Soon, I was following him, and we ended up at a clearing in the desert. A Navajo man was standing there. The photographer paid my Navajo fee.
It
was mild, and slow moving, so I was able to pull myself out with little
problem, and continued on. The Buckskin Gulch was a beautiful slot canyon
of changing colors and striated lines and waves.
I
turned around in the early evening, tired and dreading the weight on my
back. My nose was bleeding as I climbed back through the slot canyons.
I stopped frequently for water, changing the angle of the pack on my back.
6 miles to the Wire Pass trailhead and I remembered Mr. Kurtz, dying,
"The horror. The horror." Out of the bug-infested slots, I dropped on
the sand, I had known I was unfit for this. "Experienced Canyoneers Only"
said the outfitting guides. My nosebleed dripping in the sand.
But
I also knew that I would do it, and I would make it. So I sat there, drinking
water and chewing on my last bagel. When I returned to the jeep, there
were two cars parked next to mine. Hikers were there drinking beer, and
I talked with them about tripods and dust and then I was off, south, and
then east along the edge of Utah's southern border, to Arizona, and across
the Colorado River to Page, where I stayed overnight.
In
the morning, I awoke well before the 5:45 alarm, and left for Navajo country,
to the East, and made my way up some district roads to a small turnoff,
with a view of Lake Powell to the North, and a vast expanse of nothing
to the South. Here it was, Lower Antelope Canyon, the most notorious of
the slots.
It was 1996, and 14 frenchmen had descended into the Antelope, their Navajo
guide waiting above. It was a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky and then
the Navajo guide came down, "Out now! You must all get out as fast as
possible. Rains are coming."
)
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