SLOT CANYON PREY

SLOT CANYON PREY

Jessica Lorraine Thornton had a new hobby—inspired by a friend who had escaped lockdowns and confinement in a manner unconventional to Midwestern norms. Ever since the depressing loss of a career she loved left her feeling shaken and insecure, she longed for just such an escape. Would Jesse’s newfound hobby restore her natural traits of rock-solid self-confidence? Or, would she once again find herself caught between a rock and a hard place? . . .

Seventeen—eighteen—nineteen—twenty. Exhausted by my third set of twenty push-ups, I was thankful to be done with my final workout before heading out in the morning for Utah. I’d always been relatively fit, but push-ups were never my strong suit. And upper body strength is much of what I’ll need in the days ahead.

His email was short and to the point:

Hey Jesse! Why not take a break from the lockdowns and enjoy some “Super” “natural” fun? I’ll take you ROCK CLIMBING! C’mon, be adventurous! And leave the plastic face shield at home!

The man bought a remote cabin on the outskirts of Moab, near a place called Goblin Valley. From lockdowns to goblins—this should be interesting. At least he was considerate enough to give me six weeks’ notice so I could “get in top shape” as he suggested, for the rigors he promised would be “easy peasy lemon squeezy.” 

At first I declined, but then, it was Ryan. We’d been through a lot together as owner, and executive manager of one of the most popular cafes in downtown Minneapolis, and I’d expected to lose touch after he moved out west. Weary of the hot and humid summers and long dark winters of Minnesota, he’d said. Plus, with the downturn of business in the food industry due to Covid, he needed a change of scenery and a new hobby. What his old hobby was is anyone’s guess. 

The new hobby? Rock climbing. Also known as “mountaineering, boulder-jumping” and all that Utah stuff. Ryan was a city boy born and bred, yet he seemed to be thriving in his new mountain-town environment. And I had never been farther west than western Minnesota. So adventure called; and praying my judgement wasn’t being clouded by the lure of certain masculine charm, I said yes and began my strength conditioning at a gym with a climbing wall. Being athletic and competitive, I figured anything Ryan can do, I can do better! 

Researching all I could about the subject, I learned the ropes (literally), the lingo, and memorized the long list of necessary technical gear: carabiners, belay devices, specialized climbing shoes, gloves, chalk bag, crevasse rescue equipment, and so on. Ryan will be so impressed that he’ll finally fall hopelessly in love with me! And of course I’ll play hard to get—wait a minute, what? Crevasse rescue equipment?

***

During the bumpy five-hours-and-17-minutes flight, I read up on Utah slot canyons in general, and Goblin Valley in particular, since this is where Ryan wants to take me for the E.P.L.S. climbing expedition. The Goblin Valley State Park boasts of slot canyons that range in difficulty from kid-friendly to “experts only” technical skills, as well as an area where soft sandstone has eroded over the span of millions of years into interesting shapes resembling goblins, but geologically known as hoodoos. 

I learned there were many and varied warnings: do not enter a slot canyon if it’s raining, if it has rained in the past 24 hours, or if rain is forecasted. The takeaway? Slot canyons can be as dangerous as they are beautiful. Not to mention the perils of “backcountry wildlife”—rattlesnakes, black bear, cougar—lions and tigers and bears, oh my! DO NOT feed the wildlife, DO NOT keep food in your tent . . . blah, blah, blah.

But with Ryan Brewer as my guide, what on God’s green earth could possibly go wrong? 

***

Ryan picked me up at the Canyonlands Regional Airport in a dusty red jeep with cargo netting for doors, an open top and oversized tires. A dream-catcher hung from the rear view mirror, and a rock climbing decal from The Sierra Club adorned the back bumper. All to convey one message: I’m a cool, rugged, rock-climbing dude.

Cruising through downtown Moab was a unique experience in itself. It seemed no one drove a 4-door sedan—mostly 4x4 jeeps or pickup trucks with roof racks toting kayaks, mountain bikes, or both. And no fewer than two large husky-type mixed-breed dogs, all heads and tongues hanging out of windows.

Ryan himself was all new, and not in a bad way. On the contrary. Gone were the starched shirts and creased slacks of the former ritzy cafe owner. His brown wavy hair was long-ish, but clean. A white tank top, and cargo shorts with seemingly endless pockets, displayed his tanned and buffed physique—a result no doubt achieved via the new hobby. He was already insufferably vain, so I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of telling him he looked fabulous. But, oh! did he look fabulous!

***

The air was dry and clear, and the sky so blue, I wondered why I hadn’t visited the west before now. And when Ryan said he’d bought a nice little place, he wasn’t kidding. Except for being much smaller and more rustic, it was reminiscent of the villain’s house atop Mt. Rushmore in the 1959 Alfred Hitchcock suspense thriller, North by Northwest, with its steel support beams and cantilever trusses securing it to the house-sized boulders it rested on.

Inside was a simple, square open floor plan with a hammered iron spiral staircase to an overhead loft. The main floor contained a small living space with a tiny kitchenette connecting to an even tinier bathroom. The only furnishings were a king-sized bed (no headboard) against the south wall, a leather loveseat (definitely second-hand), and two metal chairs that didn’t go with anything. It was after all, a bachelor pad. His pride and joy was a thick slab of polished cypress burl wood used as a dining table, which he claims he built himself. All complemented by a massive native stone fireplace with a gnarly, polished cedar mantle taking up most of the northern wall.

The only modern looking feature in the place was a large flat-screen TV mounted over the fireplace. Ryan saw me looking at it and said, “The reception here is terrible. Only a few programs and local news come through, and none of the fancy cable or satellite channels, so . . . I’ve kinda become addicted to Gunsmoke re-runs.” He looked at the floor sheepishly, seeming embarrassed by the admission and fearing I may judge him harshly. After all, everyone knows that in our modern and enlightened society of Netflix and HBO, old westerns from the 1970s just aren’t cool.

I loved Gunsmoke, but I had an air of city-sophistication to maintain, so I kept my secret and offered no comforting validation, leaving him to suffer the full weight of his shame. If anyone knows anything about the ego-centric Ryan Brewer, they’d understand why it’s so satisfying to see him humbled. 

Continuing the tour outside, the views in all directions from the wrap-around deck of mountains and boulders, the air scented with juniper and piñon pine, were overwhelming to this Midwestern girl. What the cabin lacked in square footage was more than outweighed by the stunning setting. How would I ever be content in Minneapolis again?

***

We parked the jeep at the main parking lot and hiked three miles on a mostly flat trail to the Back O’ Beyond campground, which was situated about 50 yards from the opening in the mountain leading to a labyrinth of slot canyons. Ryan had planned for us to do a quick 3-1/2 mile round trip “in and out” of the first and easiest slot just to get warmed up for the next day. So we dropped off the bulk of our gear at the campsite and packed a lunch in lightweight day-packs.

Upon entering the first few yards of the slot canyon, my first thought was—Toto, I‘ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore. It was a dry sandy wash with walls of striated sculptured rock, that in some places rose 1000 feet above and narrowed to 10 feet across. So surreally beautiful.

Lunch was simple: summer sausage and cheese, orange Gatorade and trail mix.

“Oh my gosh, Ryan, this trail mix is Ah—maaazing! Is it from Trader Joe’s?”

“Nope, made it myself.”

“Well, except for the raisins, it’s the best I’ve ever had!”

“Umm, and what’s your beef with raisins, exactly?” 

“I hate them. Don’t you remember me always picking them off the tops of cinnamon rolls at the cafe?”

Ryan was ticked off. I could tell by the way he changed the subject and began tersely explaining the plan for the following day: we’d get up early and climb to the top of the slot canyon and trek another two miles where he said there was a pool at the bottom. No one knew how deep the pool was because no one had ever found it. We’d ditch our packs, secure a rope with a clove hitch to an already-in-place bolted anchor, jump the 25 feet into the pool, swim around awhile, then “ascend the rope” back up top, eat lunch, don our backpacks and be on our way. 

“Any questions?” he asked. I could hardly wait until tomorrow.

At the present, Ryan was well ahead of me on the trail back to camp, because unlike myself, he was acclimated to the 4000’ altitude. I was holding my own, just moving more slowly. 

Ryan’s homemade trail mix was so addictive, I couldn’t stop snacking on it after lunch. Having to dig out the raisins and going straight for the M&Ms was only a minor annoyance. Once outside the canyon, I spotted a chipmunk snatching one of the chucked raisins and scamper off with it. A few yards further, a jackrabbit enjoyed the same favor.

It just felt good to know I’d made a chipmunk and a jackrabbit’s day a little better.

***

“Ryan! You told me you’d take care of everything—the gear, the food, the tents and sleeping bags. Just hop on the plane and bring yourself, you said. Don’t worry about a thing, you said. Call me crazy, but I assumed that meant TWO sleeping bags and TWO tents!”

“Ahh, there are two sleeping bags. There wasn’t room for two tents. What’s the big deal? You weren’t so prudish that stormy night in New York at the Hospitality Expo when you claimed to be Mrs. Brewer and co-opted my hotel room in the wee hours,” he teased.

“That was different. I never dreamed there’d be a thousand conventions going on that week, and yours was the only decent room left in the city. And besides, I was wet. And cold.”

“You’re afraid you won’t be able to keep your hands off me, that’s the real reason—totally understandable.”

“Oh, please! You really need to get over yourself, Ryan. You know I have my principles and I’m NOT sleeping in the same tent with you. Let’s flip a coin—heads, I get the tent.”

***

Exhausted from the day’s excitement and exertion, and feeling the effects of altitude and unfiltered sun, I excused myself and retreated to my tent and sleeping bag. It was amazing how dark and how fast night fell in this high-desert landscape. The silhouettes of goblin-shaped hoodoos, backdropped by the dark gash of the slot canyon, added an otherworldly eeriness to the isolation we felt by being the only ones in the campground that evening. It was remote and low density in the best of times, but for getting tourists to the park during a pandemic, it was the worst of times.

Snuggled in, nearly asleep—-

“Hey Jesse. You awake?”

“Yes.”

“You really should see these stars. There must be billions of them. You’ll never see them like this in Minneapolis.”

“Yup, the scriptures say the heavens declare the glory of God, and the stars display His craftsmanship.”

“Yeah, well, the native Americans around here, like the Utes, believe the stars are the spirits of their ancestors that protect them. They even say there are star people who interact with human beings. So what do you say about that, Miss Principles?”

“What I say is . . . good night, Ryan.”

Too tired to be goaded into a philosophical discussion, I wriggled down deep into my bag again. Minutes passed. Almost asleep—

“Jesse?”

Loud sigh . . . “What now?”

“I’m cold. And wet.” 

He tried to muffle the sound, but I clearly heard him snorting with laughter into his 16x12-inch, self-inflating camp pillow.

“Well Ryan, it’s August, and your expensive down sleeping bag from REI has a temperature rating for minus 10 degrees. Put another log on and stay close to the fire. If Marshall Dillon and Festus can manage with their saddles for pillows and thin wool blankets, so can you.”

“Aha! See? I knew it! You like Gunsmoke too! I could tell by the way your eyes lit up when I mentioned it. You put on all that city-sophisticate stuff, but I see right through you Jessica Lorraine Thornton. Fake news!”

I was busted.

***

A hot tent and sweaty sleeping bag woke me up earlier than I wanted. Ryan had promised a breakfast of pancakes and sausage—no less than from MRE pouches that he brought from his Y2K stash that he’d never used. The “best-if-used-by” dates were long expired, but he insisted they were still good. 

“Good morning, Ryan!” I hollered. “You up? I’m ready for pancakes—and COFFEE—and some of your awesome trail mix! Mostly M&Ms, please! NO raisins, please!”

It had really bugged him that I picked all the raisins out of his “personal blend” recipe. Said I was so OCD.

No response.

“Oh Ryyyyan!,” I sang in my cheeriest morning voice.

Still no response.

Unzipping the tent flap as quietly as possible in case he was still sleeping, I crawled out into the brilliant Utah sunshine. Outside the warm tent, the air itself was cool and brisk. The embers of last night’s fire were white and cold. Boots and backpack alongside the tent where he’d left them. The mummy-style sleeping bag was rumpled and unzipped. Empty. 

It looked like a smear of blood on the pillow, already dried to a reddish-brown. Five yards from the tent, on the dirt path leading to the slot canyon, lay a faint four-toed print, 3-1/2” tall by 4" wide, and two blood-soaked raisins.

THE END