The flash flood came, of course, precisely when we were furthest from safety — 20 miles from the mouth of the canyon, 20 miles to the exit, no escape routes in between. A feisty curveball from Ma Nature, though not an entirely unexpected one. During the first two days of our hike, in the sheer-walled canyon of the Paria River, skirting the Utah-Arizona border, my friend H. J. and I had seen ample evidence of previous floods. Shrubs slammed flat; river rocks kicked onto head-high ledges; rodent carcasses battered and torn — still lifes of virulence. We were both aware of the tragedy of the previous summer, when, in a neighboring canyon, 12 members of a hiking party were caught in a flood. Eleven died. And so, as the water rose, there was, among H. J. and I, if not quite fear, then a healthy dose of concern.

This is a fine time to ask why. Why hike at the bottom of a slot canyon if there is always, at any time of year, the possibility of a flash flood? Even when there are cloudless, baby-blue skies overhead, a rainstorm a hundred miles north can send water rushing through the sandstone and limestone labyrinths that serve as feeder channels for the Colorado River and its mile-deep gash, the Grand Canyon. I can understand why a person might be reluctant to venture into such a place. I myself was reluctant. Despite living within a day's drive of the canyonlands, I had never, until last November, explored further than the tourist-clogged rim of the Grand. When H. J. Schmidt, a photographer and climbing-skiing-kayaking-hiking bum who lives in my hometown and has played in the canyons for nearly 20 years, found out about this gap in my outdoor experience, he hinted that I was missing something profound and suggested I join him on a trip. And so I did.