I Don’t Know How to Politely Say I almost Died on Vacation
My local baristas were more than happy to give tips about blister prevention, packing water, gave me a free coffee for the road and wished me well on my weeklong backpacking trip through Utah and Arizona. I don’t know how to tell them TIME, CBS, and every major news network are covering my vacation, that I was lucky to return home.
After a successful whirlwind tour of Zion, Sedona, and a 13 mile hike to Hava Supai campground, my party of four women pitched camp and journeyed down the 196’ rock face of precarious ladders and chains, hiking a couple miles out to Beaver Falls to wade and play in the hot desert sun.
I took a moment alone to journal in the late evening under Hava Su Falls. It was slightly chilly, making me one of two loners drinking in the gentle mist. My pages curled slightly while I scrawled “The desert is a test in self love. Without it, you die,” when I heard the first rumble of thunder. I looked across the gentle falls, now gray and blue in the fading light to a near-distant mesa, obscured by a wall of water. Before I could fasten my sandals, lighting shot across the sky.
Fat drops fell on my shoulders as I ran down to camp. A ranger on horseback passed me, already looking tired as he shouted “Take the high ground, move your low campsites!” Water rained down heavily as my tent mate pulled me into the flap. We four decided our spot was high enough, the 10–12 feet between us and the babbling brook was ample buffer and opted to weather the storm.
On a normal day according to the Havasupai Park Service, the Virgin River that feeds the falls passes about 5,400 cubic feet of water per second. Within twelve minutes 31 cubic feet per second passed through Hava Su Falls and into the canyon. The clear, babbling brook screamed an angry red, coursing over the log foot bridge towards Mooney. Were it not for a passing evacuee, we wouldn’t have left and this story would remain untold.
We had minutes to pack, abandoned our tents, sleeping gear. All gone, we’d learn later. Several people lost their car keys, knowing this saga would continue even after they left. A lesson in loss. We ran uphill in the pouring rain, our thirty pound bags strapped to our backs. Hava Su Falls looked so different twenty minutes ago, placid and blue, now spewing red earth violently from its mouth. People stood around gawking and chatting about recovering their abandoned gear once the storm passed. This was wishful.
Instead rangers on a nearby cliff urged us up a slick 75’ rock face with nothing but a knotted rope and our fellow evacuees to hold it taut. Even after 7mi of hiking in midday sun, I and my companions were up the rope like a shot.
Young kids, elderly, everyone in between, large and small struggled up the cliff, the rest of us cheering them on. Some left without shoes, in flip flops, fled in their bathing suits. One guy asked to borrow someone’s water shoes since he ran in socks. I was fortunate to have worn my hikers, one of which I almost lost to a sinkhole.
We trudged along the upper lip of the canyon, a long string of headlamps like mismatched ants in the fading light. A crack of thunder that continued to echo sent word down the line, “Rockslide! Run like hell!” Nothing will put a fire under your ass like the earth dislodging boulders from its throat. We jumped and dodged rocks on the ledge in a race to beat the timer, praying the dust clouds settled on the upper mesa. In the panic, one woman grabbed a cactus for stability. I’d find out later several in our caravan had already dodged falling boulders at their campsites, their tents torn and crushed.
I am amazed at the generosity of my fellow hikers, sharing Tevas, hiking poles, water, first aid freely amongst each other. This wasn’t such a stretch on the long “scenic route” snaking trail back to the village: we passed the dump, glass and debris all over the ground, several hikers stepped on barbed wire from long-abandoned fences. We sloughed through cesspools of sewage the high waters overflowed in the midst of thunder and lightning. I do not envy some the infections they may suffer on their feet.
Upon entering the village, the locals urged us to hustle since the bridge could still be crossed. Hustle harder sounds so feeble now. As we flew over the bridge, we heard the wood crack and splinter from the immense pressure of the water and the heavy footfall of campers.
My thoughts wandered to the charming Spanish man, the bashful black woman we passed on the way out of Beaver Falls. And I worried. They were likely trapped, and nothing could be done. Mooney’s ascent was treacherous on a good day, named for the white explorer that fell to his death while trying to descend. This ladder system is the lifeline to the campground, dividing it from the surrounding canyon. Later we learned this part of the canyon was submerged, how deep, I don’t know.
My friends assured otherwise, but I couldn’t shake the question. Minor variations in decision making set us on this path to the village. We could just as easily have been swept downstream. I found out later several hikers formed a human chain to rescue an elderly woman perched in a tree. If the flood started an hour later after dark, we’d all be dead.
The village of Supai generously opened their school, their grocery store, their cafe to us. They lavished us with blankets, utility jumpsuits (we looked like oversized inmates), free food and water. In the rush to vacate I forgot to fill my bottles. These provisions moved me to tears. We were fortunate to sleep in close quarters on the tile floor of the school. I remembered this isn’t a choice for many displaced people and was grateful for the luxury of electricity, bathrooms, and bleach wipes to sanitize our feet, still covered in sewage. I held my friend’s leg as she suffered a panic attack. We were told all would be evacuated by helicopter in the morning. For those who couldn’t afford the trip, the tribe offered to cover the cost out of their pockets. My group paid the $85/head. They’d done so much for us already.
In the morning we received the good and bad news. The good news: everyone was recovered, including the two hikers on my mind. I didn’t know anything about them, but I hugged them and told them how thankful I was they were safe. They spent the night on high ground in a bat cave by the light of an iPhone. The bad news: a set of twin storms would converge at 2:30pm for a flash flood three times the size of the prior night’s deluge.
The clouds ominously crept through the canyon all morning like an army laying siege on a stronghold. They served as a ticking clock against the tiny helicopters zipping in and out of the canyon, carrying six people at a time. Six out of two hundred, plus the fleeing locals. My group was split in half as the rescue team opted to remove unaccompanied children. This was problematic as our bags were airlifted to the rim several hours prior. Should we be stuck, we’d have nothing. The National Guard was delayed by two hours; they too were caught in the storm.
I was the last of my group to load into a copter, almost an hour after shoving my last friend to fill the unclaimed space in a kids’ group. I was the last paid rider on the list, leaving those reliant on the tribe behind. The trip out of the canyon was said to take ten minutes. It took four. Zooming over the canyon, it was easy to forget some of the urgency on the floor, though evidence of flooding and landslides were literally scattered throughout.
The switchbacks that opened the trailhead in the above photo were almost completely gone, rocks and debris overtaking the roughly hewn steps. I was grateful we hadn’t obstinately attempted a hike out.
After exiting the canyon, we had to clear the 60mi access road back to the highways. These had flooded completely for the first time in recent memory. Our delayed rescue effort cleared a significant portion of the water and debris, though teams were still working to block entrance and clear the roads once we passed.
As we observed the wall of water emptying into the canyon, I remembered back to my journal. We slept in our car the first night due to a storm raging across the access road, a quick introduction to the judgement of the high desert. Winds shook our car ominously in the pitch black, arrows of lightning briefly illuminating the expansive nothingness. I don’t know how I’ll explain the beauty of the desert while conveying its indiscriminate anger. A woman scorned, a wild horse, a canyon of the blue green water.
Everyone was rescued from the campgrounds without casualty or major injury. Several were forced to wait out the storms at the village overnight. Many, many thanks to the HavaSupai tribe, the evacuation team, and copter pilots for their tireless efforts to keep us safe and housed. Their website and phone lines are down, but donations can be made by inquiring within the following weeks @ support@havasupaireservations.com.
