Slot Canyon Stupidity

"That thing which makes you great also makes you an asshole," my friend and fellow canyoneering guide Greg told me, "and all of us guides fall into that category." He was spot-on in his assessment of me. I had nothing to blame but my own arrogance for what had happened one week ago when I found myself caught in a slot canyon thunderstorm.

I was canyoneering the Left Fork of North Creek, also known as The Subway, in the Zion backcountry. Being by myself and without a rappel partner to come down the more technical upstream obstacles, I had decided to hike up from the bottom, a 10-mile roundtrip easy route. I did my due diligence: told two people my game plan, set up my SPOT satellite tracker, picked up my permit from the backcountry office, and checked the weather reports (what was predicted to be a zero percent chance of rain the night before had changed to 20% the next morning - not enough to cancel my hike).

I set out under clear blue skies and 100 degree temps (but it's a dry heat, Westerners say), jumping in deep swim holes to cool off when I got too hot. It was around mile four that dark clouds started to accumulate overhead. I recognized these clouds and knew it meant rain, I just wasn't sure how soon.

I passed a family of five on their way down and asked them how much farther I had to go before I reached the actual Subway. They said I was close. "Good," I said, "because it's going to rain and I'm not sure how much time I have."

"It's not going to rain today," the mother said as she sat chewing her granola bar. The dark clouds were overhead now.

"See those clouds?" I said, pointing overhead. "It's going to rain alright, it's just a question of when." Fools, I thought to myself as I continued upstream, picking up my pace.

I reached the curving tunnel of the subway with it's deep pools and trickling falls just as a strong wind blew down the canyon. I detected the unmistakable scent of rain. Just then a large clap of thunder echoed off the canyon walls. My heart immediately began to pound and I felt my muscles tense. I had turned around and was running full speed through the tunnel within a milli-second. I made my way through the stream and up a sandy bank when another clap of thunder began, followed by another... and another; a sound that would continue for the next 30 minutes.

The smell of rain soon turned into a downpour, turning the sandy ground into a muddy slick within minutes. I kept running through the willows, trying to get as far downstream and out of the narrow canyon as possible. I carefully crossed the stream where I had to and hit the solid ground sprinting until I finally tripped over some exposed roots and fell to my stomach on the ground. It was a good wake up call. I was panicking, and if a flash flood didn't kill me, that surely would.

I picked myself up and scrambled to a high bank nestled under the safety of an enormous overhanging wall. I drank some water and took a few deep breaths. I could safely spend the night here if I had to, if the water came up and trapped me. I still had more than 4 miles to go to reach the exit route to high ground. Who's the fool now? I thought to myself.

People often ask if I talk to myself when I'm out there by myself. The answer is yes. Yes I do. Especially when I think I'm going to die. And the truth is, in an instance like this, I wouldn't want anyone else's input. I wouldn't want to deal with the responsibility of worrying about them or having to calm their fears, or even worse, having them sit down and cry on me. Like I said, Greg was right about me, "that thing which makes you great..."

I was out of breath, getting hungry, and in no mood to spend the night in the canyon. I mixed a high calorie energy drink, took a few bites of a granola bar, and continued down the slippery slope to the creek. I was still running, but knew I had to pace myself if I was going to make it.

Somewhere under that controlled panic I came to terms with my condition. I was going to die. I was going to die, and you know what? I was ok with that. My pleading prayers turned to prayers of gratitude, and life had never had more meaning.

Suddenly I was dialed-in. I became acutely aware of the cold rain drops hitting my skin. The smell of sagebrush in the rain - one of the most beautiful scents known to man. The course feel of the slippery, wet mud under my hands as I clawed my way up a steep bank. I could hear the sound of every heartbeat and knew exactly how to pace myself to keep from fatiguing too soon. Hundreds of juvenile toads jumped in every direction to avoid my crushing feet. "Southwestern toads," I thought, not able to escape my training as a wildlife biologist, even now.

The four miles that took me three hours to hike up took me 45 minutes to run down. I made it to the exit route, found a nice high spot to sit, and waited for the family I had passed on my way down to make it out (that thing which makes you great...). I filled my bottles with water while the river was still clear and stretched as I felt the adrenaline rush wear off and the fatigue begin to set in.

Funny how it had stopped raining now. Nearly an hour past before the family caught up. I made sure they saw the cairns marking the exit route and began my half-mile ascent up the steep hill to my car. I looked back after a few minutes to see that the clear creek had turned to a dark chocolate churn and come up by two feet in the widest part of the canyon.

The no-brainer lesson learned was to stick with the plan to turn clients around at the first sight of dark clouds. I challenged mother nature, and you just don't do that without a stern reminder of your place in the world. At least future clients and friends will benefit from my overconfident attitude.

But, even more valuable to me were those precious moments of clarity, when, in the face of fear and death, I came to terms with my mortality. I ran with angels and spoke with the river god, pacha mama, and God himself. And I wouldn't trade that for anything, because "that which makes you great..." is born from moments like these.

Mojave Meditation

I'm settling into my groove here in Zion.

Fighting the wind on early morning bike rides up the canyon, afternoon siestas out of the blistering heat, and evening hikes under freezing rain drops call attention to the daily extremes and fluctuations of the Mojave Desert. Ephemeral climate changes during any given day are one of the characteristics of the desert that make me feel alive. I'm in a constant state of adaptation, ever aware of my physical needs, tuned-in perfectly to this masterpiece of machinery that is my human body.

There's a simplicity to this state of being that has a calming affect on the rhythm and hum of thoughts in my brain. Suddenly I'm tuned-in, 'present' with my surroundings. The reds of the rock resonate with my own vibrant energy until I can literally sense myself growing stronger. Trilling bird song reaches my ears, accentuating the silence. A rising dust storm ahead alerts me to the presence of large animals - a mule train makes its way up the dry river banks.

It's this sweet meditation that brings me back again and again. This calm is the state of being I hope my guests find when they venture to undertake Sol's Redrock Backpacker adventure. This is my Mojave Meditation.

My "Happy Place" in Zion National Park

I'm sure you've told yourself to "go to your happy place" from time to time. Usually it's a mental exercise, a visualization intended to lessen the pain or fear of the current situation. I have routinely done this every time I've visited the dentist since I was 10 years old.

This time, however, I have literally "gone to my happy place," and I couldn't be more thrilled. The last four times I've come to Zion National Park have been for work - bringing adventurous clients to test their mental and physical fortitude by backpacking beyond the boundaries of the park in the Parunuweap Wilderness Study Area, also lovingly called The Barracks. I live to see the awe-struck looks on my client's faces when they see the depths of the canyon for the first time. The last two trips were all work as I outpaced (one never outsmarts mother nature) thunderstorms, chased flash floods, and coached various phobias down the Virgin River.

My latest pilgrimage to the canyon is all about me. Sure, I have some research and preparation to do for my next guided trip, but I've also come to commune with Mother Earth and connect with the locals. I'll be here for one full week, hiking, biking, creating, swimming, eating, sleeping - all forms of active meditation to me - in my favorite place on earth. Join me during the next 6 days as the adventure unfolds!