A Father and Son's Unexpected Encounter with Flash Floods in Canyonlands National Park
Living in arid regions, from Moab's canyons to Santa Fe's mountains, has given me extensive knowledge of water's behavior in these landscapes. I've witnessed dry streambeds transform into raging torrents during monsoons and observed downpours obliterating dirt roads. Therefore, I readily concede my error in preparing dinner within an arroyo during rainfall.
While preparing a meal under a rocky overhang in Canyonlands National Park, my primary concern was finding refuge from the rain, not the potential for flooding. It was the final evening of a three-day excursion with my six-year-old son, Rhys. We had established our campsite on a slightly elevated area adjacent to a carved-out arroyo, which extended into a smaller side canyon terminating at a rock face. Despite the ominous clouds, our elevated position felt secure enough. The initial deluge quickly subsided into a steady drizzle, leading me to believe the worst of the rain had passed and alleviating any immediate concerns about flash floods. However, our clothing was damp, and we were covered in wet sand and pine debris. Opting for natural shelter to avoid contaminating our sleeping bags with grit, we descended into the dry arroyo, seeking the protection of a rocky overhang for our camp kitchen.
As I scooped the last of my chili, Rhys exclaimed, 'Dad, look! Water!' pointing up the streambed. Turning, I saw a small but rapidly expanding stream snaking its way towards us. Startled, I instinctively grabbed our stove and rodent-resistant food sack, ushering my son uphill. The water rose with astonishing speed; within moments, the dry streambed became a wide, flowing creek, cascading down the canyon with ripples and knee-deep rapids. The entire area was soon crisscrossed by streams, briefly transforming our small hill into an island. When I tried to explain this to Rhys, I had to raise my voice to be heard above the rumbling water. I am not the first to be taken aback by the power of water in canyon country. Each year, numerous visitors to the Southwest are caught in floods while exploring slot canyons, some tragically losing their lives. Following a recent flash flood in Utah's Little Wildhorse Canyon, which swept away several hikers, Goblin Valley State Park issued a strong advisory for hikers in canyon country to consult weather forecasts, be aware of changing conditions, and be ready to alter their plans if necessary. Even seasoned hikers are not immune to these dangers, as canyon floods are a unique environmental hazard, much like avalanches in the Rocky Mountains or black flies in the Upper Midwest. Over millennia, erosion has sculpted the terrain into a natural trap, channeling rainwater into progressively narrower passages, culminating in a swift-moving wall of water. Without specific knowledge, even decades of hiking experience elsewhere will not prepare you for this particular hazard.
It is important to acknowledge that Rhys and I were never in any serious danger. Our campsite was located in a wide canyon, not a narrow slot, and escaping the rising water simply involved climbing a small hill rather than attempting to scale a sheer rock face. Even if we had delayed our exit, the water level was not high enough to pose a drowning risk. We would have been soaked and uncomfortable, likely spending the next hour or two retrieving scattered camp kitchen items from downstream brush once the water receded, but we would have been perfectly safe. Nonetheless, it served as an unforgettable safety lesson. It's one thing to hear about the rapid rise of floodwaters in the desert, but entirely another to witness a dry landscape transform into a network of active creeks in mere minutes. This experience will undoubtedly influence my decisions whenever I consider venturing into a narrow canyon, especially if rain is anticipated anywhere in the vicinity. Rhys, too, will carry this memory, though perhaps for different reasons. As the water subsided, he cautiously dipped his hands into the silty flow. I collected some water in a bottle, filtered it through a bandana, and then a dedicated filter, before pouring it into our still-damp kettle. Once it boiled, I mixed in half a packet of Swiss Miss for each of us. Months later, Rhys still asks when we will have 'arroyo hot cocoa' again. I tell him we must wait for the next rain, and hopefully, enjoy it from a safer, higher vantage point.