What Are My Chances of Getting Heat Stroke?

Exhaustion. From the heat, from the hike, from the day. My friend Cat and I were two days in to an eight day trip exploring Moab, UT and the surrounding National Parks, and we had started our day's hike just as the sun rose above a hazy horizon just to the north of the La Sal Mountains. We had planned an ambitious day hike following the Wilhite Trail from the upper rim of the Island in the Sky District of Canyonlands National Park to slot canyon along the White Rim Road, 1500 vertical feet and 6.1 miles below our starting point. The first mile out from my car was easy in the way the dawn coolness of the desert makes everything easy. We were both pumped to begin the longest desert hike either of us had attempted, and we were lulled into complacency as we walked a relatively flat mile to the edge of a nearly 900 foot drop off. 

Dawn in the desert.The only thing better might be a sunset in the desert. 

Then came the descent. 900 vertical feet of knee-busting scrambling on a "trail" that was hardly visible at times. We started to play a game called Touch the Carin, making sure at least one of us physically touched the next trail marker on the next switch-back to make sure we didn't get off of trail and have some huge obstacle to either overcome, circumvent, or be forced to backtrack. Going back up was not an option. We scrambled down a feeder canyon gully walled off on two sides by imposing, impossibly high cliffs; we could see up where we came from, and down where we were going to enter the main part of the canyon. Not that either of us looked around much, considering we were too concerned about our footing to take in much else. Rattle Snakes? What snakes? Black Widow spiders? What spiders? When you're trying not to start a rock fall by dislodging the wrong rock that may or may not hold your weight, and send it tumbling down into your partner's path, you don't worry about much else. The only thing we were grateful for on our way down was the shade. The sun hadn't made it above the canyon cliffs yet. 

Morning light on sheer cliff walls at the beginning of Wilhite Trail

By the time we reached the end of the scramble and kinda-sorta leveled out, we were exhausted from the sheer effort it took to get down. After a quick snack we crossed the line the sun had drawn as it came down into the canyon beyond the cliffs, and it felt like we crossed a barrier from the cool shady stillness of dawn into the stifling heat of the day. We followed the trail across the last bit of vegetation we would see until we made our way back to this place in the afternoon. We had been warned by a ranger the day before when we sought advice about the hike that there was no shade. None. Down here in the stretch between the upper rim and the White Rim, trees didn't exist. Grasses didn't exist. The occasional desert sagebrush, some tough but withering plants that might have been wildflowers at one point, and some prickly pear cactus were the only other living organisms in the canyon. Nothing to provide shade for two midwestern girls who were used to having at least a cottonwood to sit under. Still, even though it took us longer to get down than we had anticipated and we were already tired, we kept on going. That's what we were there for!  We had another scramble to get down to the level of the White Rim, this one only a few hundred feet into a desert wash that was clearly a route for flash floods to drain into the Colorado River, still another thousand feet or so below us. Rain wasn't in the forecast for anywhere within 40 miles of our location, and we weren't concerned about an abundance of water. We carried roughly 3.5 liters of water for each of us, along with plenty of snacks and power bars, but we were still concerned about running out of water. We knew from our topographical maps and the ranger that there was no water source on our hike. So we carried what we could. 

These little guys are made for the desert.

The walk down the wash seemed to take forever, and it was only mid-morning. Finally, finally, after another hour of walking, we reached the White Rim Road, and when we crossed it we saw the gash in the ground that indicated the presence of a slot canyon. Once we located a safe way into (and out of) the canyon, we slipped once again into the coolness of shade. We found a sandstone bowl carved out of the side of the canyon by the incredible force of water that shaped the entire area and sat down thankfully for a bit of food, some water, and some well-earned rest. We expected to explore the slot canyon for a while, enjoying the shade and maybe do some rock climbing as we went deeper into the canyon to places the sun never reached, not even at high noon. What we didn't expect was the deeper part of the canyon to be filled with water. We got to the first pool and thought maybe we could go around it. Then came another pool, and another, until it wasn't just a pool here and there, but a partially submerged canyon with unknown water depth and who-knows-what underneath. After a brief discussion that involved neither of us wanting to get wet with no change of clothes and another strenuous 6.1 mile hike back to my car, we admitted defeat. It was with disappointment that we took a few more pictures from the rim of the slot canyon, turned tail, and started our way in the heat of the day back toward the air conditioned heaven of my car. 

The slot canyon. Shady, awesome, and full of water.

Our hike back was brutal. The sun was directly above us, and what was worse, the rocks had been baking in it all day, so the deep sided wash we were stuck in felt like an oven. Everything we touched was hot. At one point we checked the thermometer I had attached to the outside of my day pack, and discovered it maxed out at 120 degrees Fahrenheit. If ever I was to get heat stroke, it would have been on that hike, however, the ranger who had warned us about the lack of shade was wrong. She should have said there was no shade provided by plants. She didn't take into consideration the lengths people desperate for relief from the sun will do. Cat and I managed to crawl and squeeze and cram ourselves under the smallest of rock outcroppings that provided just enough protection to get us out of direct sunlight. It seemed like whenever one of us reached our breaking point, we would spot a place where we could lean against a rock, or sit on the baked earth that had clearly just been blessed with shade. We began looking for shady places, and made a point to stop at every single one. Our worst hour was when we had to scramble up the few hundred feet in order to get back to the feeder canyon where we had started our descent. There wasn't even a rock we could crawl behind. We hiked on, and eventually found the place we had taken our first break, and hunkered behind a rock there. That was perhaps the time we were in the most danger of heat stroke. We were exhausted, over heated, had less than three liters of water between the two of us, and still had about 900 vertical feet of scrambling up the feeder canyon to get to the top, then yet another mile to go to the car. What were we thinking??

This bit of shade was the most we had since our descent in the morning

We took the ascent slowly. pausing every few switch-backs to breathe and take a sip of water. Our knees, already sore from the descent and ten or so miles across the desert, joined in with our feet, ankles and hips in their screams of protest as we hiked up. Our pace quickened, however, as we neared the rim. We could see the end! Not really, of course, but we could see the end of the scramble, and that counted for something. And then it happened: we came around the last switch-back and all but sprinted to the top! We were also treated to the beginnings of an amazing sunset over the canyon wastelands we had just walked across. 

See the dip just to the left of the middle of the rim? That's where we descended.

The walk back to the car was long in some ways and short in others. It really wasn't that far in terms of distance, but it was still hot, and every time we would crest a little rise in the trail we would search for the bright red dot in the distance that would indicate salvation. Not until we were almost on top of it did we see the car, and by the time we reached it I nearly cried with relief. We dumped our considerably lighter packs by the bumper and sat down, air conditioner blasting, and took off our shoes. It was by far the most difficult hike I have ever accomplished, but it was still worth the sweat and aches that came with it. The entire 12.2 mile hike took us 10 hours to complete, and not once did we see any indication that the human world even existed. Have you ever been so entirely alone that you thought you really could be the last human on the planet? This hike was the first time I have ever experienced that sensation for any extended amount of time. No phone, no internet, no contact with anybody other than my hiking partner. No indication that there was anybody else, anywhere, not even someone else's trash that so often litters our natural spaces. It was surreal, and absolutely amazing.

Back at the top, on the way to air conditioning!

What I'm listening to: Skullclub by The Glitch Mob