Backpacking in Utah’s Canyon Country

The desert is an unforgiving place. It is a land of unforgiving extremes.

It can kill you because it’s either too hot or too cold. It can kill you because it’s too dry, or because there’s too much water and it’s flooding. The plants are either dangerously pokey or full of poison. Same goes for the animals. And yet, it is a land that is full of magic and wonder.

The desert is my favorite landscape.

I find the canyons, the slickrock, the towers, the vast expanses of sand and sage, to be some of the most starkly beautiful land this earth has to offer.

Because of COVID, my girlfriend, Kristi, and I enjoyed a mostly quiet summer at home. But like most home-bound people, we were very eager to get out and have an adventure.

So the two of us set out for a late fall, early winter, backpacking trip. Kristi had actually never been backpacking before. We were exploring all new terrain as a couple, literally and metaphorically.

Kristi is a bright spirit. She’s strong, adventurous, and up for anything. So we set off from Flagstaff, Arizona and drove north to Utah’s canyon country.

We had been packing and preparing during an early season winter storm, one that dropped several inches of snow across the Colorado Plateau from Flagstaff all the way across the desert into the Uinta Mountains of Utah.

The snow and the cold was going to make for another set of challenges for our first backpacking trip together, beyond the normal hauling of heavy gear and the miles of wash walking that lay ahead.

We arrived in the town of Escalante, Utah. It was unseasonably cold and windy, an ominous sign. But our spirits were high.

We set off down lonely dirt roads, the kind that are rarely frequented even during the busiest of seasons in this part of the country. Excited to get going on our multi-night backpacking trip, I drove a little too fast down the rocky road and punctured my tire.

My stomach sank as I heard the clanking of rocks off the tire rim.

We had a problem.

Parked in the middle of the 4×4 road, were able to jack the car up and put on my spare, but unfortunately all I had with me was an undersized donut, the kind of temporary fix that is pretty dang scary to drive on when navigating rough roads.

Luckily we were able to press on. At long last we arrived at a lonely trailhead in some of the most remote land in the US.

There was no sign of anyone around. We had the place to ourselves. With the long drive, the busted tire, and the short winter days, we only had a little light remaining. So we hiked clear of the trailhead and made camp, leaving the entirety of the hiking for the days ahead.

That first night was bone chillingly cold. The temperature dropped into the teens, leaving our water frozen and our tent and gear covered in a thick layer of frost by morning.

After a night of fitful sleep, we stretched and hobbled out of the tent like two old people with frozen joints. We made coffee and waited for the sun to creep over the canyon walls to warm us.  After the slow, cold morning, we eventually got back on the trail.

The canyon walls gradually closed in on us. What began as a mile-wide valley between far off cliffs increasingly felt like a claustrophobic tunnel of sandstone delight as we marched down canyon.

We were getting into the heart of the canyon, a five-mile long slot canyon full of twists and turns and canyon walls that soar overhead.

Having backpacked all over the world, I can confidently say this is my favorite kind of terrain. In canyon country, I feel like a kid in a candy shop. Every turn of the gulch is full of mystery and wonder. The canyons of this landscape constantly deliver beautiful surprises.

Ten miles in, Kristi and I were both feeling weary. Hiking under heavy loads through sandy canyons is exhausting.

As the sun went down, we stumbled into camp along the banks of the Escalante River. We chowed down on some fancy Mac n Cheese and quickly went to bed, utterly spent. The gurgling Escalante River soothed us to sleep as the stars passed over the soaring canyon walls.

In the morning, we did it all over again.

Our route was a loop. So we’d divert into another parallel canyon to return to our vehicle. This canyon was not the squeezy, slotty adventure of the day before. It was quieter, more mellow. But still beautiful with its soaring walls and cottonwood trees.

The miles passed slowly. But like any backpacking adventure, that’s the point. Because every step in these canyons is a joy.