Narrow Escapes in The Southwest

Cooling off with some wet feet in the Zion Narrows in Utah. (Gary H. Anthes - Gary H. Anthes)

I was sobered by the sight of logs and other debris wedged in crevices high above my head, silent reminders of the flash floods that periodically thunder through these canyons.

But the views up and down the canyon were magnificent, especially the colors -- orange, red and purple reflected off rock walls, the milky-turquoise water and the electric yellow-green of cottonwood trees. I saw no one else and heard nothing but the ripple of the river and the occasional whistles of canyon wren.

Then, knee-deep, I took a step and was instantly in water over my waist in a hole I had somehow missed with my stick. Breathtakingly cold water poured over the waistband of my "waterproof" pants, down my legs and into my "waterproof" socks. I retreated a few steps.

No deer this time, but a party of four hikers, two in wet suits, soon emerged from upriver. "Oh, yes," they said, "it gets deeper. You'll be up to your neck soon." I had a backpack full of unprotected camera gear and wasn't prepared for that. My bathtub's not that deep.

Reluctantly, I turned back.

Plan B

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That only whetted my appetite for more canyoneering, of course, so the next day I set out for the Clear Creek Narrows, high in "slick rock" country in the eastern part of Zion National Park. Often dry, it was touted by a local outfitter as just the place to go when there's too much water in the Virgin River. Indeed, when I got there the creek was about as deep as my bathtub in Arlington. Trouble was, it was raining at the time and more rain was predicted. Only a fool would hike in such a place under those conditions.

Standing in the rain on the edge of Clear Creek, I thought of the similar Antelope Canyon, not far away in Arizona, where 11 hikers died on Aug. 12, 1997, after ignoring warnings that thunderstorms were likely. Late that afternoon, a thunderstorm miles away poured millions of gallons of water in a few minutes into Antelope Creek, sending a wall of water 50 feet high through the canyon. Two of the victims were never found.

So I made my way -- with a two-day stopover at Bryce Canyon National Park -- to that vast and unpopulated region of Utah known as Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. Despite the recent rains and warnings from a ranger at the northern entry point in Cannonville, I intended to coax my rental car along a primitive 46-mile dirt road south to a trail head giving me access to the Cottonwood Wash Narrows.

Big mistake. The canyons weren't the only things flooded. Attempting to drive across a stream, I cracked my radiator and had to be towed out, never making it to the Cottonwood Wash. The driver of a car who stopped to offer help added insult to injury by saying he'd just hiked there and it was one of the most interesting places he'd ever been.

But not to worry; I knew of other canyons. I headed south and east along Route 89 toward Buckskin Gulch, a remote slot canyon that follows the Utah-Arizona border for 12 miles before joining the Paria River. I'd wanted to go there ever since reading a description of the gulch by the writer and naturalist Edward Abbey. It is, he wrote, "so deep and narrow you can see the stars in the daytime."

I stopped on the way at the visitor center in Kanab and was told by a ranger that I should be prepared to swim if I went into Buckskin Gulch. "But couldn't I hike in just a little way and get some pictures?" I asked. No, the road to the trail head was impassable, even with a four-wheel-drive vehicle.

X Marks the Spot

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I was pretty sure my last stop, at a stunning and little-visited slot canyon called Canyon X, would be a success, and it was.