Gulch

Return to the Paria River Canyon: Desert Hiking Tips Learned the Hard Way

“What time is it in Utah?” Steve, our shuttle driver, asked as he surveyed a small Mormon community along the highway.

“Uh,” I started to say, trying to remember if we were currently on the Arizona or Utah side of the border.

“Fifty years ago,” he answered, chuckling at his own joke.

I found myself staring across the valley at the Vermilion Cliffs, somewhat surprised to be in Steve’s truck again. The landscape around the highway was stunningly beautiful. Any direction that I looked could have been a postcard. As he drove, Steve adjusted the air-conditioning between the high and low settings depending upon what type of high pitched whine emanated from the vents, and was eager to talk about both national and local politics.

Like last year, we hired Steve to shuttle us from the take out point at Lee’s Ferry to the trailhead at the Whitehouse Campground. As Steve drove, I found myself really not wanting to be in a car, but rather stopped somewhere admiring the view; taking a moment of stillness to appreciate the desert. I had been driving since early that morning. Two days earlier, I was in the green forest in the Pacific Northwest. As always, the transition from forest to desert could be a bit jarring.

Steve, with his Edward Abbey quotes and authentic pride in the wild lands that surround his home, was a friendly welcome back to the desert. After about an hour drive, he pointed out another polygamist compound and mentioned that he had one of the wives come speak about that book to a discussion group that he and his wife had formed. Shortly after, he turned off the highway and we rattled for a couple miles down a dusty dirt road.

At the Whitehouse Campground, my Mom crawled out of the backseat and we shook hands with Steve before watching him drive off. We walked up the short path to where we could see our family had pitched tents. My father, my brother, his girlfriend Steph, and Jen had set up our camp while Mom and I shuttled the cars to the other end of the trail. The campground was full – tents rose like bright colored mounds and domes from almost every corner.

That night we decided to hike the two miles along the dirt road back to the small ranger station near the highway to top off our water bottles. Jackrabbits, scared off by the sounds of our voices and footsteps, darted out into the desert as we walked. Above us, the cloudless sky slowly faded from a dark blue to black, and the sky rippled with more stars than I had seen in at least a year.

“Well,” my dad asked quietly, “Are you ready to hike it again?”

Here then, rather obliquely, are some tips that were learned the hard way:

Tip #1 - River Water Is Gross

Even in the best years, the Paria is more of a trickling creek than a river. Droughts or low rain fall can mean that the Paria River doesn’t really start flowing until about 11 or 12 miles south of the Whitehouse campground. I’ve been amazed when I see people filtering water out of muddy, stagnate, or generally foul looking puddles. The warm, shallow waters in the Paria are home to frogs, toads, snakes, mice, tadpoles, a surprisingly large number of animal carcasses, and some stuff that had been clinging to my feet that I washed off that afternoon.

In the Paria, there are enough fresh water springs to fill water bottles around every 11 miles or so - with the exception of the last day and half towards Lee’s Crossing and the entirety of Buckskin Gulch. If you have enough water bottles, I’d recommend planning and scheduling to take filter breaks at the springs (and even then, it's a good idea to filter the spring water, because despite what you may have heard, giardia will never make you popular at social gatherings). Relying as much as possible on the springs will make sure you get good, cold water and it will save lots of time, because filtering from rivers in the desert sucks.

Tip #2 – Filtering From Rivers In the Desert Sucks

That tired ache in your arm? The fact that you’ve been pumping for 20 minutes and have only filled half a Nalgene bottle? The little trickle of water that spurts out of your water filter even though you’re putting in enough energy to crush coal into diamonds? The answer is the sand and the sand is your enemy. Despite the fact that the water in the river might look like it is clear and clean – it isn’t. It’s full of sand.

Even with good planning for only filling water bottles at the springs, everyone ends up filtering out of the Paria at some point. The amazing amounts of sand and sediment in this little desert stream will quickly clog up a water filter. This year we used both ceramic and carbon filter pumps – by the end of the trip the carbon filter was useless and the ceramic filter took a lot of time and energy to pump and clean.

To make water filters last longer:

• Wrap a coffee filter around the end of the intake hose (the end you put in the river) and attach it with a rubber band. This will pre-filter some of the larger sediment.
  
• Bring a bucket – fill the bucket with water from the river and let it stand for a minute or two so the sediment will settle to the bottom. Filter directly from the bucket. If a bucket is too much trouble, you can do the same trick with a spare nalgene bottle.
  
• Bring iodine or some sort of water purification tablets. If you use a water filter, you should have these with you as a backup in case your filter clogs and fails. Likewise, we talked with a few hikers who don’t even bother with the filters when they are in the desert and just use the tablets. Personally, I find iodine water barely tastes better than warm puddle water that has been home to several generations of live tadpoles but I hear that some of the new purification tablets are getting better.

Tip #3 – Bring Plenty of Water Bottles

Access to water is usually not a problem in the Paria. However, having enough drinkable water with you at any given time will save long hikes to springs or having to filter stagnate water. I recommend having enough bottles for at least 3 liters per person.

If you are hiking via Wire Pass and the entire length of Buckskin Gulch, you should probably carry even more bottles as there is no source of fresh water in that 16-mile stretch.

Tip #4 – Wear Socks

Normally, remembering to bring socks on a backpacking trip is not a problem (underwear on the other hand…). However, since the Paria involves hiking in water a lot, it’s often preferable to hike in sandals such as Tevas. The same evil sand that likes to clog filters, though, finds its way under the straps of sandals and will rub the skin on innocent feet raw in less than half a day. These raw sore patches are worse than having blisters in a hiking boot and can quickly ruin the trip.

The sand is your enemy. Socks, though, are your friend. Wearing socks with your Teva’s or other sandals will prevent the sand from getting under the straps and rubbing your feet raw. In particular, neoprene socks, such as these sold at the MEC, seemed to work extra well and were popular with the folks that had them in our group this year.

If you have sandals that are extra adjustable (such as Chaco’s) or if your sandals are new, be sure you break them in and have them properly adjusted before the hike starts.

Tip #5 – Bring Shoes or Boots

Depending on the flow level of the Paria, it may end up that you spend a great deal of time not hiking in water. This year, we hiked for almost the first two days before we found any serious water flow. Hiking in a pair of old boots or shoes is a nice change from sandals, which are never the most comfortable after 10 miles with a 45 pound pack.

Tip #6 – Hiking Poles Help The Tired

The Paria River is a great place to use hiking poles and most hikers that we encountered had them. They help test whether or not you’ll sink up to your knees in the patch of mud ahead of you, you can use them to swordfight with your hiking buddies, and best of all, when you get tired towards the last mile of the day and start to stumble, they’ll save you from a really embarrassing fall. Uh, or so I hear.

Tip #7 – It’s the Little Things

A wet handkerchief or bandanna on the back of your neck will feel really good when it’s over 100 degrees out and you have several more miles to go before camp. Life’s too short to not bring good coffee, decent food (I recommend the Pad Thai), and a hat. Electric toothbrushes, however, are optional.

Tip #8 - Take Lots of Pictures

From the desert varnish staining the sides of red canyon walls to the shallow and glittering pools of the Paria to the red sands and green prickly pear, be sure to take lots of photos. Here are my photos from my 2007 Paria hike and from my 2006 Paria Hike (here's also my write-up of the hike from last year).

Tip #9 – Finally, Get a Good Book Written By a Real Expert

Hiking and Exploring the Paria River by Michael R. Kelsey gives a mile by mile history, great tips, advice, and an overview of the canyon and can make the hike more interesting. It’s the book that Steve recommends to people when they are sitting in his truck, admiring the view, and excited to begin the hike.

Through the Desert in 5 ½ Parts and 62 Miles

(Hiking the Paria River Canyon)

Part One, Mile Zero: Entry

“I ain’t never known a woman to want to share a man,” stated Steve as he turned his head to survey the decaying trailers of a small polygamist compound visible from the highway. Unlike my companions and me, Steve wasn’t wearing sunglasses. His skin had a natural tan, a shade of light brown that comes not from creams or salons but from just being in the sun all the time. His hair was shoulder length and his eyes were clear blue and framed by a web of small wrinkles. He looked like what I pictured a jack Mormon as described by Edward Abbey to look like – someone who had found their salvation not in the cool marble of a temple in Salt Lake City but in the red stones and white sands of the desert.

My companions - my dad and my friend Brace - and I were significantly paler, our eyes protected from UV rays by polarized plastic lenses, our heads covered by hats. We met Steve a few minutes earlier when his dusty Isuzu Trooper swerved into the parking lot at the end of the trail that marked the beginning of our trek into the desert. The three of us had come to the desert to hike the Paria River Canyon, which crosses the Utah-Arizona border, and we had hired Steve to shuttle us the 70-mile drive from the take out point, where we had parked our rental car, to the trailhead.

The landscape was beautiful and harsh and alien. Less than a day earlier, I had been caught in a rainstorm in the Pacific Northwest. Thanks to modern air travel, I had traded a million shades of green in Oregon for at least as many shades of red in Southern Utah and Arizona. Steve pointed out local features, taking obvious pride in our enjoyment of the beauty of his home, while we discussed local politics. “It’s not really fair to call them Mormons,” he said, asking us if we had read that book. “They’re fundamentalists.”

After about an hour's drive, Steve turned the Trooper off the highway and we rattled down a dirt road for two miles to the Whitehouse trailhead. An early settler named it that because the spring there had water that “tasted so good it could have come from the White House.” We glanced around but didn’t see any sign of a spring. The nearby riverbed was dry and covered with dirt as fine as sand.

Dad, Brace, and I pulled our packs out of the back of the SUV and shook hands with Steve. The three of us stood there for a minute and watched the Trooper as it turned around and drove back along the dirt road, kicking up dust. The gear cage on the top made it look truly like an expedition vehicle, something maybe seen on the edge of the Sahara.

Instead of a spring, we found a half-drunk bottle of apricot schnapps next to our campsite. It looked like it had been there for a few days and we didn’t bother to find out if it tasted like something they might serve at the White House these days. Instead, we decided to hike the two miles along the dirt road back to the small ranger station near the highway to top off our water bottles. Jackrabbits, scared off by the sounds of our voices and footsteps, darted out into the desert as we walked. Above us, the cloudless sky slowly faded from a dark blue to black, and the sky rippled with more stars than I had seen in a long time.

Part Two, Mile 18 – Longest, Darkest, Deepest

The water reached that uncomfortable level of just past my crotch. It was so cold that it wasn’t numbing me but rather causing a burning sensation in my lower extremities. The canyon had narrowed to about six feet wide and trapped a twenty foot pool of stagnant water that had the look and consistency of chocolate milk. The solid rock walls on each side rose in undulating cliffs for 500 feet, we couldn’t see the sky. The bottom of the stagnant pool was covered in a slick, sucking mud that threatened to throw me off balance and plunge me headfirst into the water.

We had decided to do a 16-mile day hike up a side canyon called Buckskin Gulch. The best guidebook to hiking the Paria is Hiking and Exploring the Paria River by Michael Kelsey. In it, Kelsey describes Buckskin Gulch as the longest, darkest, deepest slot canyon in the world. The water temperature of the pools we crossed underscored this fact. The murky pools are so deep down in that narrow, twisted crack that the sun never penetrates far enough into the slot canyon to reach and warm them.

Unlike the other days when we’d seek out shade to get out of the blistering sun, in Buckskin Gulch we sought little pockets of sunlight where we could warm up. Walking between the sun and the shade was like walking between a sauna and refrigerator. Crossing the pools of water was like swimming in the artic ocean.

The canyon meandered for longer than we could walk. We hiked eight miles from its confluence point of the Paria Canyon and then turned around and hiked back. The entire time, I was in awe. The canyon was so narrow that two people couldn’t walk side by side, yet the walls towered so high that it often felt like we were walking in a cave. Tree branches and boulders were jammed 50 feet in the air above us, placed there by earlier flash floods that occasionally swept down the narrow ravine.

From the sensual rock curves of the gulch to the stains and stripes on the canyon walls, Buckskin Gulch was simply beautiful. The muddy pools of torturous water had their own desert beauty, I thought as I crossed them. I just wished I was taller.

Part Three, Mile 30 – Rocks: More than Just Pets

I didn’t throw my rock as hard as I could; even so, it landed with a thump on the soft sand and rolled off the embankment and into the shallow stream. I cursed Brace under my breath.

There is a fine line between interpreting the rules of a game to your best possible advantage and cheating. Brace tends to play games in such close vicinity to this line that I’m never quite sure what side of it he’s on. Perhaps, though, I only like to think this because I always lose to him. Even in games that only involve rocks.

“The problem with camping,” a family friend who probably hasn’t gone camping for at least twenty years once said, “is that you just wait around until it gets dark enough to go to bed.” This friend, obviously, didn’t know about rocks.

Rocks, it turns out, can be very entertaining. It was on our second night that my dad invented the game that became our nightly routine. It wasn’t a new game but rather a variation on an old game and I’m sure other people have played it before. We called it “Rock Petanque.”

We played it like normal petanque (or bocce ball), only, and here’s the genius of the idea, with rocks. We’d throw a stick out on a flat, sandy bank of the river. Each player would get two rocks to throw at the stick and whoever’s rock landed the closest to the stick would win the round.

On the first night, the sun dropped behind the soaring cliff walls of the canyon early in the afternoon. The day cooled off and the evening became that special temperature that can only be described by the word “pleasant”. We played with round rocks that we found in the shallow stream. A sandy riverbank was our playing field and we threw our rocks overhand and rolled them to the target.

By the second night, Brace “reinterpreted” the rules of the game and started using flat rocks. He’d toss these rocks underhand, much like throwing a horseshoe, and they would land with a dull thud and lay where they fell. My round-ish rocks would land near the target and keep on rolling. Of course, I only slander Brace’s good name because I wasn’t smart enough to think of this strategy first. Nor was I smart enough to adopt it myself until I was so far behind that, if all bets were honored, I’d be buying rounds of beer for a long time.

Of course, Brace’s strategies were all moot because my dad, it turns out, has a special knack for Rock Petanque. It wasn’t a game he had really played before (despite the abundance of rocks in Montana), yet, every night that we played, he defeated us young whippersnappers. I had a plan to put rocks into his pack to make him extra tired at the end of the next day, but I suspect that wouldn’t have worked. They say part of life’s transitions comes when your sons start beating you at games. I keep wondering when this will happen.

Part Three and a ½: The Failure of Words

From the desert varnish staining the sides of red canyon walls to the shallow, glittering pools of the Paria, from the red sands to the pale green prickly pear, my words fail to describe the sheer size and beauty of the Paria River Canyon. Here then is a gallery of some of my better pictures from this hike:

Paria River Canyon Photo Gallery

Part Four, Mile 48: Hot

“It’s hot,” I thought to myself as the sweat dripped into my eyes. The sky had gone from being a narrow blue ribbon to a vast azure field as the canyon walls grew farther apart. The path of the sun appeared to be following the canyon and keeping pace with us. The cool shadows at the base of the cliffs walls had left for the day, leaving us exposed to the desert sun.

I readjusted my baseball cap for the hundredth time, shifted the weight of my pack, and took another step. We continued our walk along the edge of the water, zigging and zagging through the stream. With each hour we hiked, the water became warmer. I hoped we could find a place deep enough to go swimming. So far, we hadn’t found a swimming hole deeper than our knees.

“It’s hot,” I thought as I shifted the weight of my pack again. I took another step, feeling an ache in my knees. It was hard to believe that it was only ten in the morning.

Part Five, Beyond Mile 62: Civilization and Its Discontents

The line at the Café Rio in Saint George, Utah was long. It wound its way back and forth through a little maze of metal dividers. Brace, Dad, and I shuffled along as we waited our turns and didn’t say much. My knees ached and a pain flashed through my left ankle with every step. Still, the thought of hot food that didn’t come from a pouch and which involved a more complex cooking process than boiling water made each step worth it. In the six previous days of hiking through the desert, we had seen less than a dozen people. It was unnerving to be standing so close to more than twice that many people, especially because it had been six days since we’d taken a shower.

After backpacking, it’s always hard to return to civilization; this is doubly true, I believe, if that civilization is a Mexican restaurant in the retirement/golfing/Mormon community of Saint George. In the line in front of me, a college kid was wearing a shirt that read, “I’m not a gynecologist, but I’ll take a look anyway.” Even more disturbing, the guy behind us wore a silver and black bluetooth cell phone device in his ear. It was Sunday afternoon and he was obviously out for an early dinner with his large family. I wondered if, like some sort of cyborg, he felt naked if he wasn’t wearing the three-inch long earpiece. Perhaps he just needed to talk to someone other than his family.

Earlier that day during our last ten mile stretch through the desert, we had rested behind a rock carved with ancient petroglyphs and some modern graffiti. We had been battling the wind all day. While it kept things cool – probably in the low 90’s – the wind kicked the sand up into our faces. Particular fierce gusts felt like a power sander was being applied to my out layer of skin. Each step was a do-it-yourself, all-natural, anti-wrinkle derm abrasion treatment. A bit later, we passed an old rusted engine that had been the one and only attempt to pump water out of the stream up to the top of the canyon. A skeletal pipe still came out of the riverbank but it had been more than half a century since water had flowed through it.

Those two memorials of old and ancient peoples who had made the desert their home served as a reminder of how brief and fragile civilization can be. As I watched the modern-day cyborg behind me, I wondered if I was happy to be back in the real world or sad that I had just left it.

***
Update: A year later I returned to hike the Paria and I've now posted some of my 2007 Paria River Hike photos. In addition, I've also posted some thoughts and tips for hiking the Paria from this year's hike.