Birch Hollow

- Max Feingold

It is the first year of the plague. A few days into a socially distanced road trip, on a pleasant morning in late June, my wife Ella and I are descending Birch Hollow. We are learning to canyoneer, and this is our first serious technical canyon.

We park the Jeep at a small trailhead on a dirt road, somewhere above the massive Orderville Canyon drainage, just on the edge of Zion National Park. There is one vehicle already parked here, likely early bird canyoneers. A Bureau of Land Management sign regales us with dire warnings advising us to avoid doing what we’re about to do.

On the way here, North Fork Road took us through a peculiar mixture of cattle farms, sprawling resorts, and some very high-end housing. It is easy to forget how small Zion is: from this oddly developed area, a raven could fly just a couple of miles east and find itself another tourist in the Virgin River Narrows.

We gear up and prepare for a long day. The technical section is near the end of the canyon, where it tumbles dramatically into Orderville. We have a few miles to stroll before harnessing up and breaking out the ropes.

The approach is not, in fact, a stroll in the park. It is a winding tramp through brush, up and down and around on uneven terrain. The canyon walls begin a chalky white, not yet the sculptural sandstone they will become.

One last house on a hill to the west overlooks the hollow. More houses are scattered through the forest to the east, just out of sight. Roads crisscross the area, connecting clearcuts like a cancerous nervous system. Like much of the Southwest, here the land is either protected or it will metastasize.

A half mile in, we cross the invisible boundary into the Orderville Canyon Wilderness Study Area. As if on cue, nature becomes red at tooth and claw. Four desiccated mule deer legs are scattered across the trail, separated by some force of nature, mummifying slowly in the wash. Soon we find a ribcage, pale white and stripped of flesh. This is mountain lion territory, and here we have a crime scene.

Abruptly, the trail comes to an end. A large limestone bowl yawns beneath us, invitingly circular, with a sharp overhang and a good sixty-foot drop to the bottom. There is a canyoneering anchor attached to a boulder slightly upstream, in good condition and ready for use. This is the way.

We apply the skills we’ve learned. Two one-hundred-and-twenty-foot ropes, threaded through the quicklink. A double overhand knot makes a connection. A triple clove hitch solidifies a carabiner block. One side for descending, another for recovery.

One of us will have to go first. For a moment, neither of us moves.

I clip into the rappel rope and approach the edge. Weight on the rope, progress locked, I glance over the edge into the abyss. Sixty feet up, I am a bird on the wind.

First, a downclimb onto a small ledge, where a gentle flow of water slips through the layers. Then a crouch down over an overhung lip, nothing but air beneath me, nowhere to go but down.

Dripping rock curves inward. The rope slides into position at the lip. Gravity beckons. I begin a free hang rappel towards the ground, still distant. A miniature waterfall drips gently onto my helmet and shoulders. At the scariest moment I feel an elation, a joyful sense of belonging. Any remaining fear evaporates and becomes certainty. I will become a competent canyoneer today; there are simply no other options.

Friction controls velocity. The rope flows just right. Trust the rope, and the tools. Balance. Down to another ledge, then I’m on my feet at the bottom of the bowl. The ride ends just a little too soon.

Ella follows, tentatively over the edge at first, then a graceful glide path down. At some point in the air and under the spray she realizes she’s having a great time. As she joins me at the bottom she is beaming.

Tentatively I begin the recovery process, using the pull side of the block. The rope slides down smoothly, falling in a pile at our feet. Step one complete.

Downstream, the canyon slots up and begins to narrow. We encounter a few simple obstacles and descend three very straightforward rappels, anchored off metal bolts affixed to gray sandstone walls.

The narrows open into a forested area, ponderosa pines growing out of sand. We eat lunch at a pleasant spot above a chasm in the earth, a hundred feet straight down. This is the sixth rappel.

We drop rope from an anchor attached to a large tree, set back from the edge of the dryfall. Carabiner block at the anchor, an awkward start, a beautiful carved flute below. Ella descends first. I follow. Smooth sandstone all the way down, ropes converging up to the sky.

At the bottom, I pick up the pull rope and give it a tug. No movement at all.

I shake the pull rope, then shake the rappel rope. I walk backward and try again. I shake the rope harder, cascading waves of fury to no avail. I put all my weight on the pull side. I yank with all my strength. I hang from the rope. I slap the wall in frustration.

The rope is stuck and will not come down.

The slot around us is stunningly beautiful, yellow and orange tones creeping into gray sandstone. Downcanyon we can see the next anchor, nicely bolted above a fifty-foot drop. There is no way out.

Nights can be cold here, even in late June. We have water and a few remaining snacks. No flashlights, warm clothes, or emergency blankets. We may have come unprepared.

It is very quiet for a moment. But there are options.

It is possible someone will come along and release our rope from above. This is a trade route, as canyons go. We’ve been slow. Someone will catch up.

I do have a satellite device in my backpack, able to call search and rescue. For many reasons, this is not the answer. We should be able to handle this kind of situation ourselves.

It is time to use another tool in our arsenal. I cut some webbing and tie myself a loop. I attach an ascender and a progress capture device to the rappel rope. Two attachment points now. Carabiner in the ascender, loop in the carabiner, foot in the loop. Guide slack rope through the carabiner to obtain some mechanical advantage.

I begin my ascent. Stand up, shifting weight to the foot loop, while pulling on the slack rope: the lower attachment point rises. Lean back, shifting weight to the progress capture device, while sliding the ascender further up the rope: the upper attachment point rises. Rinse and repeat.

Suddenly I’m five feet in the air, gradually rising. Only ninety-five feet to go.

It is a workout, like riding a bicycle up a wall while hanging in the air.

At twenty-five feet the vertigo kicks in, but I look up and keep going. I aim for small victories: the next indentation, that discoloration in the chute. The top of the rappel is still very far away. At fifty feet I stop to rest. Ella is very small on the canyon floor. She shouts encouragement and seems mildly bemused that I’ve managed to get this far.

By the time I reach the top of the flute, muscles I’ve never heard of are achy and sore. I grab the rope above the lip and pull myself onto solid ground, gasping like a flounder at the edge of an abyss. I rest for a minute and rise to inspect the ropes.

I see no problem at all. Nothing is stuck.

I call down to Ella to test the rope pull. No problem. I must have dislodged the rope from a rope groove as I climbed up. Grooves are the devil. But this is on us: we forgot to test the rope pull before descending. Valuable lesson learned.

A breathless rappel later, I gingerly grasp the pull rope. For a heart-stopping microsecond, I pull. Harder.

Then the carabiner block comes free at the anchor and the rope slides gracefully down and we are saved. I will not have to ascend again.

The next few rappels come fast and furious. We count a total of ten before the end. The last two are postcard-worthy descents into stunning sandstone chambers, temples to the nameless canyoneering gods. Here in the heart of the wilderness, in a place only a few people have seen, it all feels worth it.

A few more steps and we’re blinking in harsh afternoon sunlight, the outside air ten degrees warmer. We emerge as if from a dry birthing place into Orderville Canyon. It’s time to pay the piper and regain the fifteen hundred feet we just lost.

Two turns upcanyon and we spot the path up. There are several ways out, Wild Wind Hollow being the fastest, the driest, and the steepest: just a mile and a half, but straight up with no respite.

We ascend through all the geological layers very quickly, then climb steeply through a pleasant ponderosa pine forest, rising far above Orderville until it is but a small discontinuity below us. We climb a steep segment up to a hogback ridge, then keep following that ridge up and up and up. We see the Zion canyons in the distance to the southeast, Orderville slotting up near the Narrows. We see forested hills and meadows up towards the Markagunt Plateau.

We chug water and hope it will last us. We eat granola bars and agree to always test the rope pull. We slog along, and curse rope grooves. We are tired.

Gradually the wilderness gives way to the familiar. We see the last house on the hill. We see a campground and suddenly everything levels off. The trailhead is a short distance away, and there we find our Jeep.

There are no other cars at the trailhead. We were the last group into Birch Hollow today.