Three Days in the San Rafael Swell

I brought the girls out to visit their grandmother in Fruita, Colorado for Spring Break with the intention of spending five days bushwhacking up canyons in East-Central Utah. An outbreak of Strep throat amongst Peyton and the Colorado cousins forced me to reallocate some solo desert time to parental nursing and coddling duties, leaving me with three or four days starting Wednesday the 26th of March.

After verifying that Peyton was on the road to rapid recovery that morning, I headed out at approximately nine am. I had chosen to do the Cottonwood Wash hike from Steve Allen's classic guide to the little-visited San Rafael Swell, Canyoneering. I had done a couple of day hikes from this book in 2007 and was looking forward to a rugged, extended outing in this remote high desert landscape.

The Cottonwood Wash route was suggested as a four-day trip, with possible side excursions available to extend the trip up to a week or longer. Originally, pre-strep, I had planned on combining this trip with the East and West forks of Red Canyon day hike for a five-day excursion, but now I was resolved to just stick to the primary route, knowing that I might finish in three days if my tendency towards an aggressive pace and long days held the day.


The forecast for the following four days called for highs in the sixties and lows in the mid-thirties--just about ideal weather for an early-spring trek into the high desert of Utah. On the hundred-mile drive to the trialhead, I listened to a wide selection of favorite songs from my iPod, including two of particular significance. The first was a 1984. release, entitled "Birds Fly (Whisper to a Scream)" by the British Neo-Psychedelic rock band, The Icicle Works. I was initially introduced to this song by my friend Craig K. on my first trip to Colorado and Utah at the age of fourteen.

The second was the recent Eddie Vedder song "Hard Sun" written for the soundtrack of Sean Penn's excellent film adaptation of Jon Krakauer's book, Into the Wild, about Christopher McCandless, the young man who met his demise in an abandoned, gutted bus in the shadow of Mount McKinley.

I left the interstate just West of Green River, and headed north on a well-maintained gravel county road. I followed this for eleven sinuous miles, then turned right onto a more rugged road--one that the average small sedan owner might think twice about negotiating. I had to open, pass through, and then close a wire gate to start down this road, and a second one after one mile.

Finally, after four and a half miles, I reached the foot of Cottonwood Wash. I saw no one since leaving the interstate, and bottomed out my car twice in the final two miles. I got out of the car, assembled my gear, and snapped the following photo of myself about to depart:

It was about noon as I headed up Cottonwood, and I snapped the following photo in the first half-mile of the broad, inviting canyon:


Allen's book suggested that there were some aging and badly-faded pictographs up on the northern wall just up-canyon from where the preceding photo was shot. After about a half-hour of scanning the upper canyon walls, I was able to make them out. I scrambled up the canyon walls without my pack to get a better look, and the following photo is representative:


After scrambling down from the pictographs, I saddled backup with my pack and started the more arduous journey up the canyon. The lower part of the wash soon narrowed, and was often clogged with rough and spiny vegetation. The canyon divided a number of times, and with the help of my topographic maps and guidebook, I was able to have constant awareness of my location and the proper route to take up the canyon. The following photo shows a formation at a split in the canyon. I had stopped to take a look at the map:


I was carrying two and a half liters of water at the start. Indications were that at this time of year there should be active springs and available water further up the canyon. I had noted some remaining snow patches down low in the canyon and comforted myself with the knowledge that, even were the springs to be dry, there would likely be at least some snow available up at camp.

During the first day's hike, I was resolved to try to make it to camp without eating any food. Mind you, there was no good reason for this--it was just one of those silly little notions I got fixated upon. So as I made my way up the increasingly-narrow and steep canyon, hunger became my constant companion. Higher up, approaching the area where there was supposed to be an ideal site for camp and an active spring for water, there were a number of small falls and chutes to negotiate. While they were all very easy, the addition of a full pack did add to the challenge. The following two photos give some idea of the scrambling involved. The first shows me mid-way up a fall section, carrying my pack:



And the second shows a chute that was a little more challenging to ascend:


Soon after this chute, I reached the flat sandy area between two falls where the first night's camp was suggested. I was dismayed to discover that the reported spring was dry, but had noted some snow up against the canyon walls on the south (north-facing) side, and knew that I would be able to melt snow for the night's cooking and drinking, and for the next day's initial needs.

I was famished and exhausted, so quickly set up the tent and ate a quick round of cold foods--a bagel with cream cheese, some almonds, and a big hunk of summer sausage. After snapping the following photo of my camp-site, I lay down for a brief afternoon nap to let the food rejuvenate my morale:


I awoke as the sun was getting low in the sky and realized that I had much work yet to do. I gather up my cooking supplies and my food and, carrying these items in a large stuff-sack, headed up the canyon's south walls towards the visible patches of snow. They were not too difficult to reach, and, once there, I set to melting snow on for cooking and drinking. The hard, icy snow was challenging to break apart, and took some time to melt. I soon realized that this not-planned-for and fuel-hogging exercise would rapidly deplete my fuel supply, making it impossible to cook four days' worth of hot foods. So at this point I decided to complete the hike in three days rather than four.

The initial supply of melted snow went towards the cooking of spaghetti, and after I consumed my pasta dinner, I melted enough to fill by belly with water and replenish my two-and-a-half liter supply. Then I headed back down to camp just as the sun was setting. The following photo, snapped earlier in the day, shows the general location of camp, from above:



I slept well that night after reading a few chapters from the giant book, Anna Karenina, which I had chosen to lug along.

I woke with the sun and quickly packed up camp and ate a large bowl of granola with powdered milk, and a big mug of hot chocolate. It was cool that morning, but not uncomfortable so. I also melted enough additional snow that morning to fully replenish my supply. I wasn't certain whether I would be able to find any water until late in the day, after crossing over a high plateau and entering another canyon. Shortly after setting out I snapped the following self-portrait:


As I climbed up the final half-mile or so to the saddle of Cottonwood Canyon, passing through a broad parklike region where the upper canyon walls were twisted and misshapen, I encountered the skeletal remains of a Bighorn Sheep. The following photo shows his head, but his entire spinal column and ribcage lay nearby:



It was at this point that I realized that the fine sand of the desert had polluted my camera's inner workings, and the camera only worked sporadically through the remainder of the second day, and virtually not at all on the third day.

After the sheep, I soon found myself at the apex of the canyon, looking down on Big Hole Wash, as shown below:



I picked my way down the slope to the flat area below, then headed left (south) up that shallow wash to a large and unclimbable fall. Just below this fall, a cow had apparently broken its leg and lay in a crumpled, bloated, fetid mess of twisted limbs. I backtracked from the fall to find a lower cliff that was easy to ascend, then traversed along the cliff-top to just above the fall. From here, I picked my way south to the large unbroken expanse of Box Flat:


From the south end of Box Flat, visible between the two plateaus in the photo above, the routefinding difficulties began in earnest. Using only compass and map, I had to make my way through a confusing landscape around Nates Ridge to a nearly anonymous vantage point from which I should be able to see the entrance to my descent route through Sulphur Canyon. After some confusion and consternation, I made my way to a point that I strongly suspected was the proper point-of-entry to the canyon. Later, more sober analysis after returning home would convince me completely that I had identified the correct spot, but I did have some doubts as to my precise location at the time.

Due to these doubts, I decided to backtrack slightly and descend a different canyon, the North Fork of Spring Canyon, which I believed (mistakenly it turns out) to be easily navigable. Well, after a few hours of pleasant descent and some mildly challenging chutes and falls, I came to the following 150-foot high, non-descendable fall:


I looked for a reasonable descent route from higher up on the rim, lower down the canyon, but nothing looked too doable with a full pack without taking undue risks, particularly as
I was all alone out there and off-route from my itinerary. At one point, in order to reach the higher rim I located one place where I was able to throw my pack up-and-across a level, but was unable to ascend myself. Then I found another place where I was able, with some difficulty, to jump up and grab a shelf, do a pull-up, and then mantle myself up. I traversed across to retrieve my pack, and snapped this photo down and across the canyon from approxiamtely that vantage point:


At this point, I resolved to back-track and descend either by the originally-planned Sulphur Canyon, or take the next canyon up, Nates Canyon. Of course, this meant several hours of backtracking, never desirable in my world, but it seemed the most prudent course. Fortunately, I had encountered several potholed filled with water higher up in Spring Canyon, and was able to replenish my water supplies there.

By the time I climbed back out of Spring Canyon, it was getting late, so I decided to camp at the original vantage point above Sulphur Canyon. I dropped down a level to attempt to get out of the wind, but it proved fruitless. I ate a cold supper due to my desire to conserve fuel in case I would need to stay out a fourth day or melt more snow for water. After dinner I read for a few hours and then lay awake for hours contemplating the increasingly-violent winds. I felt confident that the intensity would at least die down a few notches after sunset, but it was a good two am before the furious, tent-compressing power of the winds died down and I was able to fall asleep, no longer fearing that I would be blown from my desert perch in a swirling mass of wind-shredded tent.

The next morning, I managed one final photo looking southeast from camp toward Mexican Mountain and the Mexican Bend in the San Rafael river below. Mexican Bend takes the river around Mexican Mountain, which is barely distinguishable in the midground of the photo:



That morning I eschewed hot chocolate and took a good look at the topographical maps and the guidebook. I decided that a descent via Nates Canyon would maximize the chances that I could reach the car on that third day. I therefore circled around the upped reaches of Spring Canyon and entered the next canyon to the north.

Nates canyon proved delightful and challenging in its upper reaches. Several falls had to be navigated around with some difficulty and creativity. In general, the falls are most easily bypassed from the south rim, or the right-hand-side as you look down-canyon. There were some lovely spots and fantastic views that my now completely-broken camera was unable to capture.

After the steeper upper reaches of the canyon, it flattened out for a few miles and the course of the wash was twisty through a wide-open expanse where the canyon walls had retreated to either side. When the canyon narrowed once again, I knew that I would come to a panoramic fall, and that I would be exiting the canyon through a chute just above this fall. Before reaching this point of exit, however, there were some unexpected challenges. Several smaller falls required me to navigate along a steeply-sloping middle shelf between the central wash and the upper canyon rim. Footing here was challenging, and finding a viable route around some smaller towers and other obstacles proved time-consuming but fun.

Finally I reached the high falls, and was disappointed that I was unable to resurrect my camera for one final photo. i exited the canyon through the class two-plus gully, navigated around some higher plateaus, and found a vantage point from which I was able to see my car about 1.5 miles to the northeast, down about 1,000 vertical feet.

This last portion of the route was another unexpected challenge. The landscape was a maze of descending canyons and rims, both of which would occasionally dead-end. The former in non-navigable falls, and the latter in cliff-top peninsulas. Eventually, though, I was able to piece together a viable route and made my way back to the road, intersecting it about one-half mile south of my car.

After reaching the car, I retraced my route back to interstate 70. From the time that I left the interstate to the time I returned to it, I saw neither another human being nor another automobile.