I recognized Kelsey immediately.  Thin, agile, closely-cropped beard, cargo shorts, cap and bandana covering ears and neck, and that ubiquitous faded red t-shirt.  A water proof Pelican micro case was strapped to the front of his belt.  I own the sixth edition of his book, Canyon Hiking Guide to the Colorado Plateau.  I use it regularly on trips to the region.  His image is plastered throughout the book in photos otherwise depicting slot canyons, Indian ruins, and rock art.  I ran into Michael Kelsey and three younger companions several miles down Willis Canyon, one of the many Paria River drainages in Grand Staircase National Monument.  We had an animated discussion typical of desert rats in the wilderness about the weather, rocks, and current trail conditions.  Kelsey pointed upward to the canyon rim as he told me he and his friends were camped up there and had successfully found a way down to the bottom.  He wanted me to know this.  The route looked pretty dangerous to me.  He was clearly the leader of the group, polite, but in control of the conversation.  Without acknowledging I knew of him, I mentioned that he looked familiar.  He chuckled at that but did not identify himself, perhaps to cover his role as an identifier of trail routes, an occupation that might anger unsuccessful adventurers.

Before we parted, Kelsey suggested I hike out via Bull Valley Gorge rather than Willis.  The two canyons intersect, he said, a mile or so farther down canyon.  The description in his book describes it as a full day loop hike, about a 12-14 mile roundtrip.  I was aware of this route but had decided against it because Bull Valley Gorge is a difficult slot canyon, and I would have to walk cross country and along Skutumpah Road for two additional miles to reach the Willis trailhead and my vehicle.  I thanked him for the suggestion, but before we parted company he added that “it’s a mud hole up there” implying that the upper reaches of Bull Valley Gorge are hard going, a messy adventure.  He was obviously speaking from personal experience.

I had never hiked up or down Bull Valley Gorge but once looked down into it from the bridge where Skutumpah Road crosses the deep slot in its upper reaches.  Access to the upper end of Bull Valley is about a mile west of the Skutumpah where the canyon rises to the surface.  A crumpled pickup truck forms the base of the bridge, the result of a fatal accident in 1954 when three local fellas met their fate.  From under the bridge, one can see that the truck’s cab is shorn off and the bed is facing downward, trapped for generations waiting for rust and decay to allow it to complete its trip 75 feet to the bottom. Gayle Pollock, a local friend from Tropic, a nearby community, suggested to me that alcohol may have fueled that tragedy.

The morning was cool and clear when I parked at the Willis trailhead.  Only two other cars were in the lot. The easy route down was marked with rock cairns.  Grand Staircase has hundreds of canyons like Willis, and the more remote ones are rarely visited by hikers.  Access roads are often impassable when wet and require high clearance vehicles.  Willis is described in several books and is a popular route, but I didn’t expect to see many other hikers.  I checked my fanny pack, first aid kit, 20-foot rope, two liters of water, food, head lamp, and basic essentials.  I looked around and headed down, lingering under the deep blue sky and its marked contrast to the menagerie of multicolored sandstones comprising the canyon walls. The perennial stream flowed clear in braided rivulets that could be bypassed easily on the canyon bottom, but I carried my Tiva sandals just in case the water deepened. I was excited about the hike and planned to spend the entire day in the canyon.

Willis was famous for its narrow slots, permanently shaded sections, canyon widths measured in inches awaiting the claustrophobic-minded hiker.  There are four slotted sections in upper Willis, all in the Navajo Sandstone, a strikingly beautiful cross bedded rock unit formed by a Jurassic sand sea. The Navajo is a conspicuous presence at other National Parks on the Grand Staircase like Zion and Capitol Reef.

Within 20 minutes I encountered the first hikers, returning from a short stroll, a middle aged couple, their daughter, and a beautiful white sheep dog that was having the time of his life.  Within minutes I met another couple, both retired from Silver City, New Mexico.  He was clearly a schmoozer.  I wanted to practice my skills so I egged him on with numerous questions about that part of New Mexico.  We harped on for several minutes, covering the social stratification of the state, the price of gas, and the forthcoming election.  Two groups and two cars, that was it.

The third slotted section was the wettest, but I managed to keep my boots dry as I jumped along elevated gravel bars.  The slots and narrows of Willis are straight or slightly curved, formed by fractures in the Navajo, widened over thousands of years by moving water, a living museum of murals depicting sand dunes, roots and worm borings, iron stains, gravity slumps and much more.

The creek was soon reduced to a trickle and dried up entirely after the last slot.  The dry canyon bottom widened to a few hundred feet and the walls rose up at least that much, revealing red, orange, and white cross beds.  Lichen covered surfaces added more color, and shrubs protruded from open fractures waiting patiently for the next rain.  The going was easy as I walked on the hard dry pebbly pavement cemented by the evaporated calcareous residue of recent stream flows.  I often look down as I walk river bottoms.  I like to identify pebbles and cobbles to attempt to understand the history of the drainage basin.  What rocks once lived in the upper reaches of the stream and came tumbling down during thousands of floods over hundreds of thousands of years, tumbling and rolling, rounding their rough edges, always downward thanks to gravity.  How old are those rocks?  Where were they formed?  What’s their history?  Too many questions to ask.

I looked up for a canyon panorama about three miles into the hike and noticed an alcove in the canyon where Willis took a sharp right turn, a perfect spot for a shady break to ponder the sudden turn.  As I approached some sandstone ledges, I noticed the graffiti—Melinda 2012, Bill A “12, DVB loves (unidentifiable).  The adolescent glyphs soured my mood for a few moments, but I rested, mumbled a few expletives about the state of human existence, and ate an energy bar.

By early afternoon, the temperature rose into the upper 70s.  I was glad I chose short pants.  I marched on, admiring the orientations of fallen blocks of sandstone, the colorful wildflowers, and several new shrubs.  As I descended farther into the canyon, the local micro climate seemed drier, subtle changes to an evolving ecosystem.

When I encountered the Kelsey group, it was already past 1 pm, and I had been thinking about a return trip that would take me to the Willis trailhead by 5 pm, a respectable 12 miler, but I was curious and decided to press on to the Willis-Bull Valley junction.  I’m always looking for other hiking opportunities, and I might someday decide to do the loop hike.  The canyon widened even more as I continued downward, Willis obviously a dominant drainage.  By about 3 pm, Bull Valley was nowhere to be seen, perhaps because I was wrapped in my own thoughts about the Kelsey exchange or because it was such a beautiful day.  I stopped along a long shady alcove where the canyon turned to the left and conspicuously narrowed.  I consumed my last energy bar and decided that I had not yet reached the confluence and decided to turn back.  It did not enter my mind that I had already passed the confluence, and Bull Valley was a narrow, subtle canyon on the right, easily missed.  I had obviously not paid much attention to canyon details during my descent after the Kelsey exchange, ignoring notable rock outcroppings, color changes, rock spires, memorable features a hiker recalls on a return trip.

My return route was a gentle incline.  I walked up canyon for about 45 minutes when I realized that the route looked subtly unfamiliar, too narrow, less vegetation, different trees and rock falls.  I had not yet hiked to the spot where I met the Kelsey group, or had I?  I was unsure, not a good sign.  At some observational level, all canyons look the same, but this difference implied that I may have headed up Bull Valley without recognizing it, or perhaps some other side canyon unknown to me.  About 4 pm I was pretty sure I had hiked at least two miles beyond the intersection with Willis, and was headed up Bull Valley by mistake.  I was probably a third of the way up.  The canyon was getting even narrower now and in continuous shade.  I still had a half liter of water and two dextrose energy packets.  I pondered my situation: at least an eight-mile return via Willis assuming I recognized the confluence when I reached it versus maybe five more miles up Bull Valley.  Bull Valley probably had some mud and water, and the slots were narrow but probably passable.  Darkness was an issue, especially for a Willis return, but I had 3-4 hours of light.  I had emergency equipment, space blanket, matches, flashlight if needed, but water would be an issue.  I felt strong and decided on the shorter route.

Within the next mile, the gorge narrowed even more, first 10-20 feet wide, then a slot, wide enough to walk through and still dry, but my extended arms could occasionally touch the opposing walls.  By my estimate I still had about 2 miles to go in order to see the sun setting on the rim.  The gorge walls extended upward more than 75 feet, even narrowing near the top into a tiny slit of light.  It seemed that one could jump across the narrow crack maybe a foot across on the rim.  At first, my path was clear.  The canyon floor was hard and dry, pebbly, flushed and dried after a recent deluge.  I maneuvered my way over or around the occasional boulder or tree trunk.  I noticed debris above me on the rim or trapped midway down the slot, trees and shrubs, rocks.

I felt a sense of anxiety as the boulders increased in size.  How did they get here?  They would have been forced down the gorge from a storm up canyon, not from above since the slot width was too narrow.  Larger and larger sandstone boulders now occupied the entire width of the slot, snugly wedged into place, waiting for the next 100-year flood to inch them down stream.  In some places, three or more smaller boulders were juxtaposed like an ill-fitting three dimensional Jurassic jigsaw puzzle.  I managed to easily work my up and through these initial obstacles in minutes, but a sense of foreboding started to dominate my thoughts.  Sooner or later I might encounter an insurmountable boulder, requiring a 10-mile return via Willis, in the dark or as an overnighter with less than a half liter of water.

I decided on a positive attitude.  At least the gorge didn’t narrow further, requiring sidelong movement.  The sky was clear and rain was not forecast.  I still had plenty of energy to move forward.  I caught glimpses of blue sky above me, my imminent freedom from confinement, reassurance.  That’s when I saw it.  An eight- or nine-foot-tall boulder and a debarked tree trunk parked at a 45 degree angle against the boulder a couple of feet in front.  As I approached the obstacle, I could see dried mud on the trunk where hikers had climbed up the 45 degree angle and then jumped onto the top of the boulder.  The front of the boulder formed a near vertical impediment. The trunk was wobbly, but strong enough to hold a 150-lb hiker, but I was not that hiker.  A failed jump nearly 10 feet above the canyon floor might be injurious to say the least.  I studied the situation for a few minutes.  Thankfully, a mud pit in front of me had recently dried. A possible solution came quickly as I noticed the small irregularities in the wedged rock, three possible footholds, on the left side of the otherwise smooth surface adjacent to the canyon wall.  To lose some weight I took off my pack and threw it over the top.  I tightened my boot laces for more stability and set my left foot in the lowest notch while gripping the second higher notch with my left hand, leaving my right hand free to grab a third notch near top of the boulder when needed.  I was straining my leg and arm muscles as hard as I could, pushing the limits of a 70-year-old body.  I never had good upper arm strength but managed the two lower notches and then shimmied over the top of the nearly flat upper boulder surface on my stomach until I was in a stable place.  It was tiring but I did it and felt proud of myself.  If that was the toughest obstacle, I was home free and out of the gorge in an hour.  I rested for five minutes, drank a few sips of my depleted water supply, and looked ahead to a long stretch of flat, pebbly canyon bottom ahead of me.

Ten minutes later I had an awakening.  I saw the next obstacle, an even larger rounded boulder lodged into the canyon walls, and mud in a large gray pool at its base.  The boulder was taller than the first one, maybe 10-12 feet to the top, and very smooth, with nothing to grip, just a notched rope hanging from the mud upward to a bolt or screw imbedded into the wall several feet above the top of the boulder on my right.  I studied my situation for a minute and did the obvious, I swore (referring to the wedged rock in an exasperating tone): “how the fuck did that goddamned thing get in here?”  I looked up to the sunlight far above me.  No way.  That blasted boulder had broken off the slot wall centuries ago, or slowly rolled or pushed its way down canyon until it had lodged here.  It was patiently waiting for the next monsoon flood to move it a few more inches, as other rocks in the narrows above slammed into it.  I couldn’t wait that long and needed a solution.  I looked at the rock, the walls, the rope, and thought.  The canyon here was only about three feet wide.  The rope was knotted in 10-12 inch intervals and was secured to the right hand wall, which was good for righties like me.  I was obviously expected to use it to get over the boulder, but that required more upper arm strength than I had.  The mud posed a problem too.  I tested its depth and firmness, about four inches deep with a firm base, extending only about two feet out from the boulder.  I needed to anchor myself somehow to get to the top.  First, I tied my pack to one end of my 20-foot rope and tossed the excess rope over the top of the boulder.  In that way I could pull my pack up later.  I grabbed the knotted rope with my right hand, twisted it around my wrist and braced myself.  I raised my left leg upward first and placed that foot on the left wall as I braced my back against the right wall.  My back seemed to hold firm as I raised my right leg up and placed my foot a few inches from the left.  I wiggled upward about a foot above the floor but lost my hold on the wall and slipped down into the mud with both feet.  Well, I didn’t have to worry anymore about getting muddy boots!  At least I was still standing.  I edged out of the mud hole and reassessed my situation: two inches of water in my bottle, two energy packets, muddied boots, 6 pm Mountain Time, diminishing strength, and probably no one for miles around—not a very enviable position.

There was some good news—a full moon—but it didn’t seem to hearten me much.  How much of that light would trickle into the gorge anyway?  I decided to take off my boots, flip them over the top of the boulder, and hope for more foot traction in socks alone.  I took some deep breaths and tried again.  I braced my back against the right wall, and placed first one then the other foot on the left side, while holding the rope tightly with my right hand. The boot removal seemed to work.  I had more traction.  First a few inches, then a foot and more.  I then used both hands to hold the rope.  It seemed like a long time—concentration.  Don’t think about falling again.  As I edged upward, I worked my body closer to the boulder because it angled inward near the top.  Left foot, right foot, edge my back upward, very slowly.  When my body reached the top, I sat awkwardly on its sloping edge and then rolled over to the right while still holding the rope with my right hand for balance while frantically grabbing for any irregularities on the upper surface of the boulder with my left.  I wiggled forward with as much strength as I could muster.  I was exhausted but made it.

I rested on the top of the boulder for five minutes, then sat up and looked down over the edge below.  I was surprised that I managed that ascent.  I pulled up my pack, put on my muddied boots, and downed an energy packet and a shot of water, swirling the mass around in my dry mouth for a few seconds before swallowing.  I was getting tired but also seemed pumped by an adrenaline rush from my two successes.  I looked at myself.  I had mud splotches over my pants and t-shirt, my boots were nearly unrecognizable, a muddied pack, some scratches and blood on my knees and arms, but I was surprisingly functional.  My phone seemed okay.  It had been in my pants pocket in a zip lock bag for safety.  The upper surface of the boulder was even with the canyon bottom ahead of me.  These boulders acted as nick points or dams as sediment filled in above them during floods.

I was getting fatalistic, expecting the worst, but ready to tackle it.  I started out limping a bit at first, then improving my stride.  I made good time for what seemed to be about 15 minutes, maybe a quarter mile, mostly pebbly and dry, a few boulders that I could easily grapple.  Then I saw the next boulder ahead of me.  It actually didn’t look that formidable.  I hurried forward to inspect it.  It seemed smaller than the first two boulders, perhaps six to seven feet high, but with a large mud hole in front extending across the slot width and outward maybe two feet, no rope.  Worst of all there were no apparent irregularities or nicks in the rock face for wedging feet and hands.  The canyon was even narrower here, but still wide enough to wiggle up.  Dried mud covered everything as if a small army of prisoners was struggling to get out.  The only other evidence of those unfortunates was some muddied socks and an abandoned athletic shoe.  I stood there and tried to think.  It occurred to me that if I had my rock hammer, I could hack my way up by picking out some footholds.  No hammer.  The lack of a knotted rope was disconcerting.  Did the owner of the shoe survive?  Will I survive?  I snapped out of my funk, took off my boots, and prepared for what hopefully was my last challenge.  Scaling this one by wiggling up the sides would require extra hip and back strength, especially without a rope.  It was just a bit too narrow to easily ascend the walls because my body was bent more than before.  I placed my back and feet in their now familiar positions up against both walls, but I had to step into six inches of mud to accomplish the fete.  It was hard work.  I lost my footing several times and slipped down into the mud.  On the fourth or fifth try, one of my hiking socks slipped out over my sock liner and fell into the mud pit below.  I dropped with it and removed my other sock.  Surprisingly, I had more traction sockless, considering there was mud everywhere.  I stood back for a minute.  With only my sock liners on, I might be able to wedge my left foot into a narrow space between the wall and rock in a few places.  There was also a short protruding ledge in the wall just above the wedged rock.  It would be painful but if I could push my body high enough with my wedged left foot, and using my leg muscles, I could grab the ledge above the top of the boulder and try to shimmy my way over the top.  The boulder did gently angle up canyon a bit, giving me a slight advantage.  I placed my left foot as high as I was able into the contact and grabbed an irregularity in the boulder with my right hand.  I lifted myself with all the strength I could muster and shoved my body over the top.  I was really exhausted now and just lay on my stomach to recover.  That’s when I felt warm air from somewhere above.  When I looked up, I realized I was closer to the surface now, maybe 50 feet.  I could see sage brush blowing in the wind.  I was going to get out of here alive.

I got back into operational mode and assessed myself—cell phone, check; keys, check; socks, gone!  I pulled up my pack, managed to get my mudded boots on, wet my mouth with a tablespoon of water, and started walking.  I was probably moderately dehydrated by now but suspected that the worst was over.  I still had to get out of the canyon and then walk about two miles to the vehicle.  It was about 7 pm.  I had to move fast.  I walked about a quarter mile, over some minor boulders, a few logs, and through some mud, an easy accomplishment when compared to the last hour.  That’s when I saw the smashed truck wedged into the canyon roof ahead of me, along with logs, boulders, and other debris that formed the bridge over the Skutumpah Road.  I had about a quarter mile to go.  I easily surmounted more boulders and tree trunks, some water worn sandstone ledges, climbing out of Bull Valley quickly, finally reaching the surface and the welcoming sunlight.

I was out!  My water was down to an inch.  I just sipped occasionally to wet my mouth because it would be another hour before I reached the vehicle.  I sat for a while and assessed my body, dried mud everywhere, some bloodied scratches and bruising on my knees and elbows.  The sun felt refreshing, warm.  It was low on the horizon.  I estimated that I could reach the Willis parking lot by dark.  I surveyed the area. No cairns to show me the way.  I knew about where the road was from my location, but the gorge blocked the way.  I had to walk cross country through rough hilly terrane to get to the Skutumpah which meant more climbing across some side canyons and hills.

I walked northeast and east through brush and pinon-juniper, up and down a hundred feet or more of red-colored hills.  I was in no shape for this but kept going.  I kept focusing mentally on the cold cans of sparkling water in my cooler.  I reached a dirt track about 7:30 and headed east, confident that it would intersect the Skutumpah road, but when I reached the Skutumpah, I had to make a decision.  How far north did I walk?  Do I need to go left or right?  I chose right but was unsure.  I sipped and swirled to wet my mouth.  It was dusk, but still warm, actually a beautiful evening.  I must have walked a quarter mile south all up and down hill when I saw a parking area in the distance, partly concealed by trees.  Was this the Willis lot?  I was unsure and had to walk closer to realize it was the Bull Valley Gorge parking lot.  Expletive!  I now had an additional half mile added to my return.  I started back, now north on the Skutumpah Road.  Maybe someone would drive by, and I could hitch a ride.  No such luck.  I passed the first dirt track about 8 pm and continued north for another mile in the dimming light when I saw the Willis lot and my Subaru in the distance a half mile ahead.  That last half mile was an exhausting trek.  It was dusk and I was very tired, but I reached the vehicle in one piece.   As I swigged my way through two cold cans of sparkling water, I contemplated my good fortune.  I was a lucky guy.  It could have ended differently.  I would watch my routes more carefully, carry enough water for such contingencies, hike with others on difficult trails, and use maps and map apps more often.  I was a happy camper for sure, but it was sure a mud hole down there!