Rescuing Riley, Saving Myself Read Free

and aeolian forces that over the eons had eroded the red sandstone surrounding me. Slot canyons are like knife slices in the earth, and some can be hundreds of feet deep and only a few feet wide. The canyon I was in (and this was the reason I chose it) was a technical canyon, meaning it could not be traversed without the use of ropes and climbing gear: carabiners, a harness, ascenders, bolts, and anchors. I was traveling down from the head of the canyon, the first mile or so an easy stroll on a sandy path, but then the adventure began. Each time I had to set my ropes and rappel down, a skill I learned in the Marines, I increased the danger, because without my gear, I would not be able to turn around and exit the way I entered, or go forward beyond the next technical traverse, and gear can always fail. Humans are more likely to fail than gear; one bad bolt-set or hastily tied knot, and I could find myself at the bottom of a hole with no way out. I’d applied pre-mission preparation procedures drilled into me in the Marine Corps. I’d built in as many precautions as possible, brought more rope than I expected I’d need, and I’d given my wife, Michelle, my location and a “drop dead” time, meaning that if she didn’t hear from me by then, she should call search and rescue. Even that didn’t mean I’d be safe.
    Michelle worries because I prefer to explore places like this alone. The risk I face, and enjoy, exploring solo has changed little since the days when mountain men and fur trappers blazed trails in this forlorn part of the globe—if you mess up, you’re screwed. A broken leg or even a twisted ankle can leave you trapped somewhere no one will think to look for you. Canyoneers must also concern themselves with flash floods, particularly in the secondary and tertiary canyons that feed into the Grand Canyon and the Colorado River. In a wider canyon, if you have enough warning of a flash flood, there are often places you can run to where you may be able to scramble up to higher ground. In a slot canyon like this, there’s no way out, no way up without climbing gear, and no way to ride out a flood when constrictions amplify the force of the water. In the summer of 1997, twelve people were trapped in Antelope Canyon, perhaps the best known and easily the most traveled slot canyon in the Four Corners region, by a flood resulting from a storm ten miles upstream where the catchment saw an inch and a half of rain, with three-quarters of an inch falling in only fifteen minutes. Downstream in Antelope Canyon, it barely drizzled, a few drops falling, until, half an hour later, a surge of water ten feet high raced down the canyon, destroying everything and everyone in its path.
    I chose to explore alone to get away from people and to test myself. I didn’t necessarily think that other people would either slow me down or annoy me; going solo simply meant having a more pleasant journey without any awkward moments with new partners or arguments about which way to go or how to set something up. The challenge is to be self-reliant. Some people find it difficult to be self-reliant. I have never had a choice. I am self-reliant to a fault, and if I could go back in time to reverse the course of events that have made me so, I would, but . . . I can’t do that, so I will only play the cards life has dealt me as best I can.
    After my second rappel, I stopped to eat a snack and to rest, washing down a Clif Bar with a few gulps of bottled water. After my third rappel, a descent of perhaps twenty feet, I left my ropes in place and paused to examine the gear in my pack to see what I had left. Of the eight twenty-five-foot sections of CMC Static Pro 3/8” diameter climbing rope I brought, I had one section left.
    I dropped my pack and headed down-canyon. I had Petzl ascenders and both locking and non-locking carabiners clipped to my Yates harness. My bolts and anchors and my DeWalt cordless drill were in the pack. I could come back if I