JFRCalifornia
Keeper of San Juan Secrets
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Across From Willow Gulch, in the Escalante River basin
2:15 PM
Lake Level - 3637'
It’s a steaming hot afternoon, quiet both on the lake and within the cabin. The houseboat is moored far up the Escalante River, against a south-facing wall on its main channel, in the direct and harsh sunlight. No shade whatsoever, except down below, where the Jarek-Turner clan is watching Lord of the Rings, and up here, under the flying awning, where I sit and type. Ben and Khawer have been floating in the very calm lake for the better part of an hour, maybe two. They just ended the latest chapter in an ongoing conversation about justice, redemption, and the role of King Shlomo in all of this. Ben continues, less a discussion than a lecture. He says to me—with assurance—that Khawer is some sort of Warrior-Demon, that the rest of us are likely to go to hell. He might actually mean this, not sure.
“Ben,” Khawer says, ending the discussion as they leave the water, “the trouble is you don’t know how to carry on a conversation.” Ben seems offended at the suggestion. But they part on good terms nonetheless, Khawer referring to “my friend, Bennett.”
It’s raining. The first time on the trip since we left three says ago, despite less than perfect forecasts. Probably just a quick sprinkle, since most of the sky remains blue, and the air is still like a furnace. But the sprinkles are indeed pattering on the cloth-covered roof, though now it seems to be letting up. The amount of rain that has fallen—in less than 5 minutes—is probably not measurable. But it came out of nowhere, an unexpected surprise, and a temporary thrill.
Like yesterday.
What began in the tamarisk flats of Oak Bay ended on the rocks of the main channel, with one anchor dragging in the lake, and four crew members missing. It was going to be an ambitious hike, one that I had thought about for a long time, but never attempted. Nothing less than a inter-canyon overland journey starting on obscure Aztec Creek in Forbidding Canyon, and ending at Rainbow Bridge. It would be 7 or 8 miles of varying terrain, water hazards, climbs and drops, culminating in one of the most spectacular natural features on Earth. The hike would involve going upstream in one canyon, finding a side canyon and heading up that, crossing a pass to another drainage, then going downstream to the rainbow at the end.
It almost didn’t happen at all. To even consider the journey, we had to leave our great little cove near Dangling Rope early enough, but even with a jump such as we got, we did not arrive at Oak Bay to anchor until about 1 PM. And what a zoo in Oak Bay! They were all out in force, the yahoos. Boats lining the entire bay, it was hard enough to find an empty beach, though we did eventually manage to secure a spot at the southern end of the bay, among the tamarisk.
An early anchorage was necessary to give us a jump on the hike, likely to be the highlight of the trip. More ambitious than most Powell-based hikes in the past, this would take several hours, so it was necessary to leave as soon as possible. After Khawer at first told me to get Ben to drive us to the drop off spot, I firmly but politely suggested that Khawer needed to do it himself.
And so he did. The motorboat—a replacement secured at Dangling Rope yesterday, a Baja boat with an inboard engine—made its way up Forbidding Canyon, the righthand fork of the main canyon that would otherwise lead to Rainbow Bridge. There would be four of us headed on the trip—Russ, Scott, Chris and myself. I had some concerns about Christopher, being as young as he is, and because he seemed so willing to give up on the short hike yesterday, but today he seemed to be up for the task. I told him to count on at least 4 hours, and there would be no turning back. He nodded, got his pack ready, and off we went.
The end of Forbidding Canyon becomes deep and somewhat narrow as the water becomes a shallow light green. A dirty scum appears on top, eventually mixed with the occasional log floating on the surface. We passed two parked motorboats on a steep silty beach, the last of either we would see. Shortly thereafter, around a couple more bends, Khawer dropped us off on the right bank, unable to go farther past a small boulder jam. It was 2 PM. We told Khawer to meet us at the dock at Rainbow Bridge in 4 hours, or 6 PM. We were off.
A short scramble up a sandy hill led to a steep downhill on the other side, and a short walk through the last of the edge of Lake Powell. With walking sticks collected from the debris, we moved quickly along the creek. The lower end of Aztec Creek apparently always has some sort of flow, and it did this day. But it likely held more than usual because of recent
monsoon rains. So the hike, which normally would be a walk through an ankle-deep creek bed, traipsing in shallow waters, would become more complicated, since we’d have to work our way back and forth across the muddy creek of undetermined depth.
It was slow going. Big cobbles and boulders are hard to work around, and much slower than expected. Soon enough, we were faced with our first real obstacle: a long, deep and narrow trench full of standing water, hard to see how long from creek level. It was chocolate brown, absolutely still, and ran between narrow canyon walls around a bend, and out of sight. This looked to be much like similar pools in West Canyon, or maybe White Canyon when full. In fact, Aztec Creek—Forbidding Canyon—reminded me very much of White Canyon, with its Kayenta shelves over deep impassable trenches. In this case, we tried to bypass on the left, but were thwarted by 25-foot vertical cliff to get back down to the creek around the deep pool obstacle. Not possible. But I had brought a rope, and with Scott’s excellent knot-making capability, he managed to tie the rope to a few smaller boulders up on the bench, from which we lowered our packs to the bottom. Now unburdened, we backtracked to the creek, ready to jump in the long pool. Could Christopher make it? This was a test. Russ looked nervous, and so was I. It would be at least 200 feet long, and maybe the whole length would need to be swum, couldn’t tell.
I got in first. The water was warm, unlike in West Canyon. That was a nice surprise. But almost right away, it became deep, and it was time to swim. After a minute or so, I managed to find a small shelf to sit on about 100 feet along the way, so that became Christopher’s first challenge—could he make it this far?
He did, of course, with a determined dog paddle. No fear. The rest of us made it too, and this obstacle conquered, we moved on, now with more confidence, especially about Christopher’s abilities and mindset. When we encountered another similar water chute a little later, we made it with little effort or concern. But all this slogging was seriously slowing us down, and now the 4-hour time estimate seemed in danger, since it took us a good hour to get a mile or so through this mess—and we had not even gotten to the lake’s high water mark. But we moved on as fast as we could.
And this led to the next big setback. We all wore some sort of water shoes, knowing this would be a wet hike. But Scott’s shoes were really just scuba socks, with very little protection built in. With all the boulder-hopping, something was bound to happen. And so it happened—Scott smashed his foot into a large boulder after slipping a bit. The second toe on the right foot took it directly. Immediately purple, swollen. Probably broken. We were 2 hours in, with an unknown time to go. But he said to keep it going. “What else can I do?”
Beautiful scenery is the norm in this canyon, but with beauty comes more obstacles. And now, with Scott’s toe, we’d have to take extra care as we moved, though he seemed to not only keep pace, but sometimes led the way. We soon passed a 20-foot waterfall, a clue in Kelsey’s book to look for a tributary canyon—Cliff Canyon—in another kilometer. We’d need to go that way. After one false lead, we found a canyon that seemed to be the correct one, though honestly we weren’t sure. But up we went, and here the water was shallower, but the canyon no less cobbly, so the walking was still quite slow. Now we needed to look for another left turn, this time to make it over something called Redbud Pass. Apparently about 1.5 miles up Cliff Canyon before getting to the turn, but because of the time it took, this seemed to be much longer. We began to doubt where we were.
Time was becoming an issue too. Now the shadows began to lengthen, and the sun moved lower in the west. But the waning day did have one advantage—we knew which way was west, because of the setting sun, and that would help us figure out which way to go. Was that shallow rise Redbud Pass? Didn’t seem so. But maybe. We moved on past. It was already 6:30, and we still had a long way to go. I began to think we had missed the pass somehow.
There it was. At a clearing, where there appeared to be an abandoned camp, was a battered wooden sign: “Redbud Pass”, indicated by an arrow. That’s it. We’d follow the path, now a more obvious trail, which our book described as the Rainbow Bridge Trail. It led up, and then soon enough, it became a pile of rocks leading very high—we’d have to go up these in this narrow crack. This looked and felt like the very strenuous hike up Hole-in-the-Rock. And now, after nearly 5 hours, we were tired, running out of water. And we now feared that we would not only not meet Khawer, we might not even make it out by dark.
What was Khawer doing? We had no idea. If he followed the plan, he would have already made a trip to Rainbow Bridge to pick us up. He would not have found us. Then what would he do? No idea. But if we could get a message to him, we could at least let him know we were okay. We know there is almost never any cell service here. But in turning a corner, there stood a brief glimpse of Navajo Mountain, with its cell towers on top, so maybe…I turned it on in the off chance that… And there it was—2 bars! Now…what was Khawer’s number? I couldn’t remember. Ugh! Should have written it down. How about Ben’s? Hmm…think…I think I know it. I hope so. I tried it. Got through! But to voicemail. I left a message. But how to get Khawer’s number? He might actually have his phone on. Who would know Khawer’s number? Think. Call Chuck! I knew that number. C’mon Chuck, be there…ring…ring…
“John!” It was Chuck, “How’s Powell?” Thank God he was there. I would have loved to fill him in about the trip so far, but no time for small talk. I cut to the chase, and asked him for Khawer’s number. He looked it up—he had it! I thanked him, hung up, and dialed the number. Voicemail. Damn. I left a message there too. I hoped he could get cell service to listen to it.
But what if he didn’t? What would he do? No time to think about that right now, we had to keep moving. Scott’s toe was getting worse. Now Christopher took a few cactus thorns in the foot. But don’t you know, he didn’t complain, just pulled them out and kept moving. I was impressed. And there, at the foot of Redbud Pass, seemed an obvious canyon and trail to the left. This must be Rainbow Bridge Canyon. Had to be. We’d follow it.
Now, however, it was getting late. 8 PM, and the canyon was in full shadow. But there was increased evidence of human activity, some recent, most not. Abandoned camps, etchings on walls showing dates. There was one from 1934, a prominent one from 1947. White people first encountered the Bridge in 1909, so any date before that would have been suspect. We continued. Now it was getting dark. But we could still see the trail, now well-marked with cairns at creek crossings. But the colors disappeared, everything turning gray. Clearly, we would not be back to the dock before dark. We resolved at that point to get ready for an overnight somewhere. At the dock, at least I knew there were bathrooms, and maybe a covered shelter. But with every turn, where we hoped to see the Bridge, nothing. Russ moved ahead, hoping somehow to catch Khawer. But he soon turned back to meet the rest of our group.
We had one big aid on our side. I had brought two headlamps. This was crucial. And so as the stars began to come out, we kicked in the lights. But now, with the trail high on the side of the canyon as we approached the Bridge, there was a real concern about slipping down the cliff in the dark. So we moved slowly. Now around another corner, finally, was that the Bridge? Couldn’t really tell in the dark. But a sliver of twilight shined between the top of the arch and the mountains behind—that had to be it! And so, despite the Navajo’s objections, we crossed beneath. And found ourselves back in civilization of sorts. An empty civilization, since no one was there. The rangers had long gone home. Visitors would not be back before the morning. Like being in an abandoned museum.
It was 10 PM. About 4 hours later than planned. We had no idea what Khawer and Ben had done. I had assumed Ben would assume we had died. I worried about that. But we were fine. Only very tired, and now, drinking the last of our water. I still had 4 Clif bars, and some beef jerky. We’d be okay for the night. But where to sleep? The bathroom? That was shelter. But it stank. So we slept right on the plastic gangplank, out in the open.
Actually, didn’t really sleep. We did lie there, listening to the ghostly creaking of the gangplank, as the wind rose and fell. At first it seemed warm, but with only shorts (and mine had ripped), and a t-shirt, as we lay straight over the water, it got cold. I curled up. Christopher snuggled up to Russ. Scott, still in pain over the toe, mumbled to himself all night. Nobody really slept. We’d get up and walk the plank, like ghosts. I read the interpretive signs about 5 times. Russ noted it was 1:15. Then 3:30. Still no sleep. The waning crescent moon had risen. Then, around 4 AM, everyone was up. We gathered around Scott’s iPod, watching some of his short home movies.
Finally, I must have slept. I woke up to twilight dawn. 6 AM, based on my digital camera’s readout. Maybe got an hour total. I walked to the dock. No Khawer. Nobody at all. But at least I could see, and we had made it through the night! I walked back the 400 feet from the dock to our sleeping spot, among the interpretive signs. Scott passed me, headed to the dock, like a changing of the guard. Sometime in the night, he had mentioned to me the one real positive in this whole experience—no one heard Ben snoring. He headed past, toward the dock. I made my way back along the floating walkway, made from recycled milk cartons.
Scott called out. “Khawer’s here!”
And so Khawer had come, as I suspected he would, right at the crack of dawn. Great! We quickly gathered the few things we had, met him at the boat, and got in. Judging by the slightly dead look in his eyes, he looked like he had a pretty rough night too. He began to explain his story on the way back to the houseboat, in the pre-sunrise dawn. Nobody else did much talking.
“We had the National Park Service looking for you,” he began. He explained that he and Ben had made two trips to Rainbow Bridge, as I thought they might do. The first was at the agreed-upon time, 6 PM. But since we obviously hadn’t showed up yet, he took the motorboat to the put-in spot in Forbidding Canyon, as we discussed beforehand, but we weren’t there either. So sometime around 7, he contacted the NPS (through a daisy chain via ship-to-shore radio to Wahweap Marina, relayed by phone to NPS), and let them know there were four missing hikers. What he didn’t know, and couldn’t know at that point, was whether or not anyone was actually hurt or lost. Later, had he been able to check his cell
phone for messages, he would have heard my message that we were okay, and still on our way to Rainbow Bridge. But he never was able to get reception (or maybe just didn’t try), so this remained unknown to him.
They went back to Rainbow Bridge, this time with an NPS ranger. The ranger asked a few standard questions about the hikers, their health, whether they had food and water, and so on. Once his experience told him the hikers were likely well-enough prepared, he advised Khawer that we would probably show up by the morning, but if we didn’t, then a follow-up search would be conducted. The ranger did do a cursory hike up beyond the Bridge to see if there was any sign of us, but at that time—around 7:30 or so—we hadn’t made it that far yet. He advised Khawer to go get the motorboat, and bring back a few sleeping bags for the group if it arrived. But it was already close to sunset; time was running short. They’d have to move fast.
Khawer and Ben raced back to the houseboat spot in Oak Bay, and determined to take a risk. They would not only try to bring the motorboat, but the entire houseboat, towing the motorboat, to Rainbow Bridge. Ideally, they would be able to dock the whole flotilla at the well-developed facility, and just spend the night tied up to the boardwalk. That way, if we were to show up, we could simply get on the houseboat and leave in the morning. The ranger said that while camping is not normally allowed at the Bridge, in this situation it would be okay.
The rescue mission was an enormous gamble. They must have known several things could have gone wrong with the plan. First, there were only two people to control two boats, including a houseboat. So logistically, reacting to an emergency would be tough. Secondly, the sun was going down. So they’d be racing the light, as they tried to get to Rainbow. The distance was roughly 4 miles from the secure campsite on Oak Bay, which is roughly a 30-40 minute ride in a houseboat if nothing goes wrong. But now it was close to 8 PM, maybe 15 minutes to sunset, maybe 30 more minutes of light after that. It would be close. They quickly launched, Ben pulling in the anchors. Maybe this was for the best, since Oak Bay had become crowded, one idiot even pulling in close enough to our boat to see the whites of the eyes, and they flew the colors. Maybe better to leave.
So they quickly made the bend to the south, approaching the entrance to Rainbow Bridge Canyon. By now, however, the sun was already down, and the light was nearly gone. They had a decision to make. Go in, and try to find their way through a dark and narrow canyon for a couple miles? This would include a couple tricky turns, and a narrow passage no wider than about 40 feet at one point. What if they got lost, or fouled the props and lost power? There are no anchorages in this canyon. It would be like being lost in a maze in the dark. And there would be no moon out to help them.
Or should they turn back to Oak Bay? But the time for debate was over, since this was quickly becoming an option they would no longer have. And as it happened, the decision was made for them. Night had fallen; they could no longer see. They did have a powerful handheld spotlight, but the cord wasn’t long enough to use it effectively. So there they were, just bobbing in the main channel, somewhere near mile marker 51, outside of Bridge Canyon. They cut the engines. They would just drift in the lake.
Ben was not happy about this turn of events. You might even say agitated. He suggested—pleaded—that Khawer call in a distress signal. No, Khawer said, we are not in distress. We can drift, and will eventually hit a wall. Then we anchor, if we can. There is no storm, no wind, no rain. We’ll be okay.
I can only imagine the tense conversation. I’m sure it included lots of references to demons, Talmudic justice, and Khawer’s status as an evil warrior. But Khawer’s judgment carried the day: they’d let it drift. Ben still protested. He wanted to keep moving, but to where? There was a storm brewing faraway in the west, distant lightning, though it was still clear above.
They started the engines, as if to try to go somewhere in the dark, but soon enough, the right engine died. Khawer immediately suspected the prop was fouled, and instinctively stopped the engines. Sure enough, the tow rope to the motorboat had fouled. I’m sure some sort of swearing followed, but Khawer jumped in a bobbing sea, in the pitch-black night, and worked to unwind it. He tried to avoid the possibility that the motorboat would bob up and hit him as he worked to unfoul the prop. Ben shined the light on him; Khawer worked quickly. And he did it!
Let’s not try to start the engines again. It was probably close to midnight.
So they bobbed in the middle of the thankfully calm lake, and tried to sleep. Khawer—for the first time—actually slept in the cabin, not in his stateroom, ready for action. I’m sure Ben barely slept. They could have hit shoals, a wall, or winds could have picked up and carried them far away. Khawer assumed—correctly, as it happens—that any wind would take them to a logical resting location, and hold them there till morning.
They drifted for an hour or so, then Ben noticed the boat hit something. He woke Khawer up. They couldn’t see outside, but they clearly had hit a wall, or a shoal, or something. They got out the spotlight. They were up against a sloping sandstone wall. They were reluctant to start the engines again though, in case the props were fouled, or to avoid chewing them up on the rocks. Ben got out, set one anchor on a slippery slope, in the dark, piled rocks on it. It would never hold in any kind of wind, but as Khawer guessed, the wind had pushed them there; it would hold them in. The second anchor was barely held on, and in fact in the first breeze, pulled right off, and sunk in the lake. How deep? Who could know? There was nothing to do but wait till morning. Nobody slept much.
When the first light came, Khawer launched. And showed up at the dock, just as we were waking up. A second motorboat pulled into Rainbow Bridge, just minutes after Khawer, probably 6 AM. Two guys got out—probably disappointed they weren’t the first there in the morning. Nobody explained the story to them.
Back at the houseboat, we examined the props—no damage! Ben, clearly still amped up, handed me a Capri Sun. As I thought he would, he had assumed we were dead. Now he could call the NPS to cancel the search, if one was planned for today.
The rest of the day was spent motoring north, quietly recounting what had happened the night before. It was still before 8, the sun still rising, the earliest start we’d ever made in the houseboat. Nobody said much, since nobody had slept much. I had maybe an hour all night. Chris quickly fell asleep. Ben was soon out too. The rest of us just sat, either slowly eating, certainly drinking lots of water. We’d make to the Escalante by 11 or so. We then stopped for the day, deep in the canyon, and spent an afternoon floating upstream on pool rafts and with life jackets.
The ribeye steaks would come much later.
Thursday, August 5
Inside the Escalante, across from Willow Gulch
7:53 AM
After a day where everyone seemed to slither through like half-dead zombies, there was nothing like a full night’s sleep. The day, which had been kiln hot and dry, faded into a cooler evening, with wispy clouds decorating, rather than hiding the stars in a moonless sky. To the dead south, the direction the stern faced, floated the entire length of Scorpio, with claws extended to the west, body laid out with its curly tipped stinger to the east.
Over on the rocky shore, maybe 100 feet away from the boat, Christopher was engineering a bonfire. He had already built a teepee of kindling, and placed larger logs above, paper starters below. It wasn’t long before it roared to life. All but Ben arrayed around the site, seated on the boat’s standard-issue white plastic chairs. From there, the only noise was the
occasional crackle of sap, framed by Ben’s distant apniatious snore of violent dreams from within the cabin.
We’d all soon be joining him. In the night, the clouds rolled in, and rain fell. At first only a sprinkle, enough to warn me to get under the awning, then later a long, steady, and at times hard, rain. Not much wind though, and really not cold, but a hard steady rain, at times punctuated by a flash of lightning, and a thunderclap. And Ben’s snoring.
This morning, it’s a gray sky, clouds still rolling in from the west, more sprinkles. A hint of blue to the south teases with better weather, but we can’t be sure. Russ is downstairs making coffee. Scott is up here reading a book about the Yalta Conference in 1945, rolled up on one elbow. Chris is pouring cereal, I’m sure. And of course, Khawer and Ben are still out cold. The sprinkles fall harder. Then stop. We are in no hurry today.
2:00 PM
The rainy morning has turned into a hot, lazy afternoon. Khawer is reading yet another book, in the shaded rear cabin. Scott is doing the same up top, under the awning. In the sun, the white plastic floor of the decks and roof are too hot to touch, so venturing out without shoes is a sure way to burn the feet. Inside, Russ and Chris are team-tagging a game of Civilization on the laptop, playing as the Russians, circa 1000 BC. An alternate universe where the Cossacks had chariots, and Moscow is located on a river near an incense mine. Ben snores deeply on the couch, arm extended, hand flopped in a way that appears uncomfortable, possibly dangerous.
We are staying another night here, part of the plan after all the fatigue and excitement of the past days. Nobody complains. Russ and I water-skied, and he also wake-boarded earlier today. I tried, and failed. Chris spotted a dead striper floating in the water, belly up, eyes bulging a stare of fear and death. I moved it down shore, and gave it a proper burial among the rocks. It is the only fish anyone will be catching on this trip. Very little boat traffic mars the scene here, just the high walls of the Escalante, blue skies and a building presence of puffy whites in the west that may be a harbinger of rain later tonight, but no threat right now.
The hike to Rainbow Bridge has prompted a fierce debate, mostly fueled by Ben, about who was responsible for the difficulties that ensued. He seems to want to cast blame, for what, I’m not sure, rather than to focus on the lessons that could be learned. Certainly, all did not go smoothly, but that does not diminish the great adventure that it was. But he’s right—it’s worth exploring the question. What happened?
A sober assessment would say this: none of it would have happened had I not made the decision to lead the hike in the first place. So the key responsibility lies with me. And clearly, I underestimated the time it would take to complete the hike. My assessment had been 4-5 hours (based on the Kelsey book), but the actual time spent was closer to 7 or 8. The reasons for this can be explained—more water in the creek than anticipated, bigger cobbles, both of which slowed us down considerably at the beginning. A lower lake level than assumed in the book also meant a longer hike. Scott’s broken toe, and young Christopher’s presence seem like they could have been factors, but the reality is that neither of these really added significant time. If anything, Scott seemed motivated to move more quickly once it became a race against the sun. Of course, had we been able to start in the morning, instead of at 2 PM, we would have also avoided most of the problems we faced.
But these reasons, ultimately, are irrelevant. We took more time, and that is something I should have anticipated. And that led to everything else. It meant, for example, that the missed rendezvous time of 6 PM would force Khawer to improvise. The only contingency we had settled on was for him in that event to try to go back to the put-in spot, which he did. From there, however, he would be left on his own. Fortunately, his subsequent actions were generally rational and appropriate.
We had not discussed the possibility that we would need to stay overnight, so Khawer either had to draw this conclusion on his own, or assume someone was hurt. It was fortuitous that I had my cell phone, and briefly even had service to contact Khawer, but ultimately this proved useless because Khawer could not get service, and likely did not even check his phone. Similarly, Russ’ walkie-talkie was no help, unable to cut through the canyons and distance. And again, we weren’t even sure Khawer had his on at the other end.
Tactically, the hiking group did generally fine once faced with adversity. We interpreted the map we had properly, followed the right path when it was sometimes ambiguous in the field. Christopher in particular is to be commended, acting coolly under pressure, never complaining, always ready to deal with difficult situations, such as the unexpected long swim, and cactus thorns in his foot and thumb. We got lucky with that, because we weren’t sure how he’d respond. Russ had made the decision to let him go on the hike, and his faith was rewarded. Chris will now have a great story to tell, and a huge boost of confidence when facing future challenges.
Scott’s broken toe was a setback, and a potentially dangerous one, but it too did not slow him down. He would have been helped by sturdier shoes. We did not carry adequate first aid, which was also potentially dangerous, but again we got lucky here. Scott’s can-do attitude, like Chris’, was a huge help.
We had plenty of food (mostly Clif bars and beef jerky), but barely adequate water. I carried a gallon, but collectively among the other three, there was only another gallon. Not enough in an emergency. At the end, I shared my remaining supply, and we ran out during the night. In really hot weather, or had we gotten lost, this may have become a serious issue. Of course, we could have always drank untreated water from the lake.
The weather was extremely fortuitous, warm and dry, not really too hot, and not cold at night. This was a very good thing, because no one had either rain gear or warm clothing. We were, however, aided by my knowledge of the Rainbow Bridge site, that there would be bathrooms, and a covered shelter, either of which could be used to get out of the rain if needed. I also knew the trail toward the end would be well-marked, which it was. And most critically, I had brought not one but two headlamps, with new batteries. This turned out to be essential at the end, where for the last hour we had to move in the dark. Had we not been waiting at Rainbow Bridge at the crack of dawn, it is uncertain what Khawer would have done next.
On the rescuers’ side, most actions were done well, but some needlessly led to their own difficulties. The immediate coordination with the NPS was excellent, as was the ranger’s assessment of the likely outcome—that we would be there in the morning. Khawer’s initial instinct to look for us at both the take out and put in sites was also good. His subsequent decision—egged on by Ben’s understandable concern—to move the houseboat to Rainbow Bridge to get us, while laudable, was unnecessary, probably counterproductive, and possibly dangerous. At best, it would have made a more comfortable night for the hikers, but if one of us had been badly injured on the trail, or if we hadn’t otherwise made it to Rainbow Bridge, it would have helped no one at all. Getting the flotilla stranded in mid-channel as night fell was an unnecessary risk (especially with only two people to deal with two boats, one of whom had no experience), but one with a generally fortunate outcome. In hindsight, the lesson here was clear to Khawer. “Leave their *** at the dock, go back to the houseboat, and get a goodnight’s sleep.” I would agree with that.
So overall, a great idea for a hike was complicated by flawed strategic assumptions about the time it would take. But there was a generally good tactical response to adversity, in spite of a few potentially significant oversights or errors in preparation or judgment. And the whole operation was aided by a few lucky turns in the face of potential setbacks. Nobody got seriously hurt, with the most crucial damage probably being to Ben’s already-fragile psyche.
I’m glad we went. But I’ll be more careful next time.
Across From Willow Gulch, in the Escalante River basin
2:15 PM
Lake Level - 3637'
It’s a steaming hot afternoon, quiet both on the lake and within the cabin. The houseboat is moored far up the Escalante River, against a south-facing wall on its main channel, in the direct and harsh sunlight. No shade whatsoever, except down below, where the Jarek-Turner clan is watching Lord of the Rings, and up here, under the flying awning, where I sit and type. Ben and Khawer have been floating in the very calm lake for the better part of an hour, maybe two. They just ended the latest chapter in an ongoing conversation about justice, redemption, and the role of King Shlomo in all of this. Ben continues, less a discussion than a lecture. He says to me—with assurance—that Khawer is some sort of Warrior-Demon, that the rest of us are likely to go to hell. He might actually mean this, not sure.
“Ben,” Khawer says, ending the discussion as they leave the water, “the trouble is you don’t know how to carry on a conversation.” Ben seems offended at the suggestion. But they part on good terms nonetheless, Khawer referring to “my friend, Bennett.”
It’s raining. The first time on the trip since we left three says ago, despite less than perfect forecasts. Probably just a quick sprinkle, since most of the sky remains blue, and the air is still like a furnace. But the sprinkles are indeed pattering on the cloth-covered roof, though now it seems to be letting up. The amount of rain that has fallen—in less than 5 minutes—is probably not measurable. But it came out of nowhere, an unexpected surprise, and a temporary thrill.
Like yesterday.
What began in the tamarisk flats of Oak Bay ended on the rocks of the main channel, with one anchor dragging in the lake, and four crew members missing. It was going to be an ambitious hike, one that I had thought about for a long time, but never attempted. Nothing less than a inter-canyon overland journey starting on obscure Aztec Creek in Forbidding Canyon, and ending at Rainbow Bridge. It would be 7 or 8 miles of varying terrain, water hazards, climbs and drops, culminating in one of the most spectacular natural features on Earth. The hike would involve going upstream in one canyon, finding a side canyon and heading up that, crossing a pass to another drainage, then going downstream to the rainbow at the end.
It almost didn’t happen at all. To even consider the journey, we had to leave our great little cove near Dangling Rope early enough, but even with a jump such as we got, we did not arrive at Oak Bay to anchor until about 1 PM. And what a zoo in Oak Bay! They were all out in force, the yahoos. Boats lining the entire bay, it was hard enough to find an empty beach, though we did eventually manage to secure a spot at the southern end of the bay, among the tamarisk.
An early anchorage was necessary to give us a jump on the hike, likely to be the highlight of the trip. More ambitious than most Powell-based hikes in the past, this would take several hours, so it was necessary to leave as soon as possible. After Khawer at first told me to get Ben to drive us to the drop off spot, I firmly but politely suggested that Khawer needed to do it himself.
And so he did. The motorboat—a replacement secured at Dangling Rope yesterday, a Baja boat with an inboard engine—made its way up Forbidding Canyon, the righthand fork of the main canyon that would otherwise lead to Rainbow Bridge. There would be four of us headed on the trip—Russ, Scott, Chris and myself. I had some concerns about Christopher, being as young as he is, and because he seemed so willing to give up on the short hike yesterday, but today he seemed to be up for the task. I told him to count on at least 4 hours, and there would be no turning back. He nodded, got his pack ready, and off we went.
The end of Forbidding Canyon becomes deep and somewhat narrow as the water becomes a shallow light green. A dirty scum appears on top, eventually mixed with the occasional log floating on the surface. We passed two parked motorboats on a steep silty beach, the last of either we would see. Shortly thereafter, around a couple more bends, Khawer dropped us off on the right bank, unable to go farther past a small boulder jam. It was 2 PM. We told Khawer to meet us at the dock at Rainbow Bridge in 4 hours, or 6 PM. We were off.
A short scramble up a sandy hill led to a steep downhill on the other side, and a short walk through the last of the edge of Lake Powell. With walking sticks collected from the debris, we moved quickly along the creek. The lower end of Aztec Creek apparently always has some sort of flow, and it did this day. But it likely held more than usual because of recent
monsoon rains. So the hike, which normally would be a walk through an ankle-deep creek bed, traipsing in shallow waters, would become more complicated, since we’d have to work our way back and forth across the muddy creek of undetermined depth.
It was slow going. Big cobbles and boulders are hard to work around, and much slower than expected. Soon enough, we were faced with our first real obstacle: a long, deep and narrow trench full of standing water, hard to see how long from creek level. It was chocolate brown, absolutely still, and ran between narrow canyon walls around a bend, and out of sight. This looked to be much like similar pools in West Canyon, or maybe White Canyon when full. In fact, Aztec Creek—Forbidding Canyon—reminded me very much of White Canyon, with its Kayenta shelves over deep impassable trenches. In this case, we tried to bypass on the left, but were thwarted by 25-foot vertical cliff to get back down to the creek around the deep pool obstacle. Not possible. But I had brought a rope, and with Scott’s excellent knot-making capability, he managed to tie the rope to a few smaller boulders up on the bench, from which we lowered our packs to the bottom. Now unburdened, we backtracked to the creek, ready to jump in the long pool. Could Christopher make it? This was a test. Russ looked nervous, and so was I. It would be at least 200 feet long, and maybe the whole length would need to be swum, couldn’t tell.
I got in first. The water was warm, unlike in West Canyon. That was a nice surprise. But almost right away, it became deep, and it was time to swim. After a minute or so, I managed to find a small shelf to sit on about 100 feet along the way, so that became Christopher’s first challenge—could he make it this far?
He did, of course, with a determined dog paddle. No fear. The rest of us made it too, and this obstacle conquered, we moved on, now with more confidence, especially about Christopher’s abilities and mindset. When we encountered another similar water chute a little later, we made it with little effort or concern. But all this slogging was seriously slowing us down, and now the 4-hour time estimate seemed in danger, since it took us a good hour to get a mile or so through this mess—and we had not even gotten to the lake’s high water mark. But we moved on as fast as we could.
And this led to the next big setback. We all wore some sort of water shoes, knowing this would be a wet hike. But Scott’s shoes were really just scuba socks, with very little protection built in. With all the boulder-hopping, something was bound to happen. And so it happened—Scott smashed his foot into a large boulder after slipping a bit. The second toe on the right foot took it directly. Immediately purple, swollen. Probably broken. We were 2 hours in, with an unknown time to go. But he said to keep it going. “What else can I do?”
Beautiful scenery is the norm in this canyon, but with beauty comes more obstacles. And now, with Scott’s toe, we’d have to take extra care as we moved, though he seemed to not only keep pace, but sometimes led the way. We soon passed a 20-foot waterfall, a clue in Kelsey’s book to look for a tributary canyon—Cliff Canyon—in another kilometer. We’d need to go that way. After one false lead, we found a canyon that seemed to be the correct one, though honestly we weren’t sure. But up we went, and here the water was shallower, but the canyon no less cobbly, so the walking was still quite slow. Now we needed to look for another left turn, this time to make it over something called Redbud Pass. Apparently about 1.5 miles up Cliff Canyon before getting to the turn, but because of the time it took, this seemed to be much longer. We began to doubt where we were.
Time was becoming an issue too. Now the shadows began to lengthen, and the sun moved lower in the west. But the waning day did have one advantage—we knew which way was west, because of the setting sun, and that would help us figure out which way to go. Was that shallow rise Redbud Pass? Didn’t seem so. But maybe. We moved on past. It was already 6:30, and we still had a long way to go. I began to think we had missed the pass somehow.
There it was. At a clearing, where there appeared to be an abandoned camp, was a battered wooden sign: “Redbud Pass”, indicated by an arrow. That’s it. We’d follow the path, now a more obvious trail, which our book described as the Rainbow Bridge Trail. It led up, and then soon enough, it became a pile of rocks leading very high—we’d have to go up these in this narrow crack. This looked and felt like the very strenuous hike up Hole-in-the-Rock. And now, after nearly 5 hours, we were tired, running out of water. And we now feared that we would not only not meet Khawer, we might not even make it out by dark.
What was Khawer doing? We had no idea. If he followed the plan, he would have already made a trip to Rainbow Bridge to pick us up. He would not have found us. Then what would he do? No idea. But if we could get a message to him, we could at least let him know we were okay. We know there is almost never any cell service here. But in turning a corner, there stood a brief glimpse of Navajo Mountain, with its cell towers on top, so maybe…I turned it on in the off chance that… And there it was—2 bars! Now…what was Khawer’s number? I couldn’t remember. Ugh! Should have written it down. How about Ben’s? Hmm…think…I think I know it. I hope so. I tried it. Got through! But to voicemail. I left a message. But how to get Khawer’s number? He might actually have his phone on. Who would know Khawer’s number? Think. Call Chuck! I knew that number. C’mon Chuck, be there…ring…ring…
“John!” It was Chuck, “How’s Powell?” Thank God he was there. I would have loved to fill him in about the trip so far, but no time for small talk. I cut to the chase, and asked him for Khawer’s number. He looked it up—he had it! I thanked him, hung up, and dialed the number. Voicemail. Damn. I left a message there too. I hoped he could get cell service to listen to it.
But what if he didn’t? What would he do? No time to think about that right now, we had to keep moving. Scott’s toe was getting worse. Now Christopher took a few cactus thorns in the foot. But don’t you know, he didn’t complain, just pulled them out and kept moving. I was impressed. And there, at the foot of Redbud Pass, seemed an obvious canyon and trail to the left. This must be Rainbow Bridge Canyon. Had to be. We’d follow it.
Now, however, it was getting late. 8 PM, and the canyon was in full shadow. But there was increased evidence of human activity, some recent, most not. Abandoned camps, etchings on walls showing dates. There was one from 1934, a prominent one from 1947. White people first encountered the Bridge in 1909, so any date before that would have been suspect. We continued. Now it was getting dark. But we could still see the trail, now well-marked with cairns at creek crossings. But the colors disappeared, everything turning gray. Clearly, we would not be back to the dock before dark. We resolved at that point to get ready for an overnight somewhere. At the dock, at least I knew there were bathrooms, and maybe a covered shelter. But with every turn, where we hoped to see the Bridge, nothing. Russ moved ahead, hoping somehow to catch Khawer. But he soon turned back to meet the rest of our group.
We had one big aid on our side. I had brought two headlamps. This was crucial. And so as the stars began to come out, we kicked in the lights. But now, with the trail high on the side of the canyon as we approached the Bridge, there was a real concern about slipping down the cliff in the dark. So we moved slowly. Now around another corner, finally, was that the Bridge? Couldn’t really tell in the dark. But a sliver of twilight shined between the top of the arch and the mountains behind—that had to be it! And so, despite the Navajo’s objections, we crossed beneath. And found ourselves back in civilization of sorts. An empty civilization, since no one was there. The rangers had long gone home. Visitors would not be back before the morning. Like being in an abandoned museum.
It was 10 PM. About 4 hours later than planned. We had no idea what Khawer and Ben had done. I had assumed Ben would assume we had died. I worried about that. But we were fine. Only very tired, and now, drinking the last of our water. I still had 4 Clif bars, and some beef jerky. We’d be okay for the night. But where to sleep? The bathroom? That was shelter. But it stank. So we slept right on the plastic gangplank, out in the open.
Actually, didn’t really sleep. We did lie there, listening to the ghostly creaking of the gangplank, as the wind rose and fell. At first it seemed warm, but with only shorts (and mine had ripped), and a t-shirt, as we lay straight over the water, it got cold. I curled up. Christopher snuggled up to Russ. Scott, still in pain over the toe, mumbled to himself all night. Nobody really slept. We’d get up and walk the plank, like ghosts. I read the interpretive signs about 5 times. Russ noted it was 1:15. Then 3:30. Still no sleep. The waning crescent moon had risen. Then, around 4 AM, everyone was up. We gathered around Scott’s iPod, watching some of his short home movies.
Finally, I must have slept. I woke up to twilight dawn. 6 AM, based on my digital camera’s readout. Maybe got an hour total. I walked to the dock. No Khawer. Nobody at all. But at least I could see, and we had made it through the night! I walked back the 400 feet from the dock to our sleeping spot, among the interpretive signs. Scott passed me, headed to the dock, like a changing of the guard. Sometime in the night, he had mentioned to me the one real positive in this whole experience—no one heard Ben snoring. He headed past, toward the dock. I made my way back along the floating walkway, made from recycled milk cartons.
Scott called out. “Khawer’s here!”
And so Khawer had come, as I suspected he would, right at the crack of dawn. Great! We quickly gathered the few things we had, met him at the boat, and got in. Judging by the slightly dead look in his eyes, he looked like he had a pretty rough night too. He began to explain his story on the way back to the houseboat, in the pre-sunrise dawn. Nobody else did much talking.
“We had the National Park Service looking for you,” he began. He explained that he and Ben had made two trips to Rainbow Bridge, as I thought they might do. The first was at the agreed-upon time, 6 PM. But since we obviously hadn’t showed up yet, he took the motorboat to the put-in spot in Forbidding Canyon, as we discussed beforehand, but we weren’t there either. So sometime around 7, he contacted the NPS (through a daisy chain via ship-to-shore radio to Wahweap Marina, relayed by phone to NPS), and let them know there were four missing hikers. What he didn’t know, and couldn’t know at that point, was whether or not anyone was actually hurt or lost. Later, had he been able to check his cell
phone for messages, he would have heard my message that we were okay, and still on our way to Rainbow Bridge. But he never was able to get reception (or maybe just didn’t try), so this remained unknown to him.
They went back to Rainbow Bridge, this time with an NPS ranger. The ranger asked a few standard questions about the hikers, their health, whether they had food and water, and so on. Once his experience told him the hikers were likely well-enough prepared, he advised Khawer that we would probably show up by the morning, but if we didn’t, then a follow-up search would be conducted. The ranger did do a cursory hike up beyond the Bridge to see if there was any sign of us, but at that time—around 7:30 or so—we hadn’t made it that far yet. He advised Khawer to go get the motorboat, and bring back a few sleeping bags for the group if it arrived. But it was already close to sunset; time was running short. They’d have to move fast.
Khawer and Ben raced back to the houseboat spot in Oak Bay, and determined to take a risk. They would not only try to bring the motorboat, but the entire houseboat, towing the motorboat, to Rainbow Bridge. Ideally, they would be able to dock the whole flotilla at the well-developed facility, and just spend the night tied up to the boardwalk. That way, if we were to show up, we could simply get on the houseboat and leave in the morning. The ranger said that while camping is not normally allowed at the Bridge, in this situation it would be okay.
The rescue mission was an enormous gamble. They must have known several things could have gone wrong with the plan. First, there were only two people to control two boats, including a houseboat. So logistically, reacting to an emergency would be tough. Secondly, the sun was going down. So they’d be racing the light, as they tried to get to Rainbow. The distance was roughly 4 miles from the secure campsite on Oak Bay, which is roughly a 30-40 minute ride in a houseboat if nothing goes wrong. But now it was close to 8 PM, maybe 15 minutes to sunset, maybe 30 more minutes of light after that. It would be close. They quickly launched, Ben pulling in the anchors. Maybe this was for the best, since Oak Bay had become crowded, one idiot even pulling in close enough to our boat to see the whites of the eyes, and they flew the colors. Maybe better to leave.
So they quickly made the bend to the south, approaching the entrance to Rainbow Bridge Canyon. By now, however, the sun was already down, and the light was nearly gone. They had a decision to make. Go in, and try to find their way through a dark and narrow canyon for a couple miles? This would include a couple tricky turns, and a narrow passage no wider than about 40 feet at one point. What if they got lost, or fouled the props and lost power? There are no anchorages in this canyon. It would be like being lost in a maze in the dark. And there would be no moon out to help them.
Or should they turn back to Oak Bay? But the time for debate was over, since this was quickly becoming an option they would no longer have. And as it happened, the decision was made for them. Night had fallen; they could no longer see. They did have a powerful handheld spotlight, but the cord wasn’t long enough to use it effectively. So there they were, just bobbing in the main channel, somewhere near mile marker 51, outside of Bridge Canyon. They cut the engines. They would just drift in the lake.
Ben was not happy about this turn of events. You might even say agitated. He suggested—pleaded—that Khawer call in a distress signal. No, Khawer said, we are not in distress. We can drift, and will eventually hit a wall. Then we anchor, if we can. There is no storm, no wind, no rain. We’ll be okay.
I can only imagine the tense conversation. I’m sure it included lots of references to demons, Talmudic justice, and Khawer’s status as an evil warrior. But Khawer’s judgment carried the day: they’d let it drift. Ben still protested. He wanted to keep moving, but to where? There was a storm brewing faraway in the west, distant lightning, though it was still clear above.
They started the engines, as if to try to go somewhere in the dark, but soon enough, the right engine died. Khawer immediately suspected the prop was fouled, and instinctively stopped the engines. Sure enough, the tow rope to the motorboat had fouled. I’m sure some sort of swearing followed, but Khawer jumped in a bobbing sea, in the pitch-black night, and worked to unwind it. He tried to avoid the possibility that the motorboat would bob up and hit him as he worked to unfoul the prop. Ben shined the light on him; Khawer worked quickly. And he did it!
Let’s not try to start the engines again. It was probably close to midnight.
So they bobbed in the middle of the thankfully calm lake, and tried to sleep. Khawer—for the first time—actually slept in the cabin, not in his stateroom, ready for action. I’m sure Ben barely slept. They could have hit shoals, a wall, or winds could have picked up and carried them far away. Khawer assumed—correctly, as it happens—that any wind would take them to a logical resting location, and hold them there till morning.
They drifted for an hour or so, then Ben noticed the boat hit something. He woke Khawer up. They couldn’t see outside, but they clearly had hit a wall, or a shoal, or something. They got out the spotlight. They were up against a sloping sandstone wall. They were reluctant to start the engines again though, in case the props were fouled, or to avoid chewing them up on the rocks. Ben got out, set one anchor on a slippery slope, in the dark, piled rocks on it. It would never hold in any kind of wind, but as Khawer guessed, the wind had pushed them there; it would hold them in. The second anchor was barely held on, and in fact in the first breeze, pulled right off, and sunk in the lake. How deep? Who could know? There was nothing to do but wait till morning. Nobody slept much.
When the first light came, Khawer launched. And showed up at the dock, just as we were waking up. A second motorboat pulled into Rainbow Bridge, just minutes after Khawer, probably 6 AM. Two guys got out—probably disappointed they weren’t the first there in the morning. Nobody explained the story to them.
Back at the houseboat, we examined the props—no damage! Ben, clearly still amped up, handed me a Capri Sun. As I thought he would, he had assumed we were dead. Now he could call the NPS to cancel the search, if one was planned for today.
The rest of the day was spent motoring north, quietly recounting what had happened the night before. It was still before 8, the sun still rising, the earliest start we’d ever made in the houseboat. Nobody said much, since nobody had slept much. I had maybe an hour all night. Chris quickly fell asleep. Ben was soon out too. The rest of us just sat, either slowly eating, certainly drinking lots of water. We’d make to the Escalante by 11 or so. We then stopped for the day, deep in the canyon, and spent an afternoon floating upstream on pool rafts and with life jackets.
The ribeye steaks would come much later.
Thursday, August 5
Inside the Escalante, across from Willow Gulch
7:53 AM
After a day where everyone seemed to slither through like half-dead zombies, there was nothing like a full night’s sleep. The day, which had been kiln hot and dry, faded into a cooler evening, with wispy clouds decorating, rather than hiding the stars in a moonless sky. To the dead south, the direction the stern faced, floated the entire length of Scorpio, with claws extended to the west, body laid out with its curly tipped stinger to the east.
Over on the rocky shore, maybe 100 feet away from the boat, Christopher was engineering a bonfire. He had already built a teepee of kindling, and placed larger logs above, paper starters below. It wasn’t long before it roared to life. All but Ben arrayed around the site, seated on the boat’s standard-issue white plastic chairs. From there, the only noise was the
occasional crackle of sap, framed by Ben’s distant apniatious snore of violent dreams from within the cabin.
We’d all soon be joining him. In the night, the clouds rolled in, and rain fell. At first only a sprinkle, enough to warn me to get under the awning, then later a long, steady, and at times hard, rain. Not much wind though, and really not cold, but a hard steady rain, at times punctuated by a flash of lightning, and a thunderclap. And Ben’s snoring.
This morning, it’s a gray sky, clouds still rolling in from the west, more sprinkles. A hint of blue to the south teases with better weather, but we can’t be sure. Russ is downstairs making coffee. Scott is up here reading a book about the Yalta Conference in 1945, rolled up on one elbow. Chris is pouring cereal, I’m sure. And of course, Khawer and Ben are still out cold. The sprinkles fall harder. Then stop. We are in no hurry today.
2:00 PM
The rainy morning has turned into a hot, lazy afternoon. Khawer is reading yet another book, in the shaded rear cabin. Scott is doing the same up top, under the awning. In the sun, the white plastic floor of the decks and roof are too hot to touch, so venturing out without shoes is a sure way to burn the feet. Inside, Russ and Chris are team-tagging a game of Civilization on the laptop, playing as the Russians, circa 1000 BC. An alternate universe where the Cossacks had chariots, and Moscow is located on a river near an incense mine. Ben snores deeply on the couch, arm extended, hand flopped in a way that appears uncomfortable, possibly dangerous.
We are staying another night here, part of the plan after all the fatigue and excitement of the past days. Nobody complains. Russ and I water-skied, and he also wake-boarded earlier today. I tried, and failed. Chris spotted a dead striper floating in the water, belly up, eyes bulging a stare of fear and death. I moved it down shore, and gave it a proper burial among the rocks. It is the only fish anyone will be catching on this trip. Very little boat traffic mars the scene here, just the high walls of the Escalante, blue skies and a building presence of puffy whites in the west that may be a harbinger of rain later tonight, but no threat right now.
The hike to Rainbow Bridge has prompted a fierce debate, mostly fueled by Ben, about who was responsible for the difficulties that ensued. He seems to want to cast blame, for what, I’m not sure, rather than to focus on the lessons that could be learned. Certainly, all did not go smoothly, but that does not diminish the great adventure that it was. But he’s right—it’s worth exploring the question. What happened?
A sober assessment would say this: none of it would have happened had I not made the decision to lead the hike in the first place. So the key responsibility lies with me. And clearly, I underestimated the time it would take to complete the hike. My assessment had been 4-5 hours (based on the Kelsey book), but the actual time spent was closer to 7 or 8. The reasons for this can be explained—more water in the creek than anticipated, bigger cobbles, both of which slowed us down considerably at the beginning. A lower lake level than assumed in the book also meant a longer hike. Scott’s broken toe, and young Christopher’s presence seem like they could have been factors, but the reality is that neither of these really added significant time. If anything, Scott seemed motivated to move more quickly once it became a race against the sun. Of course, had we been able to start in the morning, instead of at 2 PM, we would have also avoided most of the problems we faced.
But these reasons, ultimately, are irrelevant. We took more time, and that is something I should have anticipated. And that led to everything else. It meant, for example, that the missed rendezvous time of 6 PM would force Khawer to improvise. The only contingency we had settled on was for him in that event to try to go back to the put-in spot, which he did. From there, however, he would be left on his own. Fortunately, his subsequent actions were generally rational and appropriate.
We had not discussed the possibility that we would need to stay overnight, so Khawer either had to draw this conclusion on his own, or assume someone was hurt. It was fortuitous that I had my cell phone, and briefly even had service to contact Khawer, but ultimately this proved useless because Khawer could not get service, and likely did not even check his phone. Similarly, Russ’ walkie-talkie was no help, unable to cut through the canyons and distance. And again, we weren’t even sure Khawer had his on at the other end.
Tactically, the hiking group did generally fine once faced with adversity. We interpreted the map we had properly, followed the right path when it was sometimes ambiguous in the field. Christopher in particular is to be commended, acting coolly under pressure, never complaining, always ready to deal with difficult situations, such as the unexpected long swim, and cactus thorns in his foot and thumb. We got lucky with that, because we weren’t sure how he’d respond. Russ had made the decision to let him go on the hike, and his faith was rewarded. Chris will now have a great story to tell, and a huge boost of confidence when facing future challenges.
Scott’s broken toe was a setback, and a potentially dangerous one, but it too did not slow him down. He would have been helped by sturdier shoes. We did not carry adequate first aid, which was also potentially dangerous, but again we got lucky here. Scott’s can-do attitude, like Chris’, was a huge help.
We had plenty of food (mostly Clif bars and beef jerky), but barely adequate water. I carried a gallon, but collectively among the other three, there was only another gallon. Not enough in an emergency. At the end, I shared my remaining supply, and we ran out during the night. In really hot weather, or had we gotten lost, this may have become a serious issue. Of course, we could have always drank untreated water from the lake.
The weather was extremely fortuitous, warm and dry, not really too hot, and not cold at night. This was a very good thing, because no one had either rain gear or warm clothing. We were, however, aided by my knowledge of the Rainbow Bridge site, that there would be bathrooms, and a covered shelter, either of which could be used to get out of the rain if needed. I also knew the trail toward the end would be well-marked, which it was. And most critically, I had brought not one but two headlamps, with new batteries. This turned out to be essential at the end, where for the last hour we had to move in the dark. Had we not been waiting at Rainbow Bridge at the crack of dawn, it is uncertain what Khawer would have done next.
On the rescuers’ side, most actions were done well, but some needlessly led to their own difficulties. The immediate coordination with the NPS was excellent, as was the ranger’s assessment of the likely outcome—that we would be there in the morning. Khawer’s initial instinct to look for us at both the take out and put in sites was also good. His subsequent decision—egged on by Ben’s understandable concern—to move the houseboat to Rainbow Bridge to get us, while laudable, was unnecessary, probably counterproductive, and possibly dangerous. At best, it would have made a more comfortable night for the hikers, but if one of us had been badly injured on the trail, or if we hadn’t otherwise made it to Rainbow Bridge, it would have helped no one at all. Getting the flotilla stranded in mid-channel as night fell was an unnecessary risk (especially with only two people to deal with two boats, one of whom had no experience), but one with a generally fortunate outcome. In hindsight, the lesson here was clear to Khawer. “Leave their *** at the dock, go back to the houseboat, and get a goodnight’s sleep.” I would agree with that.
So overall, a great idea for a hike was complicated by flawed strategic assumptions about the time it would take. But there was a generally good tactical response to adversity, in spite of a few potentially significant oversights or errors in preparation or judgment. And the whole operation was aided by a few lucky turns in the face of potential setbacks. Nobody got seriously hurt, with the most crucial damage probably being to Ben’s already-fragile psyche.
I’m glad we went. But I’ll be more careful next time.
