It was about 7 PM when huge raindrops fell on us in Subway Canyon in Zion National Park. When we felt the rain we were hiking in a smooth, sculpted rock hallway dotted with small pools of water. We had heard thunder throughout the day, and with each clap we looked at each other with wide eyes knowing a flash flood could be coming from the canyons high above us.

Rain equals danger, and the feel of the rain on our skin triggered a rush of adrenaline. This adrenaline drove our 8 person canyon team to desperately claw our way out of the rock hallway, pushing each others butts and grabbing each others arms to get everyone up a short, steep section of rock. Once at the top of that rock we grabbed braches, roots, fallen trees and anything we could use as a makeshift handline to haul ourselves up a steep dirt slope and to the base of a rocky cliff face about 100 feet above the canyon floor. Once at the base of the cliff, we felt safe. We started to catch our breath. The rain continued.

What’s our next move? There’s no flood. The canyon isn’t even flowing. The rain is trickling between each grain of sand, saturating the desert, increasing in volume, waiting to rush violently through the canyon in approximately 60 minutes. There was no way to know this, looking down into the rocky hallway from our safe perch above. It looked just as it had when we clawed our way up the slope, mostly dry with just a few innocent pools.

We were aware of the flash flood danger all around us. With each loud clap of thunder we would look at the sky as we approached Subway Canyon via Russel Gulch. In these desert canyons, storms can be life threatening. The rain from a desert storm can funnel into a slot canyon and shoot through like a fire hose, tossing a canyoneer around in a rushing soup of large trees, chocolate colored water and boulders. It’s a terrifying thought that danced in our minds each time we heard the thunder and looked up at the faraway clouds in the blue sky.

We continued down Russell Gulch, pointing out dirt slopes on each side of the canyon we could climb to safety. At each rappel we wondered if we should continue. Russel Gulch is wide and open at most points so escape would be possible in the event of a flash flood, that is, as long as our feet were planted firmly on the ground when the flood threatened and we were able to run to higher ground. The thought of dangling on rappel on one of the three 100 foot rappels in Russel Gulch as the flood rumbled down the canyon was a scary thought I tried not to dwell on too much. I rappelled each drop quickly.

As we neared the end of Russel Gulch and reached the beginning of Subway it was about 4 PM. We had gotten a late start that morning. Our group had driven through the night from Boise, Idaho to use our coveted Subway permit that Friday. We were short on sleep and this was our first canyon together as a group. We moved slowly, partially because some team members were not super experienced and partially because we are just a hedonistic canyon team. We love taking pictures and we love admiring the beauty around us, moving at a pace one could describe as only marginally faster than molasses.

We were ¼ mile into Subway when the huge drops of rain began to fall. From our cliffside perch, we felt safe as the rain showered us lightly. We talked about our options, which appeared to be going upcanyon or downcanyon. Upcanyon wasn’t an option since the best climbers in the group didn’t think it was possible. Downcanyon seemed like a dangerous option. We eventually looked around at our rocky perch and decided it had just enough room for the eight of us to sleep, and by anchoring the people on each end of the bivy line with ropes and harnesses we could safely snuggle in for the night and hope for better weather in the morning. A couple people were not stoked about the bivy and wanted to continue into Subway, but mostly we were in good spirits. A couple people were excited about it and saw it as an opportunity to spend a night out and come back with an awesome story. We had five ladies and three guys for our cuddle party and we all chose a spot and discussed our individual cuddling and spooning boundaries. We all decided we were pro spooning and tonight was not a time for shyness.

Between us we had only two emergency blankets that were just big enough to cover all of us. We layered our clothing the best we could, with a wet wetsuit as the base layer and any other clothing we had over the top of the wetsuit. I left my wet wetsuit on and also left my wool socks, neoprene booties and canyoneering boots on all night. I wore my helmet for warmth. I put on my climbing harness and hooked myself into the rope at the end of the bivy to anchor everyone in. I snuggled in to sleep and thought, hey this isn’t so bad. It’s the best bivy weather ever. It’s a mild August night, it had stopped raining, there was almost no breeze, and the sky was full of stars.

We heard a loud rumbling, 10 times stronger than thunder. The sound sent chills through me and I knew right away what it was—flash flood! Never had I unhooked myself so quickly from a carabiner! I wanted to see that flood more than anything! I’ve always wanted to see a flash flood from a safe distance. We all scrambled out of our sleeping positions to look over the edge, but the flood was too far below us and our headlamps just wouldn’t cast enough light. The loud, rumbling flood continued for about 5 minutes, then the water in the canyon flowed like a small river for about an hour after that. We lay there, listening to the water flowing through the tiny slot, thankful to be roped onto our ledge, cuddled up safely.

Then the laughter started. Call it a happy-to-be-alive reaction or a realization of the sheer ridiculousness of our situation. Giggling was uncontrollable every time the blanket rustled. The laughter would die down, the blanket would rustle and it would start up again. Finally, we were silent for several minutes and people started to drift off to sleep. Then an owl hooted loudly nearby and we were all roaring with laughter again. This went on for the next hour. Then it was night. Quiet. Cold. It was the longest night ever. I felt like I didn’t sleep at all. I found there was only one position where I could stay warm, with my back cuddled tightly against Audra and my arms hugged around my chest. My hip would scream with pain from hours in one position but as soon as I would move I was cold and soon back to the same position. Sometimes I lay there wide awake and felt jealous of the sleepy sounds around me. Why was everyone sleeping so much more soundly than I was? Turns out in the morning everyone said they had moments like this through the night where they seemed to be the only one awake.

I felt happy to see the light begin to creep into the sky. It was a joyful moment. We all started to move around and slowly get up. We shared our remaining food with each other. We were all reasonably prepared with extra food and clothing. We used a ledge to the side of our sleeping spot as our bathroom. Someone suggested we poop on a rock and then throw it, which seemed like a good idea. Except then the poop flew off the rock when it was thrown and splattered nearby. Our bathroom spot became pretty gross and we were anxious to depart. I set up my rope around a tree as a handline down the steep, loose slope and we descended back into Subway. The canyon looked the same, only now there was an intermittent water line about five feet high from where the flood had moved through last night. It was the only evidence of the flash and we commented on it all day long as we visualized how powerful the flood must have been in these narrow corridors.

The sky was clear and the morning light beautiful. We resumed our slightly faster than molasses pace and had a wonderful Subway descent none of us will ever forget. We were short on calories and sleep but it truly didn’t matter. We were moving gently through a spectacular canyon ... and we were alive.


Lisa

© 2012 Lisa Jennings