Written by Grant Johnson in 1997
Had I been able to predict the ferocity of the storm
and the speed in which it would engulf us, I might
have suggested that our group opt to cower in camp
all day. Even after living twenty years in the
Escalante Canyons, there was no way to foresee this
April surprise.
In fact there's a beautiful blue sky overhead as we
leave our base camp on the Escalante River carrying
drinking water, bag lunches and a vague idea of
where the day's route will take us. We set out
upstream in calf-deep water under 400-foot
tapestried walls. ('Tapestried' refers to the black
vertical stripes of manganese that are deposited by
water running from the canyon rim over the face of
an overhang.) At every bend the river laps against
the canyon walls, creating peaceful grottos.
Maidenhair fern and monkey flower cling to wet red
sandstone. Somehow these delicate looking plants
survive the frequent flooding. The banks of the
river are lined with wire grass, horsetail, willow
and water birch. Three or four feet above the
river's edge grows grass, clover, white and yellow
evening primrose, red-orange indian paintbrush,
cottonwood and russian olive, and an occasional
tamarisk. Higher still on the banks are rabbit brush
and sagebrush, hackberry, single leaf ash,
squawbush, box elder and gamble oak. 
As our group approaches a bend in the river, an
enormous alcove looms above, making us strain our
necks to take in its height and width. Perhaps ten
thousand years ago the river finally undercut the
canyon wall, causing the sandstone to cave naturally
in an arc. Inside this arc, on the soft orange sand,
a few large boulders have metates. Their surfaces
are worn smooth and dished, from years of grinding
seeds and corn by the Anasazi Indians at least 800
years ago.
On another bend is a south facing alcove, truly a
solar oven. The Anasazi certainly camped here.
Rubble with pieces of mortar are piled where
dwellings once stood. Flakes of colorful agate
litter the ground, the handiwork of ancient
toolmakers. As we leave the alcove we are lucky to
find the sun illuminating bighorn sheep petroglyphs.
The rays across the surface have shadowed the pecked
depressions, highlighting the sheep.
Straight across the canyon, 200 feet away, a line of
carved steps ascends an impassable looking route to
the top. Surely this was only for expert climbers.
Being in the cave, part of a living museum, we take
time to explain the importance of treading as
lightly as possible and the moral and legal
obligation we have to leave the archaeology
undisturbed. Looking up and down canyon from this
place one can easily imagine families 1000 years ago
hunting, growing crops and harvesting wild plants.
All along the river are the subtle remains of the
Anasazi and their predecessors, illuminating another
world within these same walls.
Suddenly the sun goes behind a cloud, waking
everyone from a silent, thoughtful state. But it is
only a small cloud, and we continue to the next bend
of the river where the small opening of a side
canyon intrigues us, giving no hint of what is beyond.
Having hiked for years on the Escalante, we long ago
decided that every curiosity should be indulged, so
we can't pass up this side canyon. The entrance is a
walkway of water half an inch deep and ten feet wide
flowing over brilliant orange sand. Through the
cottonwood and box elder trees we can see that the
top of the canyon narrows and the bottom expands
until it opens into a colossal chamber. The inside
is mostly damp compacted sand, with a still pool
about 75 feet in diameter reflecting the red walls
and blue sky. Three hundred feet above the pool,
runoff from an unseen wash has polished the canyon
wall into a funnel. We walk across the open flat of
this huge room to an alcove that cuts far under a
seeping wall. A forest of tall ferns strains to meet
sunlight. Their dazzling green lights the dim
chamber. Opposite the fern room is a dry overhang.
Here in the dusty sand are more chips from
toolmaking and shrunken corncobs left by the
Anasazi. We linger through our lunches here, and
then reluctantly leave this cathedral,
walking in silence back to the
river.

Wanting to trade our filtered river water for
something cold and delicious we stop our upstream
wanderings at a spring. From a crack in the canyon
wall pours a huge volume of water collected above by
hundreds of waterpockets and filtered through
hundreds of feet of Navaho sandstone. We intercept
it and, canteens full, are ready for the last part
of our hike.
I decide that a route along the canyon rim would be
preferable to retracing our steps. Walking further
upstream on the river's bank, trees and sagebrush
almost conceal a crack about three feet wide.
Inside, a stairway of rocks climb to a set of pecked
steps leading to the rim. Up and out of the canyon
we climb to where the slickrock stands in spires and
monuments. Although we are on a bench above the
river level, we are still 800 feet below an array of
slickrock buttes and peppermint domes made of white
slickrock swirled with red stripes.
We walk along the rim downstream, heading for an old
horse trail that will take us into the canyon below
camp. Bowls of sand between sandstone knobs contain
tiny lemon-smelling flowers beneath the pinyon and
juniper. A Hopi woman said me that these flowers, a
relative of the marigold, were a traditional food
used in winter broth. On a sandy hill we come upon a
blackened area of sand from ancient fires,
surrounded by flakes of obsidian. Nearby are yellow
potsherds (broken pottery) with black stripes and
triangles. This could only be black on yellow
Jeddito ware made by the Hopi around the 14th to the
16th
century. A fascinating discovery for us! Having seen
signs left by the Anasazi at almost every bend of
the river, this discovery is evidence of their
modern successors, the Hopi. The Anasazi migrated
out of these canyons in the 1200's, heading
southwest, and the Hopi arrived with their pottery
400 years later.
Traveling along the rim we discover the wash that
pours into the cathedral we explored earlier. One by
one we strip off our shirts and plunge in the cold
water. Then we dry in the hot sun on warm
sandstone.
At this point the group splits. Half opt for a
direct walk back to camp with another guide, and the
rest of us, six including myself, decide on a more
challenging route up the wash and over the top of a
high dome. Three deep crevasses slice this 800 foot
slickrock monolith creating a giant "W". To traverse
this dome we must zig-zag across two causeways. The
route is a little sketchy but wide enough to be
safe. On the way up we enter a shady crack to cool
off and doze in the shade.
Rested, we shoulder day packs and notice, for the
first time, white puffy clouds moving quickly
overhead. We climb the steep slickrock and as we top
the dome the southern sky becomes visible. Black
clouds fill the sky and below them is a solid wall
of red, from sand and rain, heading our way.
Everyone reaches for rain gear as slickrock spires
and peaks disappear in the storm less than a mile
away. It's moving fast, and I'm concerned it will
pin us on top of the dome. The wind increases as we
reach the first causeway, about six feet wide.
Only two of us make it across before
the initial sand blast hits, bringing us to our
hands and knees. As soon as we've all made it
across, hail begins clacking against the rock and
thumping our heads. The air is thick with sand, hail
and rain.

As we approach a steep incline, the group huddles
behind a large rock. Bringing up the rear, I urge
them on. The wet rock will only get slicker and we need
to keep moving. We start to ascend a 200 foot steep
face. I stand with my heels on the edge and help
everyone above me with footholds and a boost. It
rains so hard, waterfalls are shooting down the
slickrock on all sides. I push the last person up
the slippery rock. She turns to offers me a hand,
and we scurry away from the edge to safety.
I was
excited by the storm but felt awful to have put
everyone else through such a terrifying experience.
Then I heard Maxine say, "That was one of the most
incredible experience I've ever had!" I pull back my
hood to see five wet grins. Waterfalls are still
cascading down the slickrock and the rain is
pounding the bench on the other side of the river.
The sky clears and we take off our coats to let the
sun dry us. Once again it looks like a perfect day.
It seems that you can never know what to expect in
this land of extremes.
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