The sandstone slopes steeply away from my feet into the water–filled pothole below. Alone, in the Escalante wilderness. Two rappels in this deep and twisting slot canyon. Two more to go before I’m out. I’ve pulled the ropes behind me, there’s no turning back now. I thread one end of the rope through old webbing wrapped around a jammed chunk of driftwood, pausing for a moment. I should use a carabiner as a link instead of running rope directly over webbing. A carabiner would decrease friction, making the rope much easier to pull, but I’ve only got one extra.
Lowering myself over the edge, down 15 or 20 feet into the chilly pool, I find it’s too deep to stand up in so I have to unclip while treading water. Grasping one strand of rope, I give it a yank. It doesn’t budge. I try whipping the rope. No dice. It’s not going to pull. I’ll have to abandon the rope. Good thing there is another tied around my back. I swim a few strokes to the other end of the pothole and realize, even before reaching to the overhanging ledge above, that I will be unable to get out of this hole alone. I am stuck in what is known, in the lexicon of the canyoneering cognoscenti, as a ‘keeper pothole’—a bowl sculpted in the soft sandstone by the erosion of swirling water.
I begin to panic. I think of my mom. Boy she’s going to be mad if I die in this hole. Today is May 11, Mother’s Day. At least I’d sent flowers. I think of Aron Ralston, who, after being stuck in his own slot canyon for five days not far from here, had amputated his own arm to escape an 800 lb boulder that had shifted, pinning his arm.
Yesterday I’d made a supply stop at the grocery store on the way out of town. Glancing at the newsstand, there was Ralston’s face, smiling as he aimed his camera at the press. I’d been thinking of him this morning as I picked my way along the sandstone rim looking for the scrambling descent into the canyon below. The press and the public had been riveted to Ralston’s story. Not only for the obvious drama of the extreme measure he had taken to free himself, but also because his story was like a big fat ‘I told you so’ for breaking what many consider the first rule of wilderness travel; never go alone.
Like Ralston, I too had often heeded the call of the wild unaccompanied. If you’ve ever gone OUT THERE alone you’ve also felt it: your mind undistracted by companions or conversation, your senses more acute. Sure, you worry more, but maybe that’s part of it—the desire to confront the fear of being alone. You know there’s no one else to count on, or blame. Yeah, the safety net is smaller, but maybe you’re less likely to need one. When was the last time you said, ‘Hey guys, watch this’ when traveling alone? Heck, sometimes it’s just time to head out the door. Who wants to stay home simply for want of a partner?
Academic discussions aside, it was pretty clear that what I needed now—desperately—was another person. A set of shoulders to stand on, a partner to simply give me a boost out of this hole, then I’d reach down and give them a hand up.
Standing on tiptoes in water up to my shoulders I strain a hand far overhead, fingertips barely reaching a sandy sloping edge. There is nothing for the feet, all sides worn to a smooth overhang. A large log is floating in the hole and I try using this for floatation. Of course it sinks under my weight. I jam one end of the log into the sandy bottom, the other end resting under the overhang. I inch a foot up to a crook in the top and reach again for the edge, only to fall back into the water. I know these efforts are futile and they pass before my eyes, like an observer, in slow motion. I also know my time is limited in the 50–degree water. Already I notice the cold creeping into muscles, a touch of sluggishness around the edges of my thinking. Before long I’ll be unable to stand, left to drown in nature’s version of a toilet bowl.
I felt the presence of the rope I’d left behind. The one I’d tried so hard to pull down. I hadn’t considered trying to climb out on the rope because I’d forgotten to bring adequate emergency gear like prussic loops or webbing necessary to reascend the rope. It would be hopeless to attempt to climb it hand–over–hand, but the rope would be my only chance. I swim to it and manage to tie a small loop. I pull up on the rope and try to slide my foot in the loop. Unable to hold on, I fall back into the water. My rappel device catches on the loop and I realize I can rest on this and hug the rope, keeping my upper body out of the water.
Looking down, clipped to my harness is a single loop of webbing. I’d brought it along to clip to anchors while rigging rappels. It had remained hidden, until now, by the water. I try to remember how to tie the right knot—a prussic—that would allow the webbing to slide up the rope yet grip when weighted. It’s a simple knot, one that I know well, but in a hypothermic haze, I wrap the loop around both strands of the rope several times then clip the other end into my harness and weight the tether. It slips an inch or two then grabs the rope. The first five feet are overhanging. I inch my way up, alternately pushing up the webbing, weighting it gingerly, then tie another knot in the ropes at waist level for a foothold.
Repeating the sequence a few times, soon I’m back at the anchor. I begin to shake violently. Like my sluggish thinking, I know this shivering comes with hypothermia. I feel the warmth of the sandstone and the spring desert sun, the shivering will soon pass as heat returns to muscles, and a chilly contracted mind begins to re-expand.
Out of the water but not out of the woods yet; I can’t just walk back out the way I came. It’s unlikely I could climb back up the sections I had rappelled. I could scramble upstream but would have to swim back through a pool just to get a look. For today, I decide to wait and hope another party will come down the canyon; it could be hours, it could be days. Hopefully someone will come before rains flood the canyon. Munching an energy bar I have time to consider how long the night will be in the damp, cold canyon. At least there’s water in the stagnant pools. Eating has made me thirsty and dehydration will kill before giardia ever sets in. I brush away the top layer of scum and larger insects and cup my hands to the water; I may be here a while. There’s wood in one of the dry holes and I could start a fire, if I had brought matches. I lay my clothes to dry in the last hour of sun as the afternoon shade creeps in.
I am angry with myself for not having come prepared with the proper equipment or experience. This was my first foray into technical canyoneering and I reasoned that my climbing experience would be sufficient to get me through. How different could it be? Unlike climbing routes, selected for the high quality and stability or the rock, slot canyons are really just large funnels for water, wood and stone; unstable by their very nature. Anchors are there one day and may be gone the next, covered by mud, ripped by erosion. Left behind, in the wake of this accelerated erosion, are loose boulders like the one that pinned Ralston and other surprises like deep keeper potholes.
In the late afternoon I hear voices echoing from down the canyon, below the last technical section. I attempt to gain their attention casually at first, hoping a casual ‘Hello’ would somehow diminish the gravity of my predicament. These first attempts are lost to the canyon walls. They could leave any second. Its hard to accept that I need to be rescued. I finally admit this to myself and scream ‘HELP’ at the top of my lungs. The chatter from below ceases and I know I’ve been heard. I’m lucky. It’s a party that had planned to descend the canyon the next day. We are able to yell back and forth. There’s enough daylight and they hurry back to camp and return with ropes. In just a few hours they arrive at the pothole. It’s not easy, getting out of this hole even with help. With a shove from below, I flop on the dirt and grovel past the edge.
My new friends tell me the story of another who was stuck in the same hole last year. He spent three days there. It had been some time since rain and the hole was dry. They tell me this keeper didn’t even exist until two years ago when a particularly strong flood scoured the bottom of the hole making it several feet deeper.
The next day I meet an old friend who will join me for another exploration and over the dusty drive to the trailhead I recount my near disaster to Dick. He confides how horrible he would feel if I had died. He says it would be like when his girlfriend’s dog Buddy died. Buddy was one of those large, ugly, mean dogs that nobody likes. He had met an early, if not premature, death after biting one too many strangers. This was disappointing. I had envisioned my death as causing more of a knee buckling, sobbing grief, not a lousy dead dog grief. I contemplate this in silence for a moment, probably an example of unpracticed male intimacy. I’m just happy I’m still here to think about it and glad to have a good partner along to face whatever unknown adventure the next canyon holds.
John Schwieder
© 2003 John Schwieder