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

Taking the Leap

Anxiety. That was my overriding emotion as we hurled 75 miles an hour up the interstate to the location of my impending doom. Well, not really, but it felt like it. What was I thinking to willingly sign up to jump out of a perfectly good airplane 10,000 feet above a very solid earth? The question repeated itself with more and more frequency the closer we got. My friend and fellow jumper, Cat, was the picture of ease as we drove nearly four hours from her home to the skydiving center in Paxton, Illiniois. Her and I had returned from a week long trip to the desert a month and a half previous during which we had established a routine for long car rides together, that we now slipped back into with ease. We listened to music and chatted about everything except our day's activity; I even resorted to talking about the weather, just so that I wouldn't have to think about what I was planning on doing with my afternoon.

This skydiving adventure was one of the many fruits of a commitment made on a late night in the dead of winter, half (or mostly) wine drunk and desperate to do something with my year/life(?) that would make me happy. Thus, as the rest of the world rang in the New Year by making a resolution to lose weight, eat healthier, go to the gym, start dating someone, stop dating someone or any other number of attainable things that they then promptly forgot or failed at, I made The Resolution to travel. I only set myself one condition: I had to travel at least once a month. No problem, right? And in reality, it hasn't been an issue. I have been able to plan at least one trip every single month, and I have often been able to squeeze in multiple trips. Long car rides don't scare me, and to be honest, if I didn't have a job and things like responsibilities and fur children, I probably would get in my car and never stop. In fact, I had driven seven hours the previous night just to get to Cat's house in the first place, only to turn around and drive four hours with her to go skydive. Give me music and some caffeine in the form of coffee or Pepsi and I can go for hours, stopping only for gas and to excrete the remnants of my drug of choice.
The Resolution has taken on a life of its own in a way that I was unprepared for.  I've become obsessed with my travels, planning my adventures several months in advance, figuring out which weekends I don't have to work, and being totally willing to drop plans and go on a trip that sane people wouldn't consider worth the time, hassle and money. If I don't have to work, there is a good chance that I am out of town, often out of the state. I go on a trip, get home, throw the dirty clothes into the wash, and then repack them right away to go on my next trip. I have a set of travel clothes, travel toiletries, travel towels, travel bags and travel totes. There have been a few times where I didn't even bother to put my adventure kit away due to the minimal length of time I spent at home between trips. It's a crazy, hectic, high-speed wobble of a life style, and it's totally for me. I love the planning aspect of a trip, sitting down with my computer on one side and a hard map on the other, figuring out route options, attractions along the way, meals, and places to sleep. A lot of research goes into each adventure, even though I know that once I get there, and maybe even along the way, something happens and my plans go out the car window.

That was what had happened to us with this skydiving trip. Cat and I had hatched our idea the last weekend of May, planned and booked the jump in June and I headed to her house, and from there to the skydiving center, in July. And then Mother Nature decided nope, not gonna happen. We drove home through such a bad storm that I asked Cat to pull up the radar on her phone so that we would be warned if we were heading toward a tornado.  No joke. We then rescheduled to the middle of September, but once again our plans were foiled by bad weather. I didn't even bother to leave home that weekend, but stayed in Lincoln on my weekend off for the first time in months. Finally, finally, we had bright blue skies and a cheery yellow sun on our fantastic October Saturday, and had the green light to jump.

We got to the skydiving center right at noon and hung around watching others prep and jump before us, and before we knew it, we were up. Cat and I played Rock-Paper-Scissors to determine who would go first, and as we did so it became painfully obvious that we had spent WAY too much time together. We both threw the same hand four times in a row, until finally on the fifth try Cat won with Scissors. We got our safety talk and brief jump instructions together, then Cat suited up in her harness and absolutely ridiculous helmet and got ready to go. We were told later that the helmets were to protect the tandem instructor's teeth, and also for entertainment value. They turned everybody into weird looking cone-heads.

And then they were off! Cat got on the plane and I watched from the ground as they circled to gain altitude. I heard the plane engine slow down on the fourth pass, and watched as two tiny dots detached from the plane and plummeted toward me. I saw Cat and her instructor's canopy open, and then the videographer's opened, and both floated back down to earth. Cat was treated to fun twists and turns as she made her descent, finally coming to rest on her rear on a field next to the runway. She looked thrilled as she walked over to me, and then, ready or not, it was my turn!

I was helped into my harness and helmet, then was pulled aside for the pre-jump interview part of the video I had paid for. It seemed to take an indecent amount of time and before I could really think about it, I was being led to the plane. Have I mentioned that I don't like airplanes? I don't. I hate flying, I hate takeoff, I hate landing, I hate being stuck in a thin metal cylinder with people I don't know, and most of all I hate the sickness I get from ascending too quickly. Every time I've flown I've taken some sort of altitude/motion sickness drug, which helps, but also makes me very tired. This time, for such a short flight and because I wanted to be conscious when I jumped out of the plane I hated so much, I didn't take a thing. I crammed into the small plane with four other people and watched out the tiny window as the plane taxied down the runway, gathered speed, and in a surprisingly short time I felt my stomach drop out as the wheels left the ground. My thoughts? Shit. No backing out now! I continued watching as we circled, gaining altitude. I felt the first uneasy clench in my stomach around 7,000 feet, but couldn't spare a thought about altitude sickness because the instructor was going through the jump procedure again.

Next thing I knew, we were at 10,000 feet and the jump student who had tagged along had thrown open the door and let a rush of icy air into the cabin. He shouted something along the lines of "see ya on the ground" and flipped off of the platform. The videographer climbed out next and held on to the wing strut as my instructor shouted at me to put my feet on the tiny metal platform that was the only thing between me and planet Earth. As I did what I was told, the most miraculous feeling came over me. I stopped being nervous! I didn't have a single negative, scary, morbid thought in my head as I felt the instructor rock backwards, and then I was tilting forward and suddenly was shoved off the platform, ripped away from the airplane by the force of gravity and the wind, plunging toward the ground at 120 feet per second. Free fall is one of the most amazing, incomparable feelings in the world. We fell for all of 30 seconds or so, but I don't think that I have ever been so instantly in love with something. I've always admired birds, the Bald Eagle is my favorite animal, and now I was getting to plummet toward the ground like a falcon in a dive! Then the instructor opened the parachute and my free fall was brought to an abrupt halt, my body jerked upright and I slammed against the harness as inertia and gravity tried to keep us going down at 120 feet per second. I had bruises on my shoulders, across my chest and on the insides of my thighs for days. Worth it? YOU BET!

The next several minutes were devoted to staring between my feet as the earth got closer to being back in contact with them. The instructor and I chatted about what brought me all the way from Nebraska, what other places I've traveled to so far this year, what my plans for future travels are, if I'll ever skydive again (YES!!!) and if I have or ever would do other extreme sports. Long before I was ready I was told to lift my legs up so we could land safely in the same field that Cat had landed in so gracefully not an hour before. We landed with a soft bounce, and the videographer came running over to help us and to do my post-jump interview. Will I ever skydive again? Let's make this crystal clear now: yes. As a matter of fact, I have every intention of getting certified to jump on my own.

Cat and I hung out for a bit with our new friends while they put the parachutes away, but once the adrenaline finally subsided I realized that I needed something to help my stomach. The damn altitude sickness had caught up with me, and I was in danger of throwing up. We headed back into town and got a soda to calm my stomach, and once we got on the road to home I started to settle. Our drive home was spent reliving our jump, talking about our plans to jump again in the very near future, and discussing how silly it was to be so nervous before we jumped. Of course, we were all talk once we got back on the ground! We got home around dark and I was greeted by my dog, who had clearly thought that I had left him and was never going to come back. Marley travels with me as often as I can swing it, and he does just as well on our adventures as I do! Cat and I turned in early that night, and I was up before dawn the next morning to pack up and head home.

My October adventure was short, sweet, and an absolutely incredible experience. I am a risk-taker (clearly), and something I read somewhere has stuck with me-I wish I could remember where I read it, but I can't, so I'm sorry I'm not quoting it correctly: Every day, do something that scares you.
I like to think I've lived all year following this diction. My travels have been all about trying new things, stepping out of my comfort zone, taking the leap. Usually I get a huge payoff by taking my risks. Sometimes I come out even. Sometimes I fail miserably. But every time I sit down to plan another trip I realize that I've learned something from my last trip about myself, my limits, my likes and dislikes, my good (and bad) qualities, and I've come to love the person I am.

2-04-15 *EDIT: I was informed that my quote about doing one thing every day that scares you is from the 1999 song by Baz Lurhmann "Everybody's Free to Wear Sunscreen."*

If you're on the edge, thinking about doing something amazing but aren't sure if you can, take the risk. It'll be worth it. Take the leap.

What I'm listening to: Flight of the Valkyries by Wilhelm Richard Wagner