, Jane had a nice big backpack with enough waterbottles to carry four galleons.
These had been left in the car.
Jane also had a map of the area. This too had been left in the car. Hiking sticks? Trekking pulls? More food? A compass? All left in the car. But the biggest shocker was this; Jane had a Garmin too. You see, she had a family, children, grandchildren too, and as she had returned to the wilds, her family had gotten concerned for Jane. At no cost to her, they had purchased her a garmin, the same model I had, and at the time, these were reasonably expensive.
This too had been left in the car.
As noted before, Jane had not checked the weather at all.
But she also revealed she not told anyone where she was going. As far as her family were concerned, she was somewhere very, very different, hundreds of miles away. There would be no one coming for her if it had not been for me.
"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?"
"Yeah," Jane replied. "But I decided to keep going."
This boggled my mind. Jane had decided to keep going. At that moment, I wanted, so badly, to tell her that the little voice inside her head had been her survival instinct, and it was saying 'Live!'. But our situation was difficult enough, so I held my tongue.
In turn, Jane asked me questions. "Do you think you'll enjoy the rest of your hike?"
I shook my head. "Jane," I said. "I only brought two galleons of water, and I do not know how long we will be here. Chances are that by the time the rangers get here, I will no longer have enough water to continue this trip, and I will be forced to make an emergency exit somewhere else."
At this, the understanding of the consequences of her situation, not just for herself, but for those around her seemed to sink in to Jane. I had not meant to be cruel. The answer was simple, and matter of fact. But Jane began to cry.
I did my best to console. "No, no! It's okay! I am going to make sure you get back to your family."
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."
Kane county SAR sent a reply.
"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°"
"At emergency exit, lowest shelf. Current situation: 60+ feet above canyon floor safe from potential flood. Water:two days if rationed Food: same Sheltergood"
"I have 50 feet of rope, and can safely both ascend and descend. I do not have enough rope to provide safe anchorage for the woman."
"I COULD attempt to help her descend, but am hesitant to try. Woman not up to buckskin hike. Wasn't trying to do buckskin hike period."
"Woman attempting to hike from wire pass TH to buckskin TH thru wash. Is 60 years old. Not nimble. Fall from height significant concern. Worried aggravate situa
"Advise rangers: am hearing thunder. been sprinkled on twice. Am prepared, planned to, and willing to wait bad weather out. Rescue needed, but"
"Rescue needed, but lives are not in immediate danger. Time not a concern."
"Gear necessary: at LEAST 100 feet of rope. I would consider more ideal as am not able to measure exact length needed"
"Harness for woman, or enough rope to make harness."
"Extra water suggested. I have enough, at LEAST 1 gallon, but she only carried small water bottle."
"What is the ladies name that ur with first and last name?"
"Copy"
"Copy"
Even now, I cannot help but wonder what it was like to be an SAR volunteer that day.
Imagine this; You live in the area. Four people in this canyon had died in three months. It is a known mankiller. And suddenly, people are calling you, freaking out because their son is talking about rain and slot canyons and being unable to get out. And all you can think of are the bodies that have already been pulled out of this Canyon.
Suddenly, they start getting messages. "I am with a person on the middle shelf of the Buckskin. We are trapped, getting rained on, and cannot get out."
I pity them for their panic, and am grateful they are around.
While driving down to southern Utah, before I had talked to my first ranger at the Pariah Station in order to pick up my permits, I had sat next to a man who had hit a deer on his motorcycle, and both he, and the motor cycle were busted up. Then, I had asked him the same question as Jane. "Do you want to call your family to let them know you are alright?"
"No," said the man on the ground. "I'd much rather be in the hospital when that happens, so my wife is not as scared."
Two days later, I sat inside a tent, and I turned to a woman I call Jane. My urgent need for the Garmin was over. Jane's family did not know where she was, or what was happening. "Jane," I said, "while we wait, would you like to send your family a simple message?"
As I write this, I debate whether or not I should keep these messages quiet. In one sense, they were meant to be private. In another, they could not be. This is my phone, my data plan, and even years after the fact, I still have these messages. After consideration, I have decided to include some of these messages, but not all. But only to make a simple point;
Arrogance is what led Jane to this situation.
She was every bit as experienced as me. More, in fact. This was my first overnight trip. But she had broken every rule that keeps people like us alive. She had not checked the forecasts. She had left emergency devices back in her car. Refused to take a map. Had traveled with dangerously little water.
And she had told no one where she was going.
Imagine you are home. Your mother is off adventuring in a distant state from you. You love her, enough that you purchased an expensive piece of gear so she could always get help if she needed to. It is a monday. You are eating lunch, or at work. A number you do not recognize texts you. There is a message.
"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."
Because of the need to communicate with the rangers, I received several replies from this number. All of them went unnoticed because I was trying to give the rangers as much information as I could about our current state of affairs. Not just what we had, but Jane's condition. Medication is a good example. I was in for the long haul, figuring out what we needed, what we had, and what we needed but didn't have. Jane was a little banged up from trying to get up off the ground, but I'd brought a first aid kit.
In between waiting for messages, I patched her up. I assessed our condition. I prepared Jane for a long haul if it was required.
Still, a reply was given.
"Get out of what safely?"
"Rangers?"
"Rangers?"
Sometimes, things happen to us. We try our best to prepare, but no amount of preparation can stop mother nature when she decides we do not belong in her territory. Other times, we make stupid mistakes. Mistakes we should not have. Most of the time, nothing happens. Maybe we never even realize that we made a mistake, and we could have died for it.
I like to think I was as kind as I would have hoped another person to be in that situation. This was difficult for Jane. All I can say is that I tried my best, and hope some of the irritation I felt never showed in my tone.
Time passed. I heard a call. Coming out of my tent, I looked up.
The forerunner for the SAR team had arrived. He had been sent out to assess the situation before the bulk of the team had arrived.
He was the man in the yellow shirt, and he was a Sheriff for Kane County. I was astonished at how he moved. He slid down that slope like a mountain goat, two trecking poles in hand. There, on the side of a cliff, we had ourselves a conversation.
He wanted to know what was going on, and if anyone was hurt.
I will admit, I was excited. Maybe I shouldn't have been. But these people had arrived much faster than I had ever expected. It was my first trip in the backcountry. Much had happened. I was hopeful, and no one was hurt.
The sheriff had to tell me to be quick so he could talk to Jane.
I was quiet.
After wards, it was my turn to explain what had happened. I talked about my trip, and how thoroughly it had been planned. I showed him my gear, including the ropes. He pointed to the bolts, and asked "Did you do that?"
I shook my head. "No."
"It's unnecessary. Those bolts should be there."
What could I do except agree with him? Between the Moki steps and the nature of the rock, the Middle Exit is one of the nicer scrambles I have done in southern Utah. Even to my inexperienced self, it hadn't been that bad. The Sheriff was only here because Jane was not as spry as she had once been.
A second man arrived from above. He was the man on the right, the stick-figure man.
This was the rope man I had asked for.
After assessing the situation, the Sheriff talked with Rope-man. It was decided that they could get her our right now. Together, they roped each other up, and they sat on the side of that cliff, acting as living anchors for Jane. Together, they gave her the leverage she needed to reach just a little bit farther, and lift her feet high enough to get to the Moki steps Jane needed.
We got up to a slender fold in the slick rock where it was necessary to step to the side to get to a better way up.
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, I looked down.
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