Into the Gulch of Death, the 20 hours, and the 3 Incomparables
It is terribly unfair to characterize the Grand Gulch of Utah’s Cedar Mesa as the Gulch of Death. It was, after all, a source of life to uncounted generations of Anasazi people in presumably wetter times. It was also a treasure of other-worldliness for us who backpacked there during the wilderness medicine course, not only in its geological presentation but also in the art and architecture left for us by those who once called it home.
I call it the Gulch of Death because death, after all, is the final helplessness, and it was in the Grand Gulch that I came to a point at which I truly felt helpless. The hike began as hikes usually do, with buoyant walking, bearing a quite manageable load. It rapidly became obvious to me, however, that I was not up to the task of keeping the same pace as the others in my group. I was a slow hiker years ago even when younger and fitter, and now am fatter and indisputably middle-aged. I was told that a brisk pace was necessary to reach a particular distance goal that day.
Now it does no good to kick a lame horse, and it did no good to urge me to speed on. I certainly tried to increase speed, but this was at a cost of safety, as I then tended to stumble and once almost twisted my ankle. I had chosen what had been presented to me as the “short hike group” of our three divisions because I knew myself. I reasonably believed I could complete a long hike based upon my experience, but at my accustomed pace. I did not sit out the Grand Gulch trip because, earlier in our course, I had little difficulty in completing the orienteering hike during the survival weekend and the snowshoe hike up the mountain during the Taos weekend, where I had been advised that “it’s the journey, not the destination” and to hike at my own pace.
I pressed on as fast as I could. We made our first camp by nightfall. We arose Sunday morning and set off. All of us enjoyed the Green Mask painted in amazingly still-vibrant hue by...
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