On the Edge, an Exploration of Cattail Canyon



On the Edge, an Exploration of Cattail Canyon

© John Sellers

I. BEGINNINGS

I left Enid in what seemed to be plenty of time. It was nine hours or so to the airport. Bryan's plane was not due until 11:00 P.M. I had at least four hours to spare. I had only one stop to make, and the intermittent drizzle wasn't too severe.

By the time I reached Chickasha the Oklahoma wind whipped 35 miles per hour out of the north. Snow fell so thickly I could no longer read the "55" on the speed limit signs. It didn't much matter. I struggled to stay on the road at 35. Suddenly my early departure time appeared less adequate.

At Abilene I had planned to drop off a passenger and have supper with some of her friends. Instead I had barely enough time to drop Ratana off and make a quick phone call. It was back on the road in hopes of an 11:00 o'clock arrival at Midland.

At 11:03 P.M. on Thursday, December 13, 1984 I hurried into the terminal of the Midland-Odessa airport. I was two minutes late to meet Bryan's plane. Given the severity of the ice storm it was doubtful that they had yet deplaned. Nonetheless I ran to Gate 3, only to find that the flight had been delayed. No one knew when the plane was due. The Midland-Odessa International Airport is not one of America's great metropolitan facilities. All I knew was that the plane was not at the gate. There was no one at any of the airline check-in counters, no monitor indicating that flight so and so was or was not on time at any Gate X.

I walked the length of every corridor in the airport...several times. I paced and fidgeted. After a while I went out to move my truck. I had parked in a five minute loading zone. I thought it unlikely that as it approached midnight, in the midst of an ice storm, the only vehicle at the terminal would get towed. But my desire to keep anything from getting in the way of this trip bordered on paranoia.

Finally I took a seat in the waiting area. I spoke with a woman who was there awaiting her husband's return from a business trip to Dallas. She had been meeting this flight every Thursday night for three years and it had never been late. If nothing else, it gave me a few minutes to rest, and some more time to ponder the next four days.

The purpose of the expedition which lay ahead was two-fold.

Ultimately it began in January of 1977 when two college friends and I took a backpacking trip in Big Bend National Park. The haunting specter of the Chisos Mountains hovering over the barren plains of Trans-Pecos Texas captured my heart. The resulting love affair with the northern Chihuahuan Desert led me to return to the area often.

On the 1977 trip Mark and Kevin Mosier and I had attempted to follow Cattail Canyon from its origin high in the heart of the Chisos to its mouth on the desert floor. This initial attempt was thwarted as we encountered an impassable drop-off in the canyon floor. No such drop was evident on the United States Geological Survey topographic map of the area.

Although we were able to exit the canyon at that point and complete the remaining portion of our eleven day trek, the longing to complete the original quest lingered from that time forward.

It was not until December of 1983 that I returned to the canyon. With a party of six, ready, or so we thought, for anything the canyon might have to offer.

Mark Mosier and I were the only ones who had been in the canyon before. Mark was a man of remarkable physical talent, but of even greater discipline. Ranked in the top twenty-five in the United States as a competitive water-skier, and one of the top five orienteers, he was a fine rock climber, and mountaineer as well. Joe Szewczak and Susan May were friends of mine from college days at Duke University. They were engaged to be married, planning to reside in Providence, Rhode Island where they both would pursue Ph.D.'s in physiology. As a bicyclist, Joe was the North Carolina record-holder in the twenty-five mile time trial, and the top-ranked amateur bicyclist in the country in that event. Susan was no slouch as a cyclist herself.

Bruce Brock, a fraternity brother of Mark's and mine at the University of Kansas, was between jobs as a river rafting guide in Denali National Park in Alaska, and as a wire service reporter in Tokyo. A former climbing instructor in Wyoming's Wind River Range, Bruce narrowly decided against using his ability in distance running as a ticket to graduate school at KU. He would have had one year of eligibility despite already having graduated, as he had never run in college. With a personal record of 2:17 in the marathon, endurance was not a concern.

David Cable was the group greenhorn. A high school junior from Tulsa, Oklahoma, his parents were good friends and were instrumental in persuading him to come along with us. His mother had packed his belongings for the trip. What a field day we had, picking apart his pack, as we prepared for this outing.

On this trip we believed that we were well prepared for any obstacle the canyon might present. We carried ropes of 300 feet and 165 feet in length, along with a variety of technical rock climbing equipment. Canyoneering had not soared in popularity in those days, so it seemed odd, in a way, to carry climbing gear in order to make a one way descent of a canyon. In the end, we were glad for everything we had brought with us.

The canyon provided one challenge after another. The most severe cold front in the region's history blew in the night we departed the Basin, in the center of the mountains. The weather was bitterly cold. Below zero nights and the short days of winter combined to make every task from rope handling to meal preparation more difficult.

The most remarkable aspect of the canyon was its sheer ruggedness. Although the topographic map in our possession was supposed to detail the contours of the land we were traversing, we found that it did little justice to the complexities of the dramatic terrain of Cattail Canyon.

As we followed the course of the tiny stream that ran along the canyon floor, we were faced with a series of pour-offs that ended in dark deep pools of frigid water. Mark had carried a wet suit so that he could make the actual plunge into the water. First down the rope on each rappel, he would break the ice and then swim across each pool anchoring the rope on the far side. We lowered the equipment on the anchored line and the remaining persons could traverse above the water via the anchored rope as well.

The canyon seemed to be a never ending series of pour-offs and pools, tinajas as they are know locally. Each rappel was different, as the canyon twisted and turned like a great water-slide. Each cliff face was a sheet of crystalline ice. Bruce fell through the ice on one of the pools, miraculously keeping his camera dry while seeming to fly back up out of the water. David began to wonder if he could make it clear to the desert floor.

Thankfully, we had Susan with us, for time and again David would sit down, putting his head in his hands, begging us to leave him there to die. The presence of a woman made the ordeal seem less intimidating. More than once she was able successfully to encourage him to give it one more try.

It was about two-thirds of the way through the canyon that our plans were confounded totally. We had made innumerable rappels up to this point, and finally, David was becoming more comfortable with the rope, rock and ice work. We came to the smallest drop thus far, which still would require a rope. It was a perfect spot, or so we thought, to let David make the first descent.

The face dropped only twenty feet or so, twisting down and to the right. There was a small pool of water at the base which, with a little careful rope and foot-work, could be avoided. David gingerly backed over the edge, trying to keep his footing on slick rock and glare ice. He managed quite adeptly to keep his balance, while skirting the water's edge.

Going first had to have been a real rush for a person who earlier in the day had been begging to be left to die. After disconnecting from the rope, David scouted the gorge downstream. Less than five seconds after he disappeared from sight, the canyon echoed with a resounding "Holy shoot!"

We all looked at each other in disbelief. We had been so optimistic that David might have grown up a little bit, and now this. Bruce went down the rope next, planning to calm David down, and let us know what really lay ahead. Almost immediately, we heard another "Holy shoot!" echo up the ravine.

Now we knew we were in trouble.

Bruce had made runs of major Alaskan Rivers under unimaginably bad weather and water conditions. He had endured the pain of relentless marathon training. He had faced the conditions of rock and glacier in the Wind Rivers. And HE sounded unnerved.

We all quickly completed the short rappel, gathering in the narrow slot above the rim of the next cliff. Each of the pour-offs we had encountered previously was dramatic in its own way. Now, however, words failed us as we peered over the edge of a mammoth drop for which we clearly were unprepared. It was impossible to see if the ropes we carried could reach the bottom.

We found a route around the giant pour-off and continued our trek to the desert floor. Slots and drops, pools and traverses, cascades of ice, and dead-black rock made the lower section even more exciting than the top. The whole descent required two full days to cover three miles. When, at last, we sat on level ground beneath the last rays of the setting desert sun, Bruce just shook his head and said, "That was the most difficult and dangerous thing I have ever done."

Although we had made the complete descent, we had left the floor of the canyon itself for this one crucial section. More importantly, this pour-off was a waterfall. I had no idea how high the tallest known waterfall in Texas might be, but I thought that this one probably was higher. After returning home, I researched the subject of Texas waterfalls. I could find none that appeared to approach the height of the pour-off we had by-passed (though I found no definitive answer to my question.)

Now, Bryan and I planned to make a complete descent of Cattail Canyon, including (and especially) the remarkable waterfall itself.

A second goal of this trip was to do some reconnaissance in the Sierra del Carmen. I had a two week trek in this mountain range, just across the border in northern Mexico, planned for the end of the month. The first day of this trek was to involve a difficult ascent of the western escarpment of the range. It was the route of this ascent that we intended to scout while in the area.

As I sat, awaiting the plane's arrival, I thought of the spectacular vistas of the high Sierra del Carmen. Somehow though, my mind always returned to the dark recesses of Cattail Canyon. The descent and documentation of the falls would be the culmination of eight years of anticipation.

Bryan and I first met at a spring rush party at the Alpha Tau Omega fraternity house at the University of Kansas. The following fall I lived in the house, where Mark Mosier and I roomed together. There was a limestone quarry nearby where Mark and I often practiced climbing. On several occasions Bryan accompanied us. An accomplished gymnast, Bryan proved to be a willing and capable climbing companion. For the 1977-78 academic year, Bryan, Mark and I roomed together.

During my junior year I transferred to Duke University and for the next few years we had little opportunity to do much together. Bryan and I saw each other from time to time at friends' weddings and occasional summer gatherings. It was at Bryan's wedding in the fall of 1983 that his involvement in this trip was initiated.

While at the wedding, Mark and I were finalizing details of the 1983 Cattail Canyon expedition. Bruce, expeditioner that he was, decided to join us. After years of hearing Mark and me speak of the canyon, his little brother Bruce's participation in the discovery of the falls was, for Bryan, the last straw. When I planned an attempt to make an actual descent of the falls and document its height, he wanted to participate.

Though I had waited more than an hour for Bryan's plane, the atmosphere was electric as he entered the terminal. We exchanged perfunctory greetings as we headed straight for the baggage claim. His was the first bag down the ramp. He grabbed it and out we ran to the truck.

The rear of my truck, an old, white, Chevrolet C-10, was loaded as if we were going to spend a month in the Himalaya, not five days in southwest Texas. The bed was piled full of plastic bags loaded with food, tents, packs, cameras, rope and an assortment of other gear. To top it off, I had an old blue canoe extending over the front of the cab and past the end of the open tailgate.

Thus outfitted, the truck had an uncanny resemblance to a mobile missile launcher. I carried my canoe this way often and we affectionately called it the "Trident".

I had driven twelve hours straight to get there and Bryan consented to drive. He had brought an Escort radar detector and was dismayed to find that the Trident had no cigarette lighter. We were forced to travel at sub-light speed but made good time nonetheless. From the time we crossed the interstate at Ft. Stockton, until we arrived at the Basin, in the heart of the Chisos Mountains, we did not encounter another vehicle traveling in either direction.

I had all of the gear in plastic bags to protect it from the freezing rain and snow I had battled ever since leaving Enid. About the time we reached Fort Stockton, 125 miles north of the park, the clouds broke. The mountains were silhouetted against the starry sky. In the periphery of our headlights leapt dozens of mule deer.

As we rode, we talked of plans for this trip and our respective plans for the future. Bryan was about to change jobs in Dallas, getting to open an office there for an architectural firm. He and his wife, Sasha, were expecting their first child in four months. This was an event Bryan viewed with as great anticipation as any in his life.

Though the ride seemed short it was 4:13 A.M. when we finally rolled our sleeping bags out on the rocky ground of the Basin, among the high peaks of the Chisos Mountains. We both were excited, and sleep did not come easily. The stars shone crystalline against the jet black sky. Despite the clear night, it was not too cold and at last we both slept well. It seemed but a few minutes later that the stars began to fade and dawn streaked across the desert sky.

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One of the rappels leading up to the big pour-off in Cattail Canyon. Note the ice underfoot.

II. THE CHISOS

The freshness of the morning air was invigorating. At the same time, the magnificence of our surroundings made us content to take our time as we prepared to depart. We stuffed our sleeping bags back into their tight nylon sacks and rolled up sleeping pads that had finished their tour of duty protecting us from the rocky ground which had served as our bed.

The first order of business was breakfast. From our campsite we walked over to the Chisos Mountains Lodge. The lodge is operated by a concessionaire, under license from the National Park Service. The principal goal of any good concessionaire is, of course, to make money. As I looked over the menu I came to the conclusion that they intended to make most of it by selling us breakfast. Bryan had forgotten to cash a check prior to going to the airport and had arrived with less than twenty dollars. The combination of price and poverty failed to moderate our appetites. We ate well despite paying over twelve dollars for what would have been a four dollar meal anywhere else in Texas. Given the isolation of the location and the limited traffic to the area we were glad to have a restaurant at all.

It was nearly 9:00 A.M. when we finished breakfast. Time somehow seemed less important now that we were actually here.

Although Bryan had his camera with him he had forgotten to bring any film. It suited me to buy his film. I was hoping to compile a set of photographs to accompany the documentation of the falls. We purchased the film at the lodge and walked back to my truck which we had left parked in front of the Basin Store.

Here we sorted through the massive pile of gear that I had brought down from Enid. We selected two ropes for making the descents required to get to the falls and, of course, the big drop itself. As we sorted through the gear we set aside that which we elected to bring with us: a 600 foot 11 millimeter diameter Bluewater static line, the best available; a 50 meter Edelweiss lead climbing rope, capable of sustaining nine falls while climbing; a rack of forty chocks and nuts of various sizes, which we would use primarily for anchoring the rope above each descent. We brought two climbing harnesses, fifteen slings of tubular nylon webbing ranging in length from six to thirty feet, fifteen extra caribiners and a figure-eight descender for providing friction during the descents.

Bryan set out his Olympus OM-1 35 millimeter camera and I loaned him three lenses. I carried two Leica C-3 35 millimeter camera bodies and four lenses, plus a Mamiya 120, 2 1/4 inch camera with two lenses and a tripod.

In addition to the climbing and camera equipment we had our personal gear. For each of us this included everything from shorts and T-shirts to parkas warm enough for zero degree weather. We set aside sleeping bags, pads and backpacks. From the remainder of the shrinking pile I pulled out a Svea 123-R cookstove, a liter bottle of fuel and a set of aluminum pots. We had a Eureka Timberline two-man tent with a ground-cloth, a first aid kit and two quarts of water apiece. Food (all dried) for four days, came to just over twelve pounds. Adding the raft of little things, toothbrush, toothpaste, toilet paper, a notebook and two pencils, knife, fork and spoon, a plate and two Sierra Club cups, water purification tablets, a 10X magnifier for looking at rocks and plants close-up, lip balm, a sewing kit, topographic maps, a compass, match safe and matches, a flashlight and batteries, sunglasses, a watch, and, of course, the keys to my truck, we were ready to load up our packs. We divided the gear with Bryan carrying roughly 65 pounds and I 80.

We hoisted our packs, locked the pick-up and trudged the hundred yards to the ranger station to obtain our back-country permit. There were several problems with our anticipated itinerary. Principal among these was the fact that Cattail Canyon is off-limits to camping. Secondly, the park has a permit requirement for all climbers. We knew we could make the first day short, camping at Laguna Meadow and starting before dawn for the descent itself. If we required a second night out, we had a problem. There was no way to claim that we were camping some place legal if we were not through the canyon in one day. We planned to make the trip in two days, but carried four day's supplies just in case. Splitting the difference, we got a permit to be out three days, with campsites above the canyon the first night, and on the desert floor the second below.

John Joyce was the ranger on duty. He was a young man, not more than twenty-five years old, who had not worked in the park long, a fact which we used to full advantage. I detailed our plans to descend Cattail Canyon. We had tied the ropes to the outsides of our packs. (Have you ever tried to hide 765 feet of 11 mm rope?)

John astutely asked us if we planned to do any climbing. I explained that descending the canyon would require several rappels but that we planned to do no actual climbing. A more seasoned ranger would have sent us to Panther Junction to have our equipment inspected, and to administer the requisite lecture. I had been through the process at Big Bend before. It was time consuming, and generally the staff were not climbing experts with a firm idea of what equipment was necessary. We were better equipped than I had been on my previous descent of the canyon. When John let us go without the permit, although I really knew better, I did not argue.

At 11:58 A.M. we finally set out from the Basin trailhead. Bryan set his chronograph as we took our first step. Our route was to follow the trail from the Basin, elevation 5,360 feet, to Laguna Meadow, elevation 6,660'. We planned to stop there before heading cross-country to the top of a ridge overlooking Cattail Canyon at an elevation of 6,880 feet. We would enter the canyon from the east, following it clear to the desert floor, elevation 4,120'. From the desert floor the Window Trail winds back up into the Basin and our point of beginning.

Walking under any circumstances with an eighty-plus pound pack is challenging. The high Chisos have some of the most rugged topography in the lower forty-eight states. Even wearing shorts and a T-shirt in mid-December, sweat poured from over my face and back within a few minutes. I felt fortunate that prior to this trip I had followed the most rigorous and consistent training regimen of my life. I had spent most of the autumn months carrying a 130 pound pack to and from work every day in preparation for my up-coming expedition to the Sierra del Carmen. Although I worked up quite a sweat, the 1,300 foot climb breezed by. Bryan followed, panting most of the way.

About thirty minutes into the hike, we stopped for Bryan to remove his too new boots. Although he had worn them in the field regularly on his job as an architect, nothing he had done had broken them in for this sort of use. One heel was already somewhat blistered and the other was red. After an application of moleskin we were on our way again.

Fall had been mild in the Trans-Pecos. The scrubby oak trees along the trail were only beginning to turn. The colors were less spectacular than in some years, but we delighted in the warm weather. Thoughts of the previous year's blustery, arctic front made me glad for a little perspiration. The temperature hovered in the low seventies as we wound our way up the north facing slope. We stopped, perhaps too often, to take pictures and marvel at the somehow sublime grandeur of the Chisos. Two and a half miles up the trail Bryan stopped for a rest. I continued on to the high point of the trail, from which I could look down at Laguna Meadow and the Basin. A small knob rose up to the right, and I scrambled up to the top. I had climbed this same little ridge eight years earlier during my first day in Big Bend National Park.

The scenery was much the same. The sweeping panorama of peaks rising two thousand feet above the Basin and four thousand feet above the desert floor below still filled me with a sense of the greatness and majesty of this land. The sight of every plant hanging on to a thread of life in a land of extremes gave me a sense of hope. But the park was showing signs of wear. This sensitive land never was meant for heavy use. Tens of thousands of people make the trip to the Basin every year. The plants which may take years to grow a few inches barely survive the tread of boots. The little hilltop on which I sat once gave me the sense that no one had ever been there before. This time it seemed to be telling me that too many visitors had made their way, weary but rewarded, to its summit. I took a few more photos, and assured myself that I would never come back to that particular spot again. By the time I returned my camera to its case Bryan had reached the saddle below.

I quickly scrambled down to Bryan and my waiting pack. We spent a few minutes in conversation with a day-hiker and completed the short drop to Laguna. It was 1:55 P.M. when we dropped our packs and got out lunch at the meadow. Emory Peak towered to the east, a great sentinel standing guard over the realm of the Chisos. We drank most of our water, knowing that there would be plenty in the canyon. After a few minutes of eating gorp and lazing in the warm sun we investigated much of the meadow, recording it all on film from a variety of vantage points. Despite having raised blisters under the moleskin, Bryan was doing well.

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III. INTO THE CANYON

The break left us fresh for the climb up to the ridge above Laguna. Cross-country travel in Big Bend presents special challenges. Due to the lack of moisture the plants have developed various defenses against the many animals that would eat them. In fact, most of the plants seem to have adopted a "bite them before they bite you" defensive philosophy. Route-finding in the Chisos often involves more consideration of avoiding thickets of acacia, cactus and agave than worrying about the rugged terrain.

At 2:23 P.M. we stood atop the ridge dividing Cattail Canyon from Laguna Meadow. The view down the head of the canyon gave little hint of the terrain that lay downstream. The drainage begins as a wide valley just two hundred feet below small peaks rising on either side. The slope is gentle and the valley collects enough moisture to support a stand of oak, live oak and juniper. The greatest obstacle to our progress was the density of the undergrowth. It was about half an hour's walk before the watershed collected enough water on a regular basis to wash the soil away down to the bedrock. As we descended, the valley became less vegetated and more canyon-like.

It was a relaxed stroll in the sun. There was less water in the drainage than I had seen in previous years but soon occasional pools became regular and finally a small but steady stream of water marked our path. Thus far our dramatic descent of this rugged canyon had been more of an afternoon walk in the park. In less than an hour we reached the point at which the canyon turns north and its character changes.

An old dam blocks the path of a spring flowing into the canyon there. On two previous visits I had camped at this spot. We stopped for a rest and Bryan took a photograph of me sitting atop the dam. It was a stone and mortar structure, a relic of Civilian Conservation Corps days. It was in the 1930's that the idea of a national park in Texas took the state by storm. Everything from corporate grants to the pennies of school children were collected to fund the purchase of land for the new park. To me the dam stood as a monument to the labor and love of every person who put an hour's work or a hard-earned dollar into this gift to the American people.

We dipped a bit further into our gorp supply, drank some more water and at 3:30 were on our way once more.

The canyon becomes markedly more severe below the dam. The canyon bears the marks of an earlier time, a time when heavy rainfall generated torrents of flood water that scoured the walls of a narrow and tortuous chasm en route to the valley below. Great slickrock slopes enclose the meandering stream course. The canyon floor is nearly 600 feet below the enclosing ridges at this point. The transition from valley to canyon is complete.

Although it was only 3:30 when we left the dam, Bryan was becoming visibly fatigued. After a few hundreds yards, we redistributed some of the gear and continued on our way. Bryan's pack was now about 55 pounds and mine 105. The sun already had dropped below the western wall of the gorge and it was noticeably cooler in the shade. However, within five minutes of walking I was back down to my sweat-soaked T-shirt.

Even with our heavy loads and the fatigue of four hours' hard labor we made excellent progress. The receding sun played its light high on west-facing cliffs above us. Between the majesty of the surroundings and our preoccupation with reaching the falls it was not hard to keep our minds off sore feet and tired muscles. At 4:59 P.M. Bryan and I stood above the first pour-off.

Bryan dropped his pack, looked at me, a slight smile showing through his resignation, and said, "I hope you're tired!"

The slope before us was quite steep, twisting to the east as it fell. It ended in a tinaja about fifty feet below. From the tinaja the slope dropped another fifty feet to the lower canyon floor. It was here that Mark, Kevin and I had exited the canyon eight years earlier. It was here that a year earlier Mark had donned his wetsuit and made the icy first rappel. Upon reaching the bottom, Mark had told us that it would be impossible for the rest of the party to make the descent without ourselves ending up in the first pool of water. We then scouted a route around the pour-off to the west and descended a long steep scree slope back to the canyon floor.

The route around the pour-off involved climbing roughly a hundred feet or so before turning north and then down the two hundred feet to the lower portion of the canyon. This was one of those spots where the vegetation presented as much difficulty as the terrain. Given the fading light and our level of fatigue after a short night's sleep and good day's work we made this our camp.

Having rested but a few minutes, gently falling rain stirred us back into action. The wind picked up, threatening to develop into something more serious but never was quite able to. The hard shower lasted just a few minutes. We stashed our gear under ponchos and searched the rugged canyon floor for a suitable spot to sleep. Rain in December is rare and we had hoped not to have need of our tent. Finding a place large enough for a tent in the middle of Cattail Canyon is improbable to say the least.

The rain tapered off before we had decided on a spot and I set about cooking supper while Bryan continued the search. One of the disadvantages of being in a narrow canyon is its ability to funnel even a light breeze. Perhaps the most amazing aspect of this funneling is its ability to aim the strongest gusts at any point unwisely selected as the kitchen. I was able to nestle the stove back in a crevice which the previous year had held the chocks used to anchor Mark's rappel. Soon I had the Svea roaring in its jet-getting-ready-for-take-off voice. Within a few minutes supper was boiling.

I made two quarts of spaghetti with mushroom sauce. This was polished off in an instant as the soup began to simmer. We had four and a half cups of a mixture of oxtail and French onion soup. The soup was as delicious as its aroma and was disposed of as rapidly as the spaghetti.

Bryan had no luck in his search for a tent site. It was another thirty minutes of threading our way through thorns, cactus and agave before we finally settled on a secluded patch of grass. The tent barely fit between a scrubby little tree on the left and an imposing agave on the right. The grass was considerably lumpier than we would have preferred, but in Big Bend National Park, and in Cattail Canyon in particular, you take things as you find them. The tent would afford protection from the wind and rain. At last we were prepared for the night.

Once we had our tent erected and sleeping pads and bags rolled out inside, I fired up the little stove again. Fires are forbidden in the Chisos. More important than the regulations, however, are the reasons for their existence. The marginal vegetation that clings to the last vestige of survival on these dry, rocky slopes would be unlikely ever to recover from the effects of a fire. Further, the organic matter consumed for our comfort is essential as the foundation for the succession of life that inhabits these rugged environs.

The highest slopes of the Chisos receive upwards of twenty inches of rainfall per year. Most of the rest of the park (99 percent of the land within Big Bend) is true desert, receiving less than 10 inches of rainfall per year. The rocky recesses between the peaks contain stands of ponderosa pine and quaking aspen. These remnant forests survive from a cooler age when moisture was more plentiful. To lose the plant-life of Big Bend in many places is to lose it forever.

The red-orange glow of the stove was our camp-fire. We huddled around it for over an hour drinking tea and hot chocolate in the otherwise quiet darkness. Our expectations for the next day were running high. My anticipation was all but unbearable. The previous year's descent was still fresh in my memory. The excitement clearly was shared.

I asked Bryan what the most exciting moment in his life had been. He related an event that occurred shortly after his graduation from the School of Architecture at KU. He and a classmate bid on a remodeling contract which they hoped would be their first professional job. The bid was accepted, but they had no capital with which to begin their new business. They mustered all their confidence, strode into the company president's office and requested an advance, considerably larger than what they needed or could reasonably expect to be granted. Though certain they would be denied, much to their surprise the president directly picked up the phone and order a check issued to Bryan Brock for the full amount.

I promised not to tell Sasha that he hadn't said it was their wedding day. Bryan reflected that perhaps after all that was a more accurate answer.

Excitement is a nebulous quality arising within each of us in many circumstances and in many ways. It is never really possible to compare your first job with your wedding night or falling out of a raft in the middle of Lava Falls. No experience I had ever had was comparable to Cattail Canyon. Bryan's own brother...climbing instructor, marathoner, river guide...said that our descent had been the most difficult and dangerous thing he had ever done.

We knew we would be descending the falls for the first time, a falls which perhaps no one had ever seen. The section of the chasm in which the pour-off lay simply was the most spectacular gorge I had ever seen.

As we sat by the stove in the depths of the canyon, lightning lit the high cliff faces. The rain had long since ceased and Bryan joked that perhaps it was just heat lightning. A vain hope at best, we did make it through the night without further precipitation. Seeing the light play on the dark rock faces reminded me of Alsate, legendary great chief of the Apache whose recumbent profile is said to be visible in the horizon of the Chisos. These mountains were home to raiding bands of Apache, among the last hold-outs late in the 1800's. It is said Alsate's spirit still roams these rugged slopes.

It was only 8:00 P.M. when we retired for the night. After the long journey to this point, sleep came easily. We were grateful for the generally level ground. The grass though grew in clumps scattered over the site like a dozen footballs under the floor of the tent. With sufficient contortion the back and limbs could be nestled between the lumps. It was possible to sleep for an hour or two, reposition yourself and start over again. All in all, by 8:00 the next morning we had each received a tolerable amount of sleep.

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IV. TO THE FALLS

It was astonishingly warm outside when I arose. I would have guessed 60. The overnight low reported in the Basin that night was in the mid-50's. The sun was clearly up by now although no sunlight was directly visible, even on the cliffs high above us. It was again a lazy morning. We reestablished our little kitchen in the crevice and I prepared a large pot of oatmeal. We would be burning some 6,000 calories per day under these conditions. Never had oatmeal tasted so good.

We broke camp and were on our way up the side of the gorge by 9:00 A.M. The night's rest had left us fully refreshed and we made fine progress.

The climb presented few technical difficulties. The slope was not too severe and there was a significant amount of vegetation. It was in fact the vegetation that slowed us down once again. A thicket of cactus, agave and dense shrubbery necessitated a higher climb than would otherwise have been required. Once beyond the threat of the thorns we were able to rapidly descend a scree slope down into the canyon below the pour-off.

Scree is a strange and wonderful substance. As rock weathers it breaks down into ever smaller particles, finally getting washed out in great fan-like deposits on the desert floor. Scree is a great pile of rocks in the intermediate stage. The rocks want to be at the bottom of the canyon but their angular sides and slightly excessive size prevent them from rapidly sliding to the canyon floor.

We were only too pleased to be of service, helping the rocks succumb to the inexorable tug of gravity. The optimum method for descending a scree slope is a topic of great debate. The fans of screeing, however, come in all shapes, sizes, and ages. My particular method involves tucking one foot snugly beneath me with the toe pointed downhill. The other leg extends out in front, sort of a great combination feeler-obstacle catcher. I bend down, put one hand out on either side and away I slide.

It was some 200 feet in elevation to the lower section of the canyon. The scree was of excellent quality allowing a descent of thrilling speed without being out of control. Near the bottom, the slope ended at the top of a cliff just ten feet or so high. Hanging from a tree near the cliff's edge, the drop to the floor was easy.

We were back to walking on nearly level ground. The walls of the canyon hemmed the little stream in. Every pool of water now presented a challenge. We would hug the rock, easing from foothold to foothold. A slip would have been far from fatal, but would have added an unwanted cargo of water to our already massive loads.

I spent the morning I left Enid packing my truck, listening to a tape of the Enid-Phillips Chorale, in which I was singing, performing Johannes Brahams "Eines Deutches Requiem." The Requiem is the mass for the dead. The dark beauty of Brahams' setting seems to put all of life in perspective. I have a habit of singing musical phrases under particularly trying circumstances. Every time I sang another phrase, Bryan wondered what marvelous obstacle lay ahead. Somehow I found myself stuck on, "Behold all flesh is as the grass, and all the goodliness of man is as the flower of grass. For lo, the grass withereth, and the flower thereof fadeth."

We progressed slowly but steadily as the canyon became ever steeper. It was not long before we reached the second pour-off. It was short enough that we could double the 50 meter rope. Bryan and I reviewed the establishment of a rappel braking system. I descended part-way and climbed back up, making sure Bryan felt comfortable with the friction in the figure-8. Bryan made the full descent first and I followed. It is no small accomplishment to descend a smooth, slick, saturated, 80 degree slope with 80 pounds on your back. We both completed the drop without mishap.

The term rappel arises from the French "descente en rappel" or "descent with recall." This term was used because people realized, in the early days of climbing, that by descending on a doubled rope, the climber could retrieve the rope by pulling on one end while allowing the other end to go back up to the anchor. This was revolutionary and allowed mountaineers to get their ropes back after a climb.

I retrieved the rope, only to have the other end go cascading into the pool of water in front of me, thus adding three or four pounds to my pack.

One of the difficulties of hiking in Cattail Canyon is that progress is so difficult to gauge. Each pool resembles the last and each pour-off the last until past and present blend and all perspective of space and time are lost. Only Bryan's chronograph called us back to the reality of time slipping away. Progress meant time and we had hours to go before we slept.

With the first rappel behind us my mind raced forward. How many pitches remained before the falls? Three? Perhaps four. With a party of six we had made it from the dam to well below the falls in a single day. Bryan and I had to be able to complete the descent before dark.

We came to the second pitch. This one required the longer line. We were able to set it up quickly, make the descent and soon were on our way. The 600 foot rope was difficult to manage. We coiled it rather roughly and tied back onto Bryan's pack.

With every step our excitement and dread grew.

What could be so exciting or dreadful about rappelling down another waterfall in a canyon marked by one pour-off after another totaling a dozen or more?

Perhaps it is the strange isolation. Rare in North America is a place so remote yet in a place so visited. It was likely that this would prove to be the highest falls in the State of Texas. It was remarkable to think that this landmark could lie undiscovered in the center of one of the nation's renowned national parks. Every stride brought us closer to proving or disproving that proposition. We were perhaps just a few hours from documenting the discovery of a lifetime.

The canyon seemed endless. The weight of our packs wore upon us. We came to the third pour-off, and a fourth. Although making the rappels was a routine process it was nonetheless time consuming. Each descent required finding, situating and testing a suitable anchor for the rope. The rope had to be uncoiled, tossed below and the braking system set up. It is this braking system that makes the descent feasible. The ropes run through and around a metal configuration which generates substantial friction. The harder the climber pulls with the braking hand, the greater the friction that is generated. The braking system is designed so that it takes very little effort to generate enough friction to stop one's descent.

The braking system is attached to a harness worn by the person descending. Bryan and I kept our harnesses on at all times, rather than taking them off after each descent only to have to put them back on again in a few minutes.

Although the technical work was difficult, and the nature of the slopes treacherous, it was our preoccupation with the main falls that made this intervening section seem so lengthy. Our minds were not on the stunning beauty surrounding us. We had no contemplation of the graceful swirl of the water as it gathered the foam from one side of a pool only to drop it on the other. We were obsessed with a singleness of purpose that at once drove us to make excellent time in our descent and yet led us to feel that we would never get there.

Still, there were times that the rugged beauty of a turn in the canyon wall or an amazing gash in the floor that we had to carefully skirt caused us to pause. Sometimes we stood in awe of the magnificence that surrounded us, sometimes we challenged ourselves on short rock faces.

When we came to the fifth pitch I began to think that I was losing my mind. I remembered the arduous challenge the canyon had been the first time. Yet somehow this exceeded all my remembrance. Could there really have been this many pour-offs before the falls?

There was no possibility of having missed it. There was no way down to the desert floor without either leaving the canyon or making the great descent. The pitch we faced here was one that we both could descend without having to rappel. It was about a fifty foot drop. Bryan climbed down to a ledge about halfway. I lowered the packs to him there and he climbed down the rest of the way. From the ledge I lowered the packs once more and we were on our way.

Within fifty yards we came to another pitch. This one requiring more than the 50 meter rope. We decided that it was impractical to continue using the 600 foot rope as a unit. Coiling and uncoiling the rope was cumbersome and time consuming. In order to pull the rope down after a rappel, it did not matter if there were a knot at the mid-point. As we set up this rappel we stretched out the rope and cut it exactly at the center, speeding up our rope work considerably.

We recoiled one rope and looped the other around a juniper tree upstream from the drop. It was a tricky pitch, twisting to the east as it dropped. The trick was to begin descending on the right, crossing over to the left at the very last moment possible. We both made the descent without mishap and found ourselves confronted with another drop in less than thirty yards.

This pitch was possible to down-climb. I descended without my pack and immediately remembered the spot. This short pitch was the one that we had let David descend first in 1983. It was here that David's (and Bruce's) expletives gave us the first inkling of what lay ahead.

It was not quite 2:30 as I peered over the edge of the dreadful drop. It had been just over 10 hours hiking time from the Basin. I let out a yell that had to have been heard clear in Marathon. Eight years of planning, dreaming, sweating, cursing, climbing and descending slickrock water and ice had come to this. Bryan and I were about to document the height of an astounding landmark, perhaps the highest falls in Texas, a falls that no one else had ever seen and certainly never had been descended.

I ran back to the base of the little cliff, shouting up the canyon, "Bryan, we're here!" With just a few words of guidance Bryan had joined me in the narrow slot that leads to the great falls. We both were overcome. We had no need of words, however, to express our feelings.

[pic]

Bryan on rappel in middle Cattail Canyon

V. AT THE EDGE

As we approached the pour-off together, the reality of our situation began to sink in. The euphoria that filled me gradually began to consolidate into a rock in the pit of my stomach. Descending the falls no longer was a dream, but the task at hand.

Bryan stood in awe at the brink. Looking downstream from this point the canyon carves a deep slit several times deeper than it is wide. Directly below us we could see a roughly circular area of vegetation. When water flowed full force this area would become a swirling pool. The gorge immediately proceeded to its next drop. This was another of those spiraling descents into a black spot which, only by reference to the pools we had seen earlier, we knew was a deep, clear tinaja. The canyon walls rose to the right, to the left, and even directly in front of us. A gap draining the northeast corner of the area below was the only chink in the fortress that enclosed us.

"My God," Bryan said quietly, "I thought you had to go to the Himalayas to see something like this."

Time had dimmed my memory of the magnitude of the drop. We stood in a narrow chasm about sixty feet long, twenty feet wide and one hundred feet deep. An enormous boulder plugged the end of the slot collecting a mass of debris behind it. The flow of water which was visible at the south end of the chasm disappeared beneath some ten feet of rubble at the north end, emerging under the mammoth chockstone at the lip of the cliff.

As I peered over the edge I couldn't tell if the vegetation in the canyon below was trees or shrubs. Due to the slope of the rock, it was not possible to see more than about fifty feet down the cliff face. The line of sight from the top was to a point which appeared to be at least ten to twenty yards away from the base of the cliff itself.

In surveying the chasm in which we stood we found no shortage of rappel anchors. The area was strewn with boulders of every shape and size. We finally decided on a nine inch diameter tree growing less than four feet from the edge of the cliff, situated in a crack leading directly down the west side of the chockstone.

We wrestled our gear from over-stuffed packs, and began preparing for the descent. I placed two separate slings around the tree and secured each of them with a locking caribiner. I tied the two three-hundred-foot ropes together, cast a few loops of rope over a nearby rock and flung the free ends into the abyss. The rope flowed down over the edge free and cleanly. We had absolutely no way of knowing if it reached the bottom. Quickly saturated with water from the falls below the lip, the two ropes combined to weigh some sixty-five pounds. With friction generated as the ropes ran across the rock face, we could not tell if the tension in the rope changed to any significant extent as we played out the line. There would be no way to feel it ground.

I clipped the rope into the anchor, rappelled down a few feet and could see no more than was visible from the edge. I pulled myself back up and we considered our situation. The magnitude of the drop confounded our senses. There simply was nothing to use as a meaningful scale.

There were, of course, topographic limitations. Cattail Canyon drops 2,760 feet from the ridge above Laguna Meadow to the desert floor. It drops roughly 340 feet to the dam. Seven pitches above the falls drop at least 500 feet. Four pitches below the falls drop at least 600 feet. Being conservative, the drop from the dam to the first pour-off is 300 feet. So 2,760 minus 1,740 equals: 1,020 feet. The falls could not possibly be higher than 1,020 feet. For a person holding seven hundred sixty-five feet of rope this was not particularly encouraging.

Looking at the United States Geological Survey 7 1/2 minute topographic map, no massive cliffs were indicated at any point in the canyon. As we knew that at least nine such drops existed, this was not very helpful either. There lay, however, a point on the map which offered some hope. It was a spot where five of the forty-foot contour lines all lay within less than a quarter inch of each other, with some actually merging at one point. This indicated a steep slope in excess of two hundred feet high.

The location of this point on the map was close to where we should have been. It was difficult to tell exactly where we were due to the errors in the topographic details of the map. If the group of contours we were looking at was indeed our falls, they could not exceed two hundred and eighty feet in height. Our ropes would easily reach the bottom.

Every good plan allows for contingencies. I was convinced that our plan wasn't all that good, given our limited information, and the known inaccuracy of the map, so we needed a bomb-proof alternative in the event that the ropes did not reach the bottom. One of the surprisingly common causes of death in rock-climbing accidents is rappelling off the end of a rope. To ensure against this it is a simple procedure to tie a knot in the end of the rope that cannot slip through the braking system. It was this principle that I used as the basis for my contingency plan.

Along with the braking system at my waist, which I would use to control my descent, I set one up at the anchor by the tree. I pulled up one end of the now dangling rope and tied a knot in it. This way, in the event that the ropes did not reach the bottom, one rope would jam in the braking system and the other would not. I could then let go of the second rope allowing Bryan to lower me an additional three hundred feet using the second braking system.

In addition, I coiled the 50 meter rope and tied it on my back, as well as two prusik loops. Thus equipped I could descend any drop up to 765 feet. With the stretch in the rope, and hanging from the end, I could manage a descent of nearly 800 feet without killing myself.

If I were unable to reach the bottom with a standard 300 foot rappel, we had agreed that Bryan then would descend via the route our group had taken the previous year. This route required only a series of scrambles and shorter rappels, all fairly easy and well within the reach of a single three hundred foot rope.

Bryan and I reviewed the system and what to do in the event that the ropes were not long enough. We both were surmised that the ropes probably reached the bottom with ten to fifty feet to spare. Bryan would wait near the edge and I would yell up to him as soon as I could see the bottom. If the ropes reached, he would then lower both packs and follow me in like manner.

At last I could put it off no longer. The equipment was in place. Bryan and I had checked and rechecked every detail. Intellectually I was confident that the ropes reached. USGS topographic maps, while far from perfect, are remarkable in accuracy and detail. Bryan was as reliable a person as anyone I knew to have on the other end of my rope. Still somehow my visceral reaction had my stomach tied in knots.

I lifted the rope, looped it through my figure eight descender and clipped the assembly to my harness. I looked at Bryan, smiled and said, "I'm scared out of my wits."

[pic]The view from the lip of the great pour-off in Cattail Canyon

VI. OVER THE EDGE

There was no particular reason for fear. Every anchor was doubled, every knot secured. I had two different means of completing the descent in the event the ropes failed to reach the bottom. I was well equipped, well experienced, well conditioned, and petrified. The fear of the unknown has a unique way of penetrating the very core of a person's consciousness. But down inside I knew better.

My descent was slow and methodical as I crept over the edge. There was 600 feet of saturated rope hanging below me. The friction it generated in the braking system was tremendous. I literally had to lift the rope and feed each foot through the figure-eight. This was not a graceful, bounding, made-for-TV descent. Nor was it intended to be. It was a true labor, feeding a cumbersome rope through a tight system while attempting to establish some sort of solid footing on wet, slimy rock.

It was just the way I wanted it. I had complete control of this descent. There was enough excitement here without having to worry about preventing a free-fall.

I crept down the first 100 feet and still could not see the bottom. Imposing canyon walls loomed on three sides. The distant ground seemed as far away as when I had begun. I eased over a bulge in the rock.

"Bryan," I shouted. "It doesn't reach! It's not even close!"

More than 150 feet below, the loose ends of the rope dangled in mid-air. The afternoon sun had warmed the desert floor. A warm, rising air-mass was funneled up the canyon. The dangling ropes were buffeted, two threads in the wind. I was astonished at the gap between the ends of the ropes and the ground. Again the difficulty of scale came into play. About fifty feet above the end of the ropes there was a second small bulge in the cliff face. From that point down the cliff was an overhang.

I wanted to do something to gain a sense of just how far off the ground I still was. I reached down with my right hand, taking the two ropes that trailed down below me, and looping them around my left leg twice. Although there was naturally enough friction in the figure-8 to keep me from going anywhere, I wasn't taking any chances.

Both hands were now free. Being painfully careful not to drop the extra rope into the abyss, I slowly untied it from my back. I then pulled up the end of the other rope in which I had tied the knot, and tied one end of 50 meter rope to it.

When I cast the joined ropes downward, the coiled rope sprung free like a cobra in mid-strike, arcing gracefully downward when suddenly it straightened, stiffened and hung fast, caught on a tiny out-cropping 100 feet or more below me. The now-looped end dangled, remaining a considerable distance above the canyon floor. I could not tell whether the extra rope would reach the bottom, but it appeared to be close enough that I had no doubt the 300 feet Bryan could lower me was more than adequate.

As I made the rappel, the figure-8 squeezed the rope dry, sending a stream of water down the rope below me. Having paused just these few minutes, the trickle of water following each strand like a wick, had re-saturated the rope, and began to saturate me. As I hung there I gradually became soaked from the waist down. I had one Leica in each of the oversized pockets of the khaki hiking pants I wore. Despite the vagaries of the situation in which I found myself, I could think of nothing but the condition of my two cameras. I wanted to get moving again.

Besides being uncomfortable and inconvenient, the water was bitterly cold. Though the air temperature was near 70, the water must have been in the 40's or 50's.

The ropes hanging below me now carried the weight of the saturating water, as well as their own. The twin ropes hung 150 feet below, the single strand added 165. Soaked with water, there was some 40 pounds hanging from my leg. I struggled to keep my cameras dry while simultaneously freeing my leg from the ever-tightening grip of the rope. I began to shiver with cold, the frigid water numbing my hands as I worked with the rope wrapped around my leg. As I lifted the rope to free my leg from the coil, the rope slipped from my hand, allowing the coil to re-tighten, this time below my knee.

The loop continued to tighten as it slipped down my leg. The ropes cinched down tight around my ankle, hung up on the collar of my boot. With my left hand covering my cameras, as I hung nearly upside-down, I loosened the laces on my left boot with my right hand and with my right foot kicked off the offending shoe. Pointing my toes, the rope slipped easily over the end of my foot and I was ready to continue the descent, sans one boot.

It was clear that photography was out of the question until I reached the bottom. If the cameras soaked up any more water it might be out of the question for the rest of the trip. I advised Bryan to get ready to lower me down. "Okay," came his simple reply.

I continued my descent on both ropes. The figure-8 resumed squeezing the water from the ropes, and, for the moment, I ceased getting any wetter. Soon I realized that my misery was only beginning. The last fifty feet of the rappel was past the overhang. Once I passed the bulge, I hung helplessly in the main flow of water.

This was no Niagara, but hanging there, unable to avoid it and unable to do anything to keep warm, was torture. The falls at this time of year consisted of a flow about equal to a bathtub faucet at moderate volume. I dangled helplessly, suspended in a frigid shower. As soon as I reached the end of the ropes I shouted to Bryan, "Are you ready to lower me down?"

"What?"

I realized that as we got further apart, communication would have to become more intentional. Bryan was by now well out of sight, 300 feet above me. The sound of falling water made it even more difficult for me to hear him. I would have to speak one syllable at a time.

"Are--you--rea--dy--to--low--er--me--down?" I shouted.

"Sure," he replied, quite unaware of my condition.

"I--am--let--ting--go--of--the--end--of--the--rope."

"Go--a--head."

The free end of the rope approached the figure-eight. Every muscle in my body tensed as I prepared to do the unthinkable. I was about to rappel off the end of a rope... by design! For years it had been drilled into my head. For years I had solemnly lectured students. Ingrained in my psyche as the most irresponsible, ignorant, fool-hardy, stupidest act a climber (or any human for that matter) could commit, "Whatever you do NEVER RAPPEL OFF THE END OF YOUR ROPE!"

The knot joining the Bluewater and Edelweiss ropes came securely to rest against back of the figure-eight. As the free end slipped through the braking system, I gripped it with both hands, just above my waist. Gradually I relaxed my grip.

Was Bryan ready? Had he underestimated the amount of friction required to hold me, wet ropes and all? Should I just loop my prusik around the standing rope, stand off the braking system and reset on the lower rope? I could now tell that it would reach close to the bottom.

Finally, I released the rope completely.

I was still alive! I didn't plummet to my death. I didn't find myself in the fast lane to the pearly gates (or the River Styx.) I simply dropped a foot or two and then stopped.

There was a considerable amount of friction in the braking system I had established at the anchor. It was possible that Bryan would have to feed the rope through, at least initially, as I had. This did not, however, explain the present paralysis. Why wasn't I at least moving, however slowly, or in fits and starts? Within two or three minutes I began to lose my patience. I was freezing, hanging there helpless as a fly caught by a single thread in a spider's web. I waited as long as I could stand it and bellowed (to the extent that one can bellow monosyllabically.) "Low--er--me--down!"

"Just--a--min--ute," came Bryan's reply, calm as ever.

I waited again.

What on earth was he doing? This was a heck of a time to have to take a leak!

The cliff faces due north. I was in absolute shadow. It is forever in absolute shadow. The face is black as ebony, polished by wind and water, the water rendering the surface as bright as a Steinway concert grand piano.

I was desperately cold as the water soaked me completely. I was suspended in mid-air, fifty feet below the overhang, ten feet from the cliff face, dry and inviting. I began to rock back and forth. Swinging first a foot, then two. Soon my stockinged foot would touch the rock. I gave myself a gentle push. In the water and out of the water...in the water and out of the water. With both feet now reaching the rock I pushed off in earnest. I swung out fifteen feet and back quickly into the face of the cliff. The smooth face presented few holds of any kind. I hoped that in an instant of contact I might find some small nubbin of rock large enough to grasp and hold me out of the water, even for a moment.

I grabbed and gripped with all the strength I could find in my numb hands. The flake was large enough for the ends of two fingers. I found a small spot on which to place my left foot, clinging as tightly as I could with flexed toe. I groped with my right hand searching the slick face for a cup-shaped indentation that might serve as a bomb-proof hold. I had no success. I could not hold on long. My forearms began to cramp. Within a minute, perhaps two, my grip faded, my fingers slipping inexorably off the slim margin holding me out of the frigid falls, and I swung back out into the shower.

I shouted up again, "Is--some--thing--wrong?!" I was shivering so hard, I could hardly control myself. I had never experienced anything like it.

"It--will--be--just--a--min--ute."

I was beginning to think that I wouldn't make it that long. I had started shivering even before seeking refuge on the cliff face. I tried swinging back to the cliff again. I shook the stiffness out of both arms, reaching for the now familiar hold with my right hand, searching the unknown rock face to the left. As the strength in my right hand faded, I switched, gripping the hold with my left, running my right hand over as much of the face as I could reach. I began to lose my strength, more quickly this time.

Unbeknownst to me Bryan worked frantically at the top. The rope ran through two anchors around trees at the lip of the falls. One of them, stretched tight, carried the braking system, bearing the weight of ropes, water, and me. The other hung just the slightest bit slack. The anchors consisted of slings of tubular nylon webbing, cloth-like material, one inch wide and about 1/8" thick. As the rope I released reversed direction, suddenly pulling upward instead of down, the webbing used for the slack anchor was pulled into the braking system, stopping me fast. Bryan didn't see it until it was hopelessly jammed.

There was too short a run of rope between tree and the cliff's edge for Bryan to get a very good grip. The friction in the braking system made it even more difficult for him to pull it free. Finally he resorted to his pocket knife, cutting through the webbing, and working to pull it out of the braking system.

I knew nothing of what went on 300 feet above me. I only knew that I was beginning to shiver uncontrollably and wanted very badly to be back on solid ground. Plummeting instantly to my death was sounding more attractive all the time.

Suddenly, without any warning from Bryan, I began to descend. It was a smooth, steady, graceful descent. In less than a minute my feet gently touched the canyon floor. I disconnected from the rope, shouting, "Off rappel!" I was overcome by a sense of relief combined with a feeling of teamwork and accomplishment. I shrieked with jubilation and exhilaration as never before. Ultimately everything worked as we had planned. The resourcefulness and reliability of my partner represented everything that mountaineering was meant to be. There are certain obstacles in life one simply cannot overcome alone.

Almost immediately, however, I began to shiver again. It was only 3:30 but already the deep gorge was darkening. I was completely soaked and beginning to feel some stiffness in my joints.

"Bryan!" I shouted.

"What?"

"Please--low--er--my--pack--I--think--I'm--get--ting--hy--po--ther--mic."

"What?!"

I realized that I would have to be even more intentional about communicating, now that a gulf of more than 450 feet separated us.

"Please----low----er----my----pack----I----think----I'm----get----ting----hy----po----ther----mic."

I had to pause two full seconds between syllables.

"O----kay."

Bryan disconnected the braking system, attached my pack to the end of the rope already at the top, and lowered it down to me.

"Low----er----it----quick----ly----so----it----won't----get----wet," I yelled.

As the pack quickly descended I gathered leaves, twigs, branches and small logs, arranging them on a bare stretch of gravel to build a fire. As soon as the pack was within reach I pulled it out of the flow of water. I laid it on the ground, opening the top compartment, and grabbed a fuel bottle and some waterproof matches. The wood was dry as tinder. The few ounces of fuel with which I doused it set a roaring fire that gradually warmed my outstretched fingers and toes.

As I sat on the gravel, I took off my remaining boot and soaking wet socks. I stripped off my shirt, rejoicing in the warmth of the fire, which radiated directly on my skin. The heat of the fire, and the quiet peace that grows once the excitement has faded, gradually warmed me to the core.

Within a few minutes I mustered the courage to leave my little fire. I walked over to my pack and carried it back to my new best friend, still greedy to soak in its warmth, and began to change my clothes. I put on a T-shirt and a long-sleeved flannel shirt over it. I pulled out dry underwear and a pair of shorts. Some dry socks and my orienteering shoes completed the wardrobe. Although I had been terribly cold just minutes earlier, it was still seventy degrees out and the shorts were quite comfortable.

I searched the area and finally found my wayward boot. I placed it with the other wet clothes near the fire.

It was time to address the subject of Bryan's descent. There was no doubt that he would have to use the alternate route. By the time I had recovered, it was nearly 4:00 P.M. We had less than two hours of usable daylight.

The alternate route required a climb out of the slot from which I had descended, to a saddle northwest of the falls. From there a series of three rappels and some down-climbing would bring him into the canyon some distance downstream from where I stood. We did not know exactly how far downstream, as we had not come back up-canyon to look at the falls the year before.

We had had an exhausting two days to this point and with virtually no discussion we concluded that it would be best to camp where each of us was and join up in the morning. Communication over the enormous gulf bordered upon impossible. I had difficulty hearing over the falling water and through the resonance of the echoes.

At dusk we retired in our respective places. I had a supper of gorp, crackers and a can of tuna, while watching my clothes dry by my illicit fire. I thought of the events leading to my present state warmth, contentment, and accomplishment. "Bry----an!" I shouted.

It took him a minute to reach the edge of the cliff and respond. "What?"

"Thanks----for----sav----ing----my----life."

"No----pro----blem," came his usual reply.

No problem? Suddenly I realized how different the two worlds in which we now existed were. Though I could not have made the descent without him, though his presence was essential and integral to my descent, Bryan had no conception of the horribly difficult conditions below the lip of that cliff.

Those were the last words we exchanged that evening. I spent an hour and a half with my camera, trying to capture the play of fire light on the canyon walls. I tried to keep the magnitude of the blaze to a minimum, was using rather slow film, and met with absolutely no success.

I rolled my sleeping pad and bag out next to the fire. As I sat down on the edge of the warm down bag, I pondered the frigid descent I had just made. I toyed with the words to a song I never finished. A strange, negative feeling permeated every attempt at a verse. A sense of dread and awe lingered as strong as the sense of triumph and satisfaction I also experienced.

At about 7:00 P.M. I set up my tent fifteen yards or so from the fire, moved my sleeping paraphernalia and placed my pack inside, next to the bag. As I lay there listening to the music of falling water, I felt that I knew what each drop of water discovered as once more it rested upon solid ground.

[pic]

Me on the main rappel in Cattail Canyon

[pic]

Cattail Canyon main pour-off with rope hanging down after my descent

VII. TROUBLE IN PARADISE

Awakening well before dawn, I crawled out of my sleeping bag anticipating the chill of fresh morning air. Instead I was greeted by another warm morning. I stood silently, like a small child before a seemingly omnipotent and enormous school-master, and stared at the great wall rising stark against the starry sky. The crescent moon was barely visible overhead. I pulled my flashlight out from a little pocket sewn into the seam of the tent, slipped on my orienteering shoes and with them still untied, went to inspect the clothes drying on a nearby tree. The khaki pants I preferred for this type of hiking were still a bit damp, but not enough to be a problem in the unseasonably warm weather. I slipped on the pants and gingerly put on the somewhat more damp, and rather chilly, flannel shirt. (The fastest way to dry out your clothes is to wear them.) I fidgeted, adjusting it to keep the dampest sections off my back.

Bryan would be joining me at the base of the alternate route around the falls. I wanted to know exactly where we were going before he began his descent. I also wanted to be ready as early as possible so we could get on our way.

By the time I was ready to head down the canyon for a bit of reconnaissance the sky began to brighten. In about a hundred yards the main floor of the canyon dropped into the tight passage we had seen from above. This could be by-passed to the left without much difficulty. I climbed up and around and found myself looking down another severe pitch. This one dropped steeply into a large tinaja that was unavoidable. Once again a passable route was available up higher on the western wall of the canyon. A few hundred yards below this second pour-off I came to the exact spot where we had emerged when taking the alternate route in 1983.

I could see up to a saddle which was accessible and from which Bryan would easily be able to see me. I turned back upstream and headed back to camp.

I got out the camera equipment as soon as I returned. I knew that we would not be able to stay long after Bryan joined me below the falls. It would require a good day's work to reach the Basin by nightfall. This was the day we had projected as our return to the Basin. It was important that we return our back-country permit that evening. I did not want the Park Service to mount a search effort if we remained unaccounted for.

I disassembled my tent and was about to begin rolling it up when Bryan called to me. "John."

"Good----morn----ing," I answered.

"I----am----go----ing----to----come----down----here." he said, pointing down the main face.

This was devastating news.

Without a single strand of rope long enough to reach the bottom, Bryan would have to get his braking system around a knot in the rope. This was possible, but certainly no small task in wet, cold conditions, and without special equipment and training. Among the gear we had left in the truck were two pairs of ascenders, devices which enable a climber to ascend a standing rope, regardless of the nature of the rock face. I could not imagine Bryan descending a face, longer than our longest rope, without experience and a good means of standing off the rope. He did not have the luxury of having someone above him to lower him down in the event of trouble.

"How----are----you----go----ing----to----do----it?" I asked.

It was terribly difficult to carry on a conversation over the enormous gulf. A five minute discussion would take an hour. Any detailed statement or question was certain to receive a frustrated, "What?" in response. The substance of what he said, as I understood it, was that he intended to lower himself down part way with one rope and then rappel the rest of the way. Though I heard it, I could not believe it. I could not understand how it could possibly succeed. I asked him to describe it again, but I still had difficulty comprehending.

It seemed that Bryan intended to loop one rope through the anchor near the top. He would attach one end of this rope to his harness. The other end was attached to the anchor. As he let the slack out of the rope he would lower himself, hand over hand. The way I interpreted his plan, there seemed to be two difficulties. First, when he got to the point at which he could lower himself down no further, he would be in an impossible position. At this point the rope would go from his waist, up through the anchor, back down to his hand, and then back up to the tree where he had tied it off. When he let go of the rope, he would fall twice the distance he had lowered himself, before the rope would catch him again.

The second difficulty was that he planned to attach his harness to the rope at a point above the knot joining the two ropes together. Thus he still had to get around the knot when he reached it. He would have to disconnect himself from the rope, reattach the braking system and begin his descent again. With ascenders and other sophisticated hardware this would be difficult. Without them, and under the circumstances of wetness and cold, it was unimaginable.

Bryan and I were indeed in two different worlds. Communication was so difficult, we might as well have been speaking different languages. Our experiences of the previous day had been totally opposite as well. I saw my descent of the falls as a worst-possible-case scenario, in which I found myself relying on our back-up plan, and completely dependent on my partner. Though our plan worked almost flawlessly, I had not anticipated the incredible difficulty of managing in the cold, wet conditions.

Bryan saw only a system that had been established in case the rope was not long enough, and how it worked when we needed it. Even the minor problem (that seemed like forever to me) was just a couple of minutes for him to fix a jam in the rope, and easily lower me the rest of the way. What was the big deal? When we agreed that he would use take the other route if the rope didn't reach, neither one of us actually thought that it would turn out that way. Changing plans to him was simply no big deal.

Though he seemed supremely confident in his system for making the descent, I could not help but believe it would be trouble, serious trouble, if he attempted to carry it out. I felt sure I could not persuade him to abandon the descent of the falls, in favor of the alternate route down. I tried instead to envision a means of descent that might not kill him.

I proposed that he first attach his braking system to the Edelweiss rope, below the knot joining the two 300 foot ropes. He then could simply pass the Bluewater rope through the anchor and lower himself on a single strand for the first 300 feet and rappel down on the Edelweiss the last 160 or so. I drew a diagram and had him pull it up on the rope. It took him but a moment to let me know that he preferred his plan to mine.

I was deeply concerned that he had abandoned our original plan of by-passing the falls if the rope failed to reach. I was even more concerned about the nature of his proposed descent. However, we were on this trip as friends and partners, not as leader and follower and I respected his perseverance, his athletic ability and his intellect. This was not the first time I had questioned his judgment. It was clear that after having all night to consider it, that he wanted more than anything to descend this face. Bryan has a unique ability to bring all of his resources to bear upon whatever is before him, without losing complete control of his faculties. He was supremely confident that, not only could he make this descent, he could master any situation, any task, life might present him.

I was not so confident. I had been desperately cold on my descent the previous afternoon. If Bryan had to spend much time in making the descent he would need all of the warmth he could muster. I shouted up to him, "Put----on----all----of----your----clothes."

"WHY?"

As with all of our other conversations this one was quite cumbersome. Once he understood the nature of the problem he disappeared for a few minutes. He reappeared at the edge of the cliff bundled up in all of his clothing. Even though it was mid-December we had not carried any wool or polypropylene clothing. With a fantastically favorable weather forecast, we were equipped for primarily desert conditions. He did have on several shirts, two pairs of socks and his parka. After making the change he lowered his pack down to me.

He spent nearly another hour readying his system. He lowered the ropes down and shouted to me, "Does----it----reach?" "Yes," I called back.

The morning light now had reached the higher cliffs above the falls. I had four cameras and a variety of lenses at hand. I set them up, preparing to document Bryan's descent of the falls.

Bryan pulled the ropes back up. The Edelweiss was tied onto the end of the Bluewater. When he began his descent it was clear off the ground. I could see a loop in the Bluewater rope hanging from the top. Bryan peered over the edge, taking one last look before beginning the descent.

"Are----you----sure----it----will----work?" I asked.

"No----problem!" came his always confident reply.

As Bryan descended, lowering himself hand over hand, the end of the Edelweiss descended with him, the free end of the rope inching closer and closer to the ground. I pulled it away to keep it from landing in the pool of water there.

I took a just few pictures as Bryan descended. For the first sixty feet or so the descent was at a normal pace. The loop I had noticed earlier became more difficult to discern.

Suddenly it appeared that his feet slipped out from under him. He slid down the face at a rapidly increasing rate. Then, just as suddenly as he began his free fall, the rope pulled taut and he grunted as he came to an immediate stop.

Climbing ropes are designed for two basic kinds of work; static and dynamic. A dynamic rope is designed to absorb the impact of a falling climber. When the rope pulls tight it stretches as much as fifteen percent to absorb the shock of the fall. The Bluewater rope was a static line, the very best available. A static line is designed not to stretch. It can be quite inconvenient and even dangerous making long descents such as this with a rope that stretches excessively. This rope had a working elongation of about 1.2 percent. Bryan free-fell about 120 feet and stopped in about a foot and a half. The force required to stop a fall of that magnitude is staggering.

"Are----you----o----kay?" I shouted. "Fine," he replied. (Why did I ask?)

After the fall, the entire fifty meters of the Edelweiss rope lay on the ground before me. Bryan had stopped near the knot joining the two sections of Bluewater rope. It was difficult for me to see exactly what the situation was. He was suspended some two hundred eighty feet above me. Communication was, however, vastly improved.

When we had discussed the system he was using to make the descent I suggested that he carry some material for tying a prusik, a device that can be made of either rope or webbing, that enables a person to tie a loop on a standing rope. The person en rappel can then stand on the prusik while disconnecting from the rope and moving the braking system. Apparently, he had some other idea for getting the braking system around the knot.

Though still shouting, over a 100 yard gulf, and the sound of falling water, I could now speak without having to wait between syllables. "Is everything okay?" I asked, beginning to get more nervous. "It'll just take a minute to get ready," he replied.

As he worked he threw down his leather gloves, already completely soaked with water. The water was following the rope wick, just as it had when I was suspended in roughly the same spot. I nervously watched him struggling with the rope, and its attachment to his harness. After about ten minutes he suddenly shouted, "I've got it."

He reached for the rope below him, as if he were about to begin rappelling, and flipped upside-down. "I can't breathe!" He shouted. This was the first indication Bryan gave that something might be going other than exactly as he had planned.

[pic]

Bryan, having lowered himself about 50 feet, almost to the point of letting go of the rope

[pic]

Bryan at the end of his fall, just as the rope is catching him

VIII. DECISION

Bryan pulled himself back upright and again was able to breathe without any difficulty. I quickly tied two prusiks. We had discussed their function, and earlier in the trip I had shown him how they were attached and used on the rope. As I attached one of them to the end of the rope, Bryan yelled down to me, "I don't think I can pull the rope up."

The weight of the rope combined with the cold and fatigue to make every task more difficult. He had clearly been working hard to get around the knot in the rope. His hands had to be frozen, his fingers numb.

I quickly coiled the fifty meter rope, tied it on my back and told Bryan I was going to try to climb up above him. I rekindled the fire adding all the wood I could find. I knew that if, and when, I was able to lower Bryan down, he might not have the ability to build a fire for himself.

I put on a harness, slung a few chocks and caribiners on my rack and ran down the canyon. The cliffs surrounding the falls are absolutely sheer rock which is both unstable and too severe to climb. The walls rise 600 to 700 feet on all sides.

I decided to try to climb the route we had descended the prior year. I had scouted the route down the canyon earlier in the morning so I was able to make the descent much faster this time and soon found myself looking back up the route I originally had hoped to see Bryan descending. I began climbing directly up the wall of the canyon at a point next to the second pour-off downstream. I could see a saddle about three hundred feet above me that I thought might lead to a shorter route up above Bryan. The climb was easy, a moderate face with an abundance of good hand and foot-holds. Every move was easy and I climbed rapidly, considering only my goal. I began to feel good about my progress.

I approached a vegetated section and scrambled through the bracken directly to the saddle. Though I had reached the saddle quickly, I found myself no closer to the falls, to my anticipated destination above Bryan. I was looking across the gravel area in which I had camped, directly toward Bryan hanging at approximately my elevation, but a couple of hundred yards south. I was roughly half-way, in elevation, to the high point of the saddle above the falls.

I had to drop back down fifty feet before I could traverse to the proper route. The saddle I was heading for was about 100 feet above the falls. It lay above a draw that I had not remembered as being particularly noteworthy. Descending on a rope is quite a different matter than climbing rock. Especially solo. I brought the rope to help lower Bryan from above. It also might facilitate my descent from the saddle. It was of no use, however, in climbing by myself. In my mind I could not picture the last part of the route to the saddle.

The climb up the draw proved much more difficult than I had anticipated. The further I progressed, the less confident I became in my ability to make it. The lessons of a lifetime crowded into my mind. "The first rule of search and rescue is: NEVER ENDANGER ONE PERSON TO SAVE ANOTHER!"

The worst was yet to come. I was finally able to see the last stretch. It was a formidable face of steep and crumbling rock. I might have been able to make it, climbing my best, with excellent rock conditions. I had no belay. I was wearing a pair of orienteering shoes, excellent for speed, but not much good for rock work. I was well beyond what I normally would have climbed unprotected.

I stood on a small ledge, looking up, one hand on either hip, panting. My delusions of making a quick, heroic rescue quickly gave way to reality. I had no choice but to retreat.

Down-climbing is always much more difficult than making the ascent. Loose rock, thorns, a feeling of urgency, a feeling of dread, did nothing to improve my attitude about this climb. I had, in fact, climbed up some things I didn't believe I was capable of climbing back down.

Twice I was able to fashion some semblance of a rappel. The toughest section I protected by looping the rope around the base of a small yucca, growing almost horizontally out of the rock face. I felt sure that it would not hold all of my weight. I was able, however, to ease myself down the rope, keeping hands and feet in nearly constant contact with the rock.

At high noon I returned to the base of the falls. As I had made the descent and scrambled back up-canyon I ran through every conceivable option in my mind. I knew of no way to get above Bryan and lower him down. I could prusik up the rope to where Bryan hung. Under the conditions of water, temperature and a 280 foot rope climb, I didn't believe I could be of any use to him. I had to get help. I had to get back to the Basin.

I slowly and deliberately shouted up to Bryan, "I-am-go-ing-to-the-Ba-sin-to-get-a-hel-i-cop-ter."

All Bryan said was "Okay." His voice seemed steady and he showed no signs of panic.

I had run down the canyon in my orienteering shoes. Even in the short distance I had gone several cactus and agave spikes had pierced the thin leather uppers, penetrating the sides of both feet and even the tops of a few toes. Although speed was critical, survival was more important.

I sat down, stripped off the shoes and laced up my hiking boots. Heavy and somewhat cumbersome, they were sturdy and would protect my feet and ankles in several ways. I carefully recoiled my rope, leaving about six feet of rope hanging from each end. I pulled the rope up high on my back, with the coil right behind my neck. The free ends came over my shoulders, under my arms, around my back, pinning the rope tightly in place, and around to the front again, where I tied a square knot in the center of my chest.

Speed was my only concern, and I intended to carry absolutely nothing I didn't absolutely have to have. I was clad in my cotton khaki hiking pants, cotton T-shirt and a long-sleeved plaid flannel shirt. I drank as much water as I could stand, stuffed my mouth full of cashews, placing the Baggie containing the extras in my left shirt pocket, and began to run.

IX. TOWARD THE BASIN

East. I knew only that the Basin Ranger Station had to be nearly due east.

For the moment that meant up. I had climbed out of Cattail Canyon once before. In 1977 Mark and Kevin Mosier and I made the ascent from just above the first pour-off. It involved a difficult climb over the first ridge, a descent into a precipitous gorge we called "Greenwater Canyon," because the only source of water we had was a moss covered seep that produced an almost iridescent green water, another difficult ascent, and then the drop into the Basin itself. It took us two long half-days.

The west slope of the Basin is a series of nearly sheer cliffs, many unclimbed and unclimbable. Finding a safe route from above is a matter requiring great care, perseverance and more than a little luck. I believed that I could find a non-technical route out, but left my harness on with a small rack of chocks and caribiners.

The climb from the canyon floor was tedious at best. I had used my adrenaline rush in the attempt to climb around the falls. This climb would have to be made on real conditioning and fortitude.

The best route was up a scree slope that led east-north-east, and up about 500 feet. Scree is great for descending. It is sheer murder for climbing. The fine rocks slip backward in proportion to the impact they receive from a hiker. The faster I tried to go, the more I slipped back, the slower I went.

I was in a state of controlled panic, trapped in an exercise in futility. I plotted a course from bush...to tree...to cactus...to yucca. The places vegetation grew offered some respite as the ground underneath was stabilized by the roots. I reached solid rock surprisingly quickly. Though the climbing was a bit tricky, it provided a short route to a spur leading to the top of the ridge.

From the top of the spur I could look back and see Bryan for the first time. It was not difficult to imagine him hanging, as I had, with the water sapping his strength every minute.

The afternoon sun was brutal as I approached the summit of the ridge. I had worn long pants and a long sleeved shirt to protect myself from the vegetation. Soon they were drenched in sweat. It was odd to consider the contrast between my feelings 24 hours earlier, desperate and hypothermic, and my discomfort now. It was particularly so given Bryan's helplessness hanging in the shadows, chilled by water, as my throat became dry. I scrambled over rock and avoided thorns and other obstacles by sheer reflex. As I ran, stumbled, climbed, scrambled, clawed my way to the ridge-top my mind was overrun with a thousand thoughts.

The pressing question was what time I would reach the ranger station. If it took me until the next day I was in real trouble...Bryan was in real trouble. I hoped to make it by four o'clock. I had no way, however, of knowing what time it was. I had looked at my watch as I sat on the ground changing shoes, preparing to depart. It was 12:09 P.M. I had, in my haste, forgotten to put it on.

It had taken twelve hours of hiking the last time I made the trek, but that was different. There were three of us. We had two week's provision, packs, tents, sleeping bags. We had no reason to rush.

Doubts crowded into my mind. Was I running for help? Was I running away? Besides my conscience driving me to move, I felt more than a little self-pity. I wanted to just sit down and quit.

In more than twelve years of experience I had never been involved in an accident of any kind. No one had so much as broken a bone or needed stitches. Bryan was married, expecting a baby. I knew his family. How could I face them? What about Sasha?

I had no choice. I had to make it in time.

I crested the first ridge and found myself looking into another canyon. I expected this. This would be Greenwater, which I would have to cross in order to get to the ridge above the Basin. Everything seemed normal and it was an extraordinary relief to be headed downhill. I had climbed about 1,200 feet in this first ascent. Having eaten no breakfast, I was beginning to feel a bit weak. From the ridge top I could still see Bryan hanging there on the face of the falls. The Bluewater rope was striking, a golden thread standing out against the blackness.

While this whirlpool of questions, answers, doubts, hopes, swirled through my head, my mind remained fixed on the task at hand.

I stuffed a handful of cashews into my mouth. My eyes surveyed the far wall of the gorge. I selected the route I would follow, took a deep breath, lowered my head and began a mad dash downward into the undergrowth.

It was about 700 feet down the slope to the canyon bottom. Despite the steep grade, I virtually ran full speed. I used every available piece of vegetation as a hand-hold. From time to time it would strike me that, yes, the last one was a yucca. The solid-as-steel, needle-sharp spines of agave constantly pierced my calves and shins. Juniper branches, fish-hook cactus needles, cat-claw acacia all joined in the free-for-all shredding of my clothes. Each wound drove the lesson home further. As I continued my descent I moderated the pace. By the time I reached the canyon floor my hands bled from a dozen or more razor-like slits. My pants and shirt hung loose, arms and legs showing through holes sliced and ripped by the vegetation.

The floor of this canyon was a mirror image of much of Cattail. There was, much to my dismay, no water. The soil was damp in places but there was no flowing or standing water. As I studied my planned route up the next slope I stuffed another handful of cashews in my mouth.

I was becoming dehydrated. My mouth was so dry that I had a great deal of trouble swallowing. But I knew that I needed the food in my system anyway.

It was a cruel request to ask my legs to carry me up another slope. I had treated my body as if the unsuccessful scramble up the route above the falls would be the only effort required of me for the day. The wear of pace and terrain, bleeding arms and legs, twisted ankles, was beginning to take its toll. Every step became an effort in itself. I could no longer measure progress by the greater units of ridge and canyon.

I began to play games in my mind. The goals were simple. Make it that out-cropping, then you can rest. I knew I couldn't but it would get me there. How many steps to that yucca? I began to count every stride an accomplishment. It was these little things that kept me going, despite my parched throat, and dry, cracked lips. These, and the knowledge that over the next ridge I would see the Basin spread out before me, a rugged and beautiful panorama, to be sure, but, more importantly, hope...rescue...rest. For the moment I could forget burning calves, bleeding palms.

Finally, I was out of the trees, scrambling along another rock ridge to the summit.

X. VOICES

"John!"

I wheeled about and shouted "Yes!"

As I listened intently the wind rose and I could not possibly have heard anything. I could see the single golden strand bright against black rock. The spot where Bryan hung was out of sight behind the next ridge.

"Bryan!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. Again the wind rose. Perhaps he had gotten himself free. There was no way to tell. I was, once again, torn between the thought of returning to the canyon to help, to check on, to be with, my friend, and the thought of continuing on to the ranger station. There could be no choice but to continue. If he were free and we rescued a happy, healthy, embarrassed man there would be no lasting harm. If I returned to a friend, trapped and helpless I would doom him and myself to fates I could not contemplate.

Again I thought of friends and family. I thought of Sasha. I shouted once more, "Bryan!"

There was no hope of hearing him at this point. Could I really be absolutely certain it was his voice I had heard in the first place. I turned back toward the hill and scrambled the last few yards to the summit.

My heart sank.

I was not looking down into the basin as I had expected. The canyon I saw was not on the map, nor did it lie in the register of my experience. Although it was not as deep as the last one, an overwhelming sense of frustration engulfed me. I was looking down into some disturbing Brigadoon. Had I somehow turned the wrong way? Was there simply another intermediary canyon in this area, downstream from the area we had crossed years before? With a combination of anger, frustration and determination I plunged headlong down the slope.

I reached the bottom in a much shorter time than I had the first one. To my relief, this one was graced by a small, clear, cool stream.

I fell on my hands and knees and immersed my head in the refreshing water. I drank until I could hold my breath no longer. I ate a few more cashews and took another drink. Perhaps this was Greenwater.

Either this was it or we were in real trouble. I had only the position of the sun in the afternoon sky to indicate the time of day. It seemed that every time I looked up the sun had moved visibly nearer the horizon. I hurriedly drank one last draught and was on my way once more.

I couldn't help but think the unthinkable. What if it wasn't Greenwater. What if the Basin wasn't over the next ridge. Bryan surely was becoming hypothermic. I had no way of knowing how much water was following the rope. If he could keep halfway dry, the weather would pose no difficulty. I had no measure of whether he was in no danger at all, or had no chance at all.

My strength was waning and my sense of balance with it. My hands bled gradually more as I grasped for more unreliable hand holds. I had to stop occasionally to remove bunches of cactus thorns from my arms or legs after stumbling into a prickly pear. My legs looked more and more like pin cushions; my calves grew numb from the swords of countless agave.

I still relied upon the game of bush to bush, rock to rock, counting steps to keep my mind off the grim reality that faced me. As I approached the top of the next ridge I suddenly turned back.

"John!"

Once again I could see only the black top of the cliff face. "Bryan!" I screamed as loudly as possible. The wind rose as before, obscuring any possible response. The thought of leaving Bryan tormented me more than ever. I cursed the wind, I cursed the water, I cursed the rock. But no one could hear. I had no choice but to keep running.

I dug down a little deeper, and soon stood at the top of the ridge. The familiar panorama of Casa Grande, Emory Peak, the Window and Green Gulch gave me a lift. I let out a sigh of relief, while remembering that the worst might well be yet to come. I stood at well over 6,000 feet above sea level. The ranger station was between 1,000 and 2,000 vertical feet below me. I still had one small canyon to cross. Oak Canyon drained the Basin, the slopes of Emory, Casa Grande, and the other sentries of the Chisos. Directly below me, its floor lay 300 feet below the Basin Ranger Station, my destination.

From the trip of eight years earlier I knew there was a scree slope that led all the way down to Oak Canyon. Finding it was the difficult part. To choose the wrong route was to end up in a maze of cliffs and rock slopes ranging from treacherous to impossible. I hit the scree and sailed down the slopes.

I slid, virtually free-falling, hundreds of feet at a time. I strained to keep my slide under control. Sweat soaked my clothing and burned my eyes. I stopped for short rests twice during the descent. Despite this, the quarter mile drop into Oak Canyon took not more than ten minutes.

There was flowing water in the canyon this year. With the amount of human traffic in the Basin, and the pack stock of local outfitters, I would have been wise to avoid the water. Instead, I sunk my face in the first pool I could reach and drank until I could drink no more.

At last I was in the Basin. I was still three quarters of a mile from and more than 300 feet below the ranger station. But, there was a psychological lift from being in the Basin itself. Thoroughly exhausted, I began the climb away from the stream. Most of the elevation gain occurred in the first short section, followed by essentially flat walking the rest of the way.

To the north I spotted a group on horseback. "Help!" I shouted. They were too far off to hear me. "Help!" I shouted again. As I continued up the hill I bent forward and put a hand on each knee to push and help my failing legs get me up the last slope. The mini-goals I set for myself became ever shorter. I wanted to sit down and rest. I wanted to quit. Despite the drink I was cotton-mouthed already.

At last I reached a trail...only half a mile to the ranger station. My mind began to focus on time. My boots weighed two and three-quarters pounds each. I was barely able to lift them. I tried to make myself run. I tried to make myself hurry. But I couldn't I stumbled down the trail at something approaching a fast walk.

I had to make it in time.

The sun never ceases its eternal course across the desert sky, but some times it seems to travel faster than others. Each time I looked up, it seemed to have moved hours nearer the rim of the mountains. The sun was still above the ridge on the west side of the Basin. It couldn't be as late as it felt. Was it 4:00? 5:00?

I had no faith in my senses. I seemed to have been running, walking, slipping, sliding, sweating, bleeding, forever. My pace never seemed adequate, not for a moment. I reached the edge of the parking lot. There was no one in sight. I staggered across to the door of the ranger station.

The door was locked. There was no one inside. A little dial hanging in the window indicated they would be back at 8:00 A.M. "Damn," I said to myself, "It's later than I thought." The ranger station was closed for the day.

Through the window, however, I could make out a clock on the back wall. It said 1:50. I had made it to the Basin in an hour and forty-one minutes. That was less than half the time I had hoped for. There was a store in a small building, almost a shack really, fifty yards or so from the ranger station. I staggered over to the store, tripped on the steps, collapsing on the floor.

I looked up at the shocked face of a woman behind the counter and said, "Call a ranger. I need a helicopter and some water."

XI. ORGANIZING A RESCUE

The people in the store got me some water and asked what happened. I tried, as quickly as possible while still appearing sane, to explain the situation. The fiftyish-looking woman behind the counter understandably greeted my report with some skepticism. Generally when some dehydrated, dirty, bleeding, blithering maniac walks in out of the desert sun there is more illusion than reality reflected in their musings. She took me seriously enough, however, to get a park ranger on the telephone.

Lee Smith, a guide working for a local outfitter, was in the store when I stumbled in. He said, "I know that canyon better than anybody. Where is he?" I tried to carry on simultaneous conversations with Lee and the ranger on the other end of the line. Once the person on the other end of the telephone understood the situation he agreed to send a ranger to the store.

By the time I hung up, Bob Andrew pulled up in front of the store in a Park Service pick-up truck. I explained the situation in detail to him and to Lee. I gave Lee the rope and other equipment I had carried. He took some provisions from the store, and set off for Cattail Canyon with two of his co-workers in tow. He also carried a Park Service radio so they could keep in touch with us.

Despite claiming to know Cattail Canyon "better than anybody", Lee knew of no four-hundred-foot pour-off. He purported to have hiked the entire length of the canyon, but I knew from his descriptions of features that this was not the case. He either wanted to appear more knowledgeable than he was, having hiked in parts of the canyon and being confident of his ability to rescue Bryan, or he had been fooled by the canyon's complex topography.

I knew from his description, that Lee's intended destination was too far downstream. This would be disastrous. A person who came into the canyon above Bryan could descend to his location and potentially be of some help. A person who entered the canyon below the falls was useless.

Lee assured me that he knew exactly where Bryan was. I was quite explicit that Bryan was above the location he was describing. I could tell from his statements that he thought I either had no idea what I was talking about or had spent a little too much time in the desert sun. As he left I knew in my heart that he would never find Bryan.

In the meanwhile, the Park Service was preparing its own rescue effort. It was 2:10 P.M. when Lee and his two companions set out from the Basin store. By this time George Howarth, the ranger in charge of search and rescue operations in the park and most familiar with Cattail Canyon, had arrived.

Over the eight years following my first experience in Cattail, I had spoken with every person I could find who might have some knowledge of Cattail Canyon. To a person, those who professed knowledge of the canyon dismissed the notion of great cliffs and pour-offs. George himself was skeptical. However, he demonstrated a thorough knowledge of the canyon both above and below the falls.

Cattail Canyon is a deceiving place. It measures perhaps four miles on the map. Somehow the tortuous character and severe grade of the canyon make it seem much longer. George had been above the first two falls near the desert floor and followed the canyon for an hour upstream from there. He had been down the canyon from Laguna Meadow, and an hour past the dam. There was not a lot of the canyon he had not seen. I was able to describe my previous descents and the route Bryan and I had taken in sufficient detail to persuade him that I knew exactly what I was talking about.

Once they knew the approximate location of Bryan and the nature of his predicament they began preparing for the rescue effort. It was about 70 degrees that afternoon. Besides being somewhat dehydrated, I was terribly hungry. I had no money, but the clerk at the store was kind enough to keep a tab for me. There was not much of substance available at the store, so I stuffed myself with junk food. I drank another quart of water and lay on the porch of the store in a patch of sunlight.

I closed my eyes, relishing the opportunity to rest. George had mentioned in passing that they might need me to go with them. I knew that no one but me was likely to find the spot where Bryan hung. I knew that no one bore a greater responsibility to help my friend and partner than I did. I wished though that they would undertake the effort themselves and leave me to sleep in front of that little store.

I lay there resting for a good half hour. George must have instructed everyone to let me rest. Although I prayed they would leave, I knew it was not possible. Just before three o'clock I roused my self and went over to help as the rangers finalized their strategy and packed their gear. By this time eight rangers had arrived.

We were to split into two groups. One would enter the canyon via Laguna Meadow, the same route Bryan and I had taken. They set out on horseback, carrying medical supplies and climbing equipment. They were to follow the Laguna Meadow Trail out of the Basin and descend the canyon from Laguna Meadow to the first pour-off on horseback. I questioned the value of the horses, as the descent from the first pour-off to the falls would be impassable for them and was quite a difficult route. Still, the climbers would be completely rested as they began the technical section and might have some hope of getting to Bryan quickly.

The second group was to consist of George, me, and a ranger named Vidal DaVila. Our route was to be directly over the ridge, following a route similar to that which Kevin, Mark and I had taken in 1977. I would have preferred to go with the Laguna Meadow crew, but I knew that George and Vidal could not possibly hope to find Bryan without me. The group descending via the upper part of the canyon could not miss him, if they were capable of making the descent.

The clothes I had on were little more than rags by the time I reached the ranger station. If I was to be back out for an extended period of time, I needed some additional clothing. The sleeves of my shirt had been shredded. My pant legs were ripped in several places and the seat of my pants had been torn out entirely. The Park Service provided me with another pair of cotton pants, a shirt, and a light jacket.

Assembling a rescue party of this magnitude was no small task. Rangers and support personnel came from across the 1,100 square mile park. The group bound for Laguna Meadow took four pack horses for supplies plus those for the climbers who planned to continue down-canyon. George, Vidal, and I were counting on speed. We carried a minimum of gear. I traveled without a pack. George carried some food and water, extra clothes and a climbing rope. We had no sleeping bags or tent. In all, George carried not more than about twenty-five pounds and Vidal fifteen.

XII. BACK INTO THE CANYON

At about 3:20 P.M. the three of us headed out from the Basin parking area. We followed the Laguna Meadow Trail for the first half mile, cutting off on an unmarked trail to the right. It crossed the upper, shallow part of Oak Canyon and almost immediately began climbing the west wall of the Basin. By heading south first we avoided most of the drop into Oak Canyon. We lost less than 100 feet of elevation before beginning to climb again.

My brief rest had helped immensely. I climbed with the advantage of carrying no pack. I had the disadvantage of wanting desperately to get back into the canyon. I had to force myself to moderate my pace. I was equally afraid of not making it back into the canyon in time, and of burning myself out, not making it back to the falls at all.

We had 1,700 feet to climb to the first ridge-top. I spent the first 500 feet trying to avoid stepping on Vidal's heels.

George was a seasoned veteran. He had led more rescue efforts in the park than he cared to remember. The pace he set was ideally suited for the group he had with him. Vidal had just returned to the park following several weeks in South Carolina in a continuing education program. It would take him a while to get into the flow again. Coming out of the canyon had been the most physically demanding challenge of my life. Our pace now was deliberate but steady. There was never a hint of hurry or panic in anything George did. He was there to do the job at hand. There was nothing that would stand in his way. Yet there also was nothing that would lead him to act in haste. No one would be endangered unnecessarily in this rescue effort, but no prudent course of action would be left undone.

By the time we were a third of the way up the ridge, I had passed Vidal and trailed George. It was here that my pre-trip conditioning paid off. I took the rope from Vidal and tied it on my back heading directly up the rock toward the ridge-top. It was critical that we be on the ridge before sunset. Otherwise finding the best route into the canyon, directly toward the cliff on which Bryan hung, would be impossible.

I also had an advantage being a rock climber. The loose rock and scree which dominate the technically easy routes out of the Basin were slow and tedious walking. Staying on the more stable rock required significantly less energy. All energy expended propels the climber upward. Plus, there is the added advantage of being able to use arms as well as legs.

The last third of the climb I paralleled George and Vidal. I scrambled on to the summit and could clearly see the tops of the cliffs surrounding the section of Cattail where Bryan was. Getting there from where I stood would be a delicate proposition. If we veered too far north we would enter the canyon below him. If we were too far south we would be faced with making difficult descents in darkness and perhaps not having the equipment to even make some of them. It was impossible, however, to head directly toward the falls. The chasm above the falls was too sheer. We would have to come in just upstream, with two or three easy drops down to the slot from which we would attempt the rescue.

When George and Vidal reached the ridge-top we received a broken transmission from Lee Smith. He was well down-canyon and had hopelessly missed Bryan's position. The sole chance of a daylight rescue was lost.

Although I had placed no faith in Lee from the beginning, it was disheartening to lose our only hope of immediate deliverance.

We had a substantial descent into the next canyon. We were making excellent progress and hoped to summit the next ridge before total darkness set in. It was nearly 1,000 feet to the canyon floor. Much of the route was through thick undergrowth. It was after 5:00 before we were climbing again. On the ridge above us we had observed a low point. To this gap it was about 500 feet. The route was steep, smooth rock, but not particularly difficult climbing.

By the time we reached the ridge the sun had set. In the fading dusky light we could barely make out a spur from the ridge leading down to the west. We decided to follow the ridge north to the spur and use it as access to Cattail itself. I felt certain that we were far enough south to have only one canyon to cross between the Basin and Cattail. We also were still considerably south of the falls, which at least ensured we would be able to make the descent to the canyon floor.

Within minutes the pink light of dusk was gone. Progress in the dark seemed painfully slow. George and Vidal both had head-lamps. I had no source of light at all. All of my gear lay down below the falls or locked in the cab of my truck. George took the lead and Vidal brought up the rear. I had enough light from the periphery of their head-lamps that I could stumble along with a fair degree of success. Thus we picked our way along the crest of the ridge.

We soon came to the spur leading down. It did lead west. It also was quite steep. We could see ahead only a few feet. The drop into Cattail from where we stood would be over 700 feet. Because we did not know exactly where we would enter the canyon we had to be particularly careful. If we were too far north we could find ourselves at the lip of a sheer face at any time.

Shortly after we reached the spur we heard from the party that had taken the Laguna Meadow route. They were at the dam, sending two people down-canyon from there.

Time was of the essence and the two climbers traveled light. The party consisted of Dee Renee Ericks, a park ranger, and Mark Mills, a local outfitter. Mark was reported to be an expert climber, some said the best rock climber in west-Texas. We were confident they would make excellent time. Mark's wife was expecting a baby at any time and he had made a tremendous sacrifice participating in this rescue attempt. In truth, it was no small sacrifice for everyone involved in the effort.

The task of descending the spur without light was all consuming. The challenge of the situation was the only thing that kept my mind away from the mixture of fear, anger and self-pity which otherwise would have consumed me. It was difficult for George and Vidal to concentrate on providing light for me when it was difficult for them to negotiate the terrain themselves. The slope had increased to nearly thirty degrees, an angle requiring complete concentration under the best of circumstances. For me, forging ahead without thought of the hazards of the vegetation became the norm. I gave up on avoiding cactus and yucca and focused on finding solid footing at each step. The only concern was maintaining my balance each blind step of the way.

After descending in this fashion for what seemed an eternity, Vidal thought he saw light coming from the canyon below. He and George quickly extinguished their lights. We naively hoped that we were already seeing the head-lamps of Mark and Dee Renee as they progressed along the canyon floor. I, more realistically, hypothesized that we might be seeing reflected light from the pools of water in the little stream.

We saw nothing but darkness.

When the lights were turned back on we all saw light from below once more. It was not from another source, nor was it reflected from the canyon floor. It was closer.

The Big Bend region is well known for its concentration of mountain lions. Though encounters are rare, they are something to be approached with the utmost caution. A pair of luminous eyes stared back at us from the bushes below. From our elevated vantage point we threw rocks until satisfied that our fellow traveler had moved on.

We will never know what cat-like eyes gazed at these strange visitors to its nocturnal home. Bobcat? Coati? Mountain lion? As we descended we neither saw nor heard another sign of the animal.

It was almost 7:00 when we reached the floor of the canyon. Judging from the view I had when we first reached the ridge I was fairly certain that this descent would lead us directly into Cattail and not some parallel canyon. Just in case, I looked for some unmistakable landmark.

I knew with that unshakable gut feeling that this was it. Under circumstances such as these, companions want more than gut feelings. It was impossible to engender in them a feeling that they did not share. I could not see, in our limited field of vision, a single thing that indisputably proved to me that we were in fact in Cattail Canyon. The pools, the rocky slopes, the grass and juniper and cactus had a damnable consistency, a contemptible sameness as head-lamps panned the canyon floor and walls.

Mark and Dee Renee radioed us once more. They had reached the first pour-off. I described in detail the route up and around the western side of the drop. I described the scree slope down into the canyon below. In a few moments we, and they, continued on our separate journeys in darkness and silence.

George, Vidal and I moved slowly downstream. I scanned every inch of our surroundings. Canyon floor, walls, trees, pools and little drops. I could see nothing unique. No proof that this was not just another of the myriad Chisos canyons. The further we progressed the more my thoughts focused on Bryan. The way down was easy in this section. I wanted to break into a run down the canyon just to see if he were still alive, to see if perhaps he was down below, sitting by a campfire, waiting for us. All we could do was patiently maintain our course. Ever careful of our footing, we moved forward quietly through the thick darkness.

George had led search and rescue operations in the park for fifteen years. Barely a week goes by without some sort of emergency. In any situation, no mater how urgent, a professional such as he must maintain a cool and cautious approach. The dramatic rescues of which Reader's Digest stories are made produce great reading. Attempted often enough they produce the obituaries of would-be rescuers. While it was frustrating at times, I knew I was fortunate to accompanied by two persons of George and Vidal's personal and professional caliber.

As the night air grew cool, the three of us donned our coats. I had nearly exhausted my credibility with George when at last we reached an unmistakable landmark. We stood atop a short technical pitch Bryan and I had descended the previous morning. From above I could not tell without question which pitch this was, just how far above the falls we still were, but I knew we were getting close.

XIII. CATTAIL REDUX

The slope dropped about fifty feet in all. It began with a short steep section going halfway down to a small shelf, followed by another steep section. At the bottom it would require something of a jump to get across the pool of water. I was sure of it. This was the place where during the 1983 descent I had hit a patch of ice on the far side of the pool. My feet went right out from under me. I hit my backside with the force of all of my weight plus a pack of greater than sixty pounds. It was a spot I would never forget.

For the first time, George, Vidal and I faced a technical problem. We had only one rope with us. We had to be sure we always had a means back out of the canyon. We had to be able to climb back up a pitch, or leave the rope behind us. Once we left it we would have to be able to free climb all remaining pitches. We also would have no means of lowering Bryan once we got to the falls.

If we were to be able to pull the rope down with us, at least one of us had to able to climb back up the slope without it to throw the rope back down to the others. If this was, in fact, the spot I remembered, I had climbed down it twice and up it once previously. I put on George's head-lamp, climbed easily down the cliff and scrambled back up. There was no need to leave a fixed line here.

All three of us climbed down the face, coming to the next pitch within fifty yards. There was no doubt about it. We were only a few hundred yards above the falls. Two pitches lay between us and Bryan. For the first one we could use the same juniper tree Bryan and I had as an anchor. We were almost certainly, however, would have to leave the rope fixed on this pitch.

Just down canyon from us was the short, steep drop immediately above the falls. If we left the rope on this first pitch it would be difficult for all three of us to make the next descent. Bryan was less than 100 yards downstream from the bottom of that next pitch. How would we get to him? For myself there was no choice. I had to reach the top of the falls.

Again I borrowed George's head-lamp. I made the tricky cross-over rappel of the first pitch. I scrambled down the twisting canyon floor to the next one. Then came the tough part. This pitch would be a tricky down-climb in the daylight. Though we had set up ropes for our descents with packs on, I knew some excellent holds existed...if only I could find them. The first foothold was over seven feet below me. I wrapped my fingers over a perfect handhold at the lip of the drop, closed my eyes, eased over the edge and felt the rock face with my feet as I extended myself downward into the darkness.

Damn I didn't want to slip. It was twenty feet down to a pool of frigid water below me. Though the water was deep, it would be blind luck if I fell and landed in a section deep enough to protect me from injury. Thankfully my toes settled into the bucket hold in the center of the face just as my arms were fully extended.

To complete the descent I had to repeat the maneuver. I dropped my right hand beside my foot. I mantled there, holding myself up with my palms face down in the hold, and my feet hanging down below me. It was a slightly shorter drop to the next hold. The spot I wanted lay off to the left. I was facing the rock, tentatively probing the wall with my left foot. The edge of my boot caught a flake of rock. I extended my arms as far as possible, giving me the chance to bend my knee slightly. I let go of my handhold while pushing off with my left foot, jumping clear of the pool below. It was a rather hard landing, not the most graceful move in climbing history, but it worked.

I had made it back. For the first time in more than eight hours, I felt vindicated. I hadn't really abandoned Bryan after all. I rushed down the slot, scrambling over to the cliff's edge. The rope still hung taut from the tree near the edge. Cautiously I leaned as far over the edge as I dared.

"Bryan!" I yelled.

"What?" came an irritated sounding reply.

"Are----you----o----kay?"

There was no answer.

"Are----you----all----right?"

Still there was only silence following the resonant echoes through the canyon below.

"BRYAN!!!!??" I screamed as loudly as I could.

Only echoes and the deafening silence of the night returned. I screamed his name a dozen more times into the blackness.

I had heard him answer as clearly as a thousand times before, his annoyed inflection all too familiar. I moved quickly over to the point at which the rope ran over the edge of the cliff. It would not budge. Bryan definitely was still there.

I ran back up the narrow chasm above the pour-off to the base of the last pitch. I hurriedly, but carefully felt my way back up the face. In a panic I ran back up the chute leading up to the drop just below George and Vidal. I shouted to George. I attached the rope to my waist and he belayed as I climbed back up to the place where he and Vidal had waited.

We had to decide on a course of action. Mark and Dee Renee were probably at least two hours up-canyon from us. Attempting to lift Bryan with no equipment was going to be nearly impossible. If we began to raise him it was imperative that we complete the task. He likely was unconscious at this point. He at least was too weak to answer any further. In raising him we ran the risk of flipping him upside-down and restricting his breathing again.

George's decision crushed me. We would wait for the others.

The helpless frustration of sitting while Bryan hung just a few hundred yards distant was taking its toll. George was reassuring and helped keep everything in perspective.

A dead pine tree was lodged crossways between the canyon walls. We stripped off the smaller branches and built a small fire on a dry spot out of the wind, a few feet up off the canyon floor. George had a C-ration beefsteak dinner which we split three ways. Vidal produced two granola bars which we also shared. Under normal circumstances I could think of no finer men to share an experience such as this in the wilderness. As it was, it was the nearest thing to hell I could imagine.

I was trapped in a painful waiting game with the life of a long-time friend at stake. Sitting by the fire and waiting was unbearable, but there was no alternative. I paced the short stretch of level ground between pour-offs for a few minutes and rejoined George and Vidal by the fire. This was my ritual for about half an hour (though it seemed an eternity), when the radio cackled to life again.

Mark and Dee Renee had reached one of the rappel points and they needed some help. They could not find a spot to establish an anchor. Good anchors for some of the descents were hard to find in the daylight. I could understand their problem.

Still, there had to be an anchor available. I had just made the descent the day before. I tried to visualize every configuration of webbing, chocks, caribiners, and rope I had used through the whole canyon. I described one anchor point after another. They could find none that matched my description. Damn it, I knew there had to be one, but where. Which drop had they reached?

I wanted to run up the canyon and show them. I knew that had I been there, we could have anchored the rope, immediately continuing downstream.

At 9:30 P.M. Mark and Dee Renee turned back. They could find no safe means of making the descent in the dark. George, Vidal and I would have to attempt the rescue alone.

XIV. AT THE FALLS

For the third time I borrowed George's head-lamp. I rappelled back down the fixed rope and climbed back down the last pitch. Bryan had left about 100 feet of rope coiled at the top of the falls. I cut it off, coiled it over my shoulder and climbed back up to the base of the rappel. George and Vidal each carefully descended. I belayed each of them down the last pitch, and climbed down myself. The three of us stood together at the brink of the great cliff.

Together we could not lift the rope on which Bryan hung. We could fashion no pulley system. Even if we retrieved the rope on second pitch we doubted that we had enough rope to lower him to the bottom. If we did lower him down, he might well drown in the pool of water at the bottom.

There was no recourse but to wait until morning. George made our final radio transmission of the day. There would be a helicopter at our disposal at first light. It would bring us additional equipment and we would make the rescue attempt immediately after sunrise.

The place we were in was a narrow slot, the same place from which I had rappelled and Bryan began his descent. On the west side of the chasm a mass of tangled vines covered an area perhaps fifteen feet wide and fifty feet long. We scavenged the area for wood accumulating a fairly substantial supply. We built a fire and did our best to get some sleep.

It dropped to 43 degrees that night and cold air funneled down the canyon in a steady stream. There was not much wind, but the breeze was enough that the wind chill was probably in the mid-thirties. Our first effort had produced enough wood to burn for about two hours. Two more forays produced enough for two more hours. The ritual was to arrange the rocks and gravel near our little fire ring in a way that enabled each of us to find something approaching comfort. Comfort is an elusive quality when one side of you is an oven, and the other a refrigerator, when your pillow is a rock, your bed is of gravel, and your mind is running 90 miles an hour.

At about 3:00 A.M. we appeared to have exhausted the wood supply in the chasm that was our habitat. It would be four more hours before there was any chance of the helicopter coming and any activity on our part. It was cold, the ground hard, and the fire was the only source of consolation we had. We spent the next thirty minutes gathering even the smallest sources of fuel. Finally, Vidal and I simultaneously found large logs buried under the mass of vines. By 3:30 we had extracted them and had ample wood to burn until morning.

The night seemed interminable. It was a relief and a torment not to know Bryan's condition. Gradually I became more pessimistic about the morning, but there always was hope. Lying above those falls was the most frustrating experience of my life. The uncertainty combined with the physical conditions making it impossible for me to sleep.

We had no gear with us for camping. No tent. No bivy sacks. No sleeping bags. We each had staked out our own territory. I lay to the west of the fire, away from the near wall of the canyon. Across the fire from me to my left was George, to the right Vidal. Under the veneer of gravel, were numerous rocks the size of grapefruit. Resting was primarily a matter of finding the least uncomfortable position possible.

As I lay there I knew that the difficult part of the journey had not yet begun. There seemed little chance that Bryan was not already dead. He was unconscious, or nearly so, when I first had arrived at the falls shortly after 8:30. With hypothermia, survival times are measured in hours. Surviving ten or twelve hours from the time one loses consciousness was not a reasonable hope.

Bryan and I had many mutual friends, including his family. My mind began anticipating the telephone calls I would have to make upon my return. How could I tell Bryan's brother, his sister, his parents? How could I tell Mark and Kevin? And especially, how could I tell Sasha? What about their unborn child?

One of the main reasons we had undertaken this expedition was to engage in some reconnaissance for a trip later in the month. Even if he were alive, this reconnaissance would not be done. I wondered what the fate of that expedition would be. I knew there would be substantial resistance to going ahead under these immediate circumstances. Informing the other ten participants of its cancellation would be terribly disappointing.

There was my own family. How would they react? I knew my parents had considerable discomfort with some of my activities in the wilderness. My wife, had always been at least tolerant of my time in the wilderness, but this might hit too close to home. What would it be like for me to get back on the rock in the future?

Bryan had to be alive. He wore a well-made harness. His blood flow would be relatively unrestricted. He did have all of his clothing on. He was physically and mentally tough. The great unknown remained, how wet was he?

It was an unspeakable relief when at 6:45 A.M. George turned the radio back on. Big Bend used a repeater system to relay radio signals to remote areas of the park. Conversation with the other parties had been difficult from the time we dropped into the canyon. It was revitalizing to hear them at all. The rest of the world was still there. Mark and Dee Renee had hiked back upstream until they bivouacked at 1:00 A.M. A helicopter was waiting for our word at the park headquarters. As soon as it was light, pilot Gary Carter would make a reconnaissance flight up the canyon. From there we would develop our strategy.

The mountains have a unique ability to jar us out of our TV sound-bite, instant gratification world. It had sounded so simple the previous afternoon. "I'm going to get a helicopter." It was Sunday afternoon. The airport was 200 miles away. How does an aircraft retrieve a person trapped on the side of a cliff, in the depths of an impenetrable canyon?

We again had nothing to do but wait for the helicopter to arrive. Just when we began to wonder if the pilot had gotten lost too, we heard the distant, distinctive "thwock-thwock-thwock" of the chopper somewhere down the canyon. We had kept our fire going and had a large pile of leaves ready to dump on it to send up a cloud of smoke. We looked up and down, high and low, expecting to see the helicopter somewhere out in the open. The drone increased, but still we could not see a thing.

George and I pointed down-canyon simultaneously spotting the French-made Alouette helicopter snaking its way along the canyon floor hundreds, perhaps a thousand feet below us. We heaped leaves on the fire, sending white billows curling skyward. Winding its way up the canyon floor, the chopper disappeared in the depths as it turned. By the time it reappeared the smoke had dissipated. We piled on more leaves, but there was no need. The helicopter flew down the center of the canyon, just yards off the canyon floor, between sheer rock walls, in places barely affording room to maneuver the aircraft.

Gary had been a helicopter pilot in Viet Nam. The rig he flew was one of the best performing helicopters made. His principal business was providing emergency service for oilfield operations in west Texas. He worked out of Midland, about 250 miles from the park. The chopper emerged more than 300 feet below us. For a moment it appeared that he would land in the flat area near the base of the falls. The terrain was not quite level enough for him to set down. The aircraft gradually rose up the face of the cliff. He hovered for a minute, level with Bryan, then rose further until he was above the cliffs on either side of us. Jim Bellamy, another park ranger, was flying co-pilot. He was in contact with George by radio. He confirmed what we had feared for over eight hours. It was the news I expected, but still my heart sank.

Bryan appeared to be dead.

XV. RECOVERY

There remained, alive or dead, the need to retrieve Bryan's body.

The helicopter hovered about 100 feet overhead. Gradually it moved directly above us. All at once rebuilding the fire proved to have been a mistake. The down-draft generated by the chopper first rekindled, then redistributed the fire. Flames erupted with branches, logs, smoke, ash and fire filling the air, covering us, our gear and the area surrounding the fire ring.

We jumped back, shook ourselves and our gear off, and quickly extinguished the sparks scattered over the ground. Jim lowered a pack full of rescue equipment out of the chopper's open door. Vidal grabbed the pack as Jim threw down the rope. In addition to the ropes and other equipment they delivered two plates of breakfast from the lodge. It was typical Park Service style to send food only for the rangers, but George and Vidal graciously shared out of their abundance.

The eggs, potatoes, biscuits and bacon were a bit cold but delicious nonetheless. The thermos full of coffee was good and hot. I had not had a regular meal in 36 hours and was not sure I could have made it through another day without that meal.

Breakfast revitalized us all and though we approached our task with some resignation, we did so with renewed vigor. We now had a pair of Jumar ascenders and a set of rescue pulleys.

An ascender is a device that, when placed on a rope will move up, but not down. It is, in fact, a mechanical prusik. Using pieces cut from the rope Bryan had left coiled at the top of the falls, and this equipment, we set up a system providing us a three-to-one mechanical advantage. For every pound of force the three of us could generate there would be three pounds of force pulling upward on the rope.

With this arrangement we gained less than ten feet in half and hour. We reset the system with a second pulley system attached to the first, creating a nine-to-one mechanical advantage. If each of us were able to pull with just 100 pounds of force, we would provide 2,700 pounds of lift on the rope. Even so we gained less than twenty feet in the next hour.

The difficulty arose from the fact that the rope generated friction as it ran along the rock. The drag resulting from the weight of Bryan, water, and rope across more than 100 feet of rock was inestimable. Finally we concluded we had to have some more help.

George got back on the radio to request more people and equipment. He described the situation in detail, and it was back to waiting.

We knew the chopper could always bring in more equipment. Finding a place that people could be dropped off was another matter. Getting them down to us would be harder still. If another party had to set out from the Basin it was unlikely they could reach us before sunset. George was dead-set against spending another night in the canyon. I couldn't disagree.

Gary made a reconnaissance flight and identified a possible spot on a ridge-top above us. Upon receiving our request for help he took off with Mark Mills and John Morlock. They were dropped atop the ridge and began their descent into the canyon. In less than forty minutes they had joined us above the falls.

John and Mark brought some edge rollers. These could be placed under the rope near the edge of the cliff, lifting it up, thereby reducing friction. The rollers acted as nearly frictionless bearings where the greatest friction had been.

It was a complicated and somewhat unwieldy system. All five of us would pull on the free end of the rope. Pulleys were anchored to large rocks in the floor of the canyon. The rope ran through two pulleys and was attached back to itself with Jumars in two different places. More difficult than the complexity of the system was the fact that for every nine feet pulled up by us, Bryan was raised only one foot.

Although we had a fairly long, flat area in which to work, we had to reset the system more than ten times. When we reached the end of our rope (literally) each time, I would go over to the edge, brace my feet against two large rocks there, attach a Jumar from my harness to the rope and take the weight off of the pulley system.

Just as we got our system working halfway smoothly, there was a sudden increase in resistance on the rope. We didn't know exactly how far Bryan had been hanging below the edge of the cliff, perhaps 150 or 200 feet. Although Vidal, George and I had made a small amount of progress, and we had pulled up about ten hitches with our pulley system, it seemed that progress remained painfully slow. We honestly didn't know what could have caused the hang-up. I walked over to the edge to see what was causing the problem.

I should have sent someone else.

I climbed out to the edge, following the rope over the lip. There, just a few feet from me was Bryan.

XVI. OUT OF THE CANYON

Bryan appeared to have been dead for some time. His body was wedged underneath the huge chockstone that plugged the end of the gorge in which we worked. His eyes were open, his complexion ashen. His body was stiff, stone-cold and completely water soaked. Even his hair was wet.

I backed away from the edge. George put his hand on my shoulder and quietly said they could get it from there. I walked to south end of the notch and tried to regain my composure. I sat on a rock, facing upstream, away from the others as they continued their grim task. All the vain hope I had clung to finally was crushed. I cussed myself. I cussed Bryan. I cussed the canyon. I cried. I paced back and forth across the narrow width of the little gorge. I kicked at the gravel. I kicked the rock.

Time is the only healer in these situations, and in a few minutes I was able to settle down and join the others in their unenviable work. They were there because they cared enough to try to help someone they did not even know. That someone was me. The least I could do was to work with them.

Mark belayed as John dropped down over the lip of the falls. George and Vidal let out just a bit of slack in the rope on which Bryan's body hung while John maneuvered it out from under the rock. George and Vidal pulled and soon had the body up to the edge. Rigor mortis had set in. Bryan probably was frozen in the position in which he had died. He was seated in his harness, legs extended, bent slightly at the waist. We all were amazed at how wet he was. It looked more like we had pulled him from a swimming pool than a desert canyon wall. Where his skin was exposed, his face and hands were abraded from being dragged up the cliff face. Otherwise there was no sign of trauma.

He had died of hypothermia. The gradual, inexorable decline in one's body temperature that first leads to discomfort, then uncontrollable shivering and finally a paradoxical feeling of warmth. It was quite possible that long before he realized I wouldn't make it in time, his fears had been replaced by the strange calm that many who have recovered from hypothermia describe. I tried to console myself with the knowledge that hypothermia can be one of most gentle means of death, the method of choice among certain native arctic peoples. But I could not overcome the sense that I had abandoned my friend.

I lacked the courage to inspect the ropes and Bryan's other equipment closely. I did notice, however, that the harness appeared to be in order. The knot joining the two three-hundred foot ropes was below the caribiner braking system he had set up. This is where he was stuck. The rope was wedged into the braking system and stretched substantially. This probably occurred as we pulled on the ropes when Bryan's body was wedged under the rock. With five of us pulling, the tension on the rope was probably 3,000 to 4,000 pounds.

George radioed park headquarters once more, requesting the helicopter. He, Vidal, Mark and John readied the body to be flown out of the canyon. Soon the chopper hovered overhead, lowering a 200 foot static line. The body, attached to the line, rose between canyon walls until the helicopter could turn east and disappear once more. They landed at Laguna Meadow to put Bryan's body inside before flying over the more heavily visited parts of the park.

We gathered all of the equipment used in the rescue attempt, dividing it into loads for each of us. Each of the others carried their own packs, and I would carry the pack used to lower breakfast and equipment to us that morning. At 2:30 we started back up the canyon toward the ridge from which Gary would retrieve us. George requested the helicopter to meet us there at 4:00. I was exhausted, despondent, yet somehow relieved. There was a kind of freedom in certainty. It was over. There was nothing more I could do.

All of Bryan's and my gear lay at the base of the falls. There was no chance of persuading the Park Service to use the helicopter to help retrieve it. I knew someone would have to go in to get it. The five of us wanted as little extra weight as possible when climbing out of the canyon. I took pieces of my gear that lay at the lip of falls and began hurling them over the edge. There no longer was any measure of hope to temper my anger and frustration. No longer did anyone's welfare depend upon my composure. When I had nothing left to throw I stood helpless, hopeless, and a little embarrassed looking over the edge I had crossed two long days earlier.

We made a quiet procession up the canyon floor. It helped somewhat that we had to focus our energies on the task of getting our party of five up the three technical pitches. I trailed the rest of the group as we hiked back toward the spur leading east and up out of the canyon. Once we were climbing I fell back into my natural rhythm.

By the time we had reached the ridge crest I was with the rest of the group, right behind Mark. We turned south walking to the point at which the helicopter had dropped off Mark and John earlier. George joined Mark and me there just as Gary arrived. It was a miracle that the helicopter could land there at all. In fact, it didn't actually land. Gary dropped the helicopter to inches above ground level, continuing to hover as Mark and I climbed aboard. As the next trip would involve three passengers, I took George's pack with me.

We lifted off of the ridge-top and dropped back down into Cattail Canyon. By dropping down into the canyon, flying northwest over the desert and back in the Window, we could drop all the way from the ridge-top to the parking area in the Basin. We also were flying over country in which we would disturb virtually no one.

Gary set the chopper lightly down in the parking area. A small crowd was there to meet us. I climbed out, ducking under the still spinning rotor, handed George's pack to Bob Andrew and ran back to get mine. No sooner had I done this than Gary took off again to pick up the rest of our party.

I felt as if I were approaching the Inquisition there in the parking lot, but I no longer cared. As I walked toward the wall of green uniforms, Marty Ott, Big Bend's chief ranger stepped toward me. He introduced himself and offered his condolences. He told me Bryan's family had already been informed of his death and were on their way to Alpine to pick up the body. The concern of everyone had quickly shifted from the rescue effort to the well-being of the survivors.

I answered a series of questions for the Park Service report. They wanted some things clarified. Mostly simple information. Why wasn't Bryan wearing any gloves? (He had thrown them down when they had gotten wet.) Questions about equipment and the order of events.

I wanted more than anything to eat and sleep. Soon the helicopter landed with the other three members of the rescue party aboard. I hugged all of them and walked off by myself for just a moment. I knelt down on the pavement of that parking lot and kissed the ground. I rejoined the group of Park Service personnel and Susan Roe gave me a ride back to my truck. My money, clothes, extra equipment, most everything I owned, was locked in the cab of my pick-up. My keys were in my pack, back at the base of the falls. Susan helped me break into my truck with absolutely no difficulty.

The Park Service made arrangements for me to have a room at the Chisos Mountains Lodge. I picked up the room key at the front desk and walked slowly over to the other building. The room was simple, but more than adequate. As I went through the motions of simple, everyday tasks, my mind was overwhelmed with prospects of facing Bryan's family and my own friends and family. I contemplated the cancellation of the Sierra del Carmen expedition. Beyond that my future seemed a complete blank.

I was nearly undressed when I realized that my toothbrush, toothpaste and various other things were in my pack back in Cattail Canyon. I painfully retied my boots and walked over to the Basin Store. I bought some shampoo and a few other essentials and made another slow-motion trip to my room.

Stepping into the shower felt better than anything I could have imagined. I began to relax for the first time in over two days. I dried off, put on some clean clothes and realized that I was without a comb. I walked back over to the store and purchased one. I walked back to my room, finished dressing and headed for the restaurant.

This had been a pretty quiet day for me. I had not wanted to talk to anyone about much of anything. I needed to talk to someone about what had just happened. I needed a chance to unwind. There were no phones in the rooms so I had to use a pay phone in the lobby.

My wife was at her parents house in Perryton, Texas. I called collect and her father answered the phone. They were expecting me to arrive late that night. I was to have dropped Bryan off in Midland that afternoon and driven the seven hours to Perryton from there. When she finally got on the phone I said, "I won't be coming home tonight. I may not be home tomorrow." My emotions tend to be rather transparent, and Robyn immediately demanded, "What's wrong?"

All I could say was, "Bryan died."

XVII. LIFE AFTER DEATH

When she asked me what had happened I did what I had needed to do for several hours. I cried. I have very little recollection of the conversation except that I managed really to say nothing at all. I got off the phone realizing it was a necessary catharsis, but embarrassed just the same. Though one element of the physically demanding work was done I still had to attend to other matters. I had to retrieve equipment from the canyon. I had to make arrangements regarding the up-coming expedition. I had graduate school papers to finish before the end of the semester. All of the world that I could see from inside that phone booth came crashing down on me.

The one person whom I knew could find his way to the falls was my college roommate Mark Mosier. I tried to call and got no answer. I called Robyn back, somewhat more coherently this time. Her parents had made arrangements to fly to Austin and pick up her brother, Del, who had been planning to participate in the Sierra del Carmen trip. They would all then fly to Alpine, rent a car, and drive on down to the park. They expected to reach the Basin around 4:00 A.M. Several people had tried to call my parents in Tulsa, Oklahoma, but also got no answer.

Dinner could no longer wait. I walked into the dining room at the lodge feeling like a foreigner, an alien in a world different than everyone else. I sat at a table by myself. I ordered fried shrimp. It was an odd dish in the middle of the Texas desert, but was excellent nonetheless. As I reflected back on the events of the past two days it almost seemed like a dream.

Seated two tables away were John and Susan Lock, a young couple who had arrived in the Basin on the same morning as had Bryan and I. John had spoken with us before we left the Basin and had heard about the accident. After they finished eating John came over to my table. He questioned me about the Park Service's response to the situation. He, and apparently others, felt that there must have been more that they could have done. I assured him that they did their best at balancing expedience and safety in the rescue effort.

In the middle of the conversation Susan joined us. John worked for AT&T in Houston and Susan was a graduate student in geology there. I repeated some of my story before the conversation drifted. We talked about every subject from the geology of the Chisos to zoning problems in the Houston metroplex. It was an incredible relief to talk about something other than the situation which had gripped me for the previous two days.

Everything began to shift in perspective. The ordeal of death began to settle in its place as an integral part of human life. While I had been in the canyon, obsessed with myself, my friend, our survival, life elsewhere went on. The loss of one life and the beginning of another was nowhere in more stark relief than with Bryan, Sasha and their expected baby. Though the loss of Bryan and the trauma of the ordeal was no less present, it ever so slowly began to occupy a place in the broader context of life.

After I had finished eating I called Mark's apartment again. This time he answered the phone. "Mark, what are you doing tomorrow?"

He could tell it was no innocent question.

"I can block out my calendar until January 6, if I have to." He said.

I told him that Bryan had died on the falls and that all of our gear lay on the canyon floor. The Park Service had used all of their available personnel in the rescue effort. It would be several days before anyone would be available to retrieve it. It was my hope that he could fly to Midland that evening, rent a car and be in the park by morning.

While I was still on the phone with Mark a call came to the desk at the lodge. Mark said he would check with his girlfriend, who was a travel agent, and see what he could do.

On the other line was John Peterson, a close friend, and step-father of David Cable who had been with us when we discovered the falls. It was, in fact, David who had first seen the pour-off. News of what had happened traveled pretty quickly through the group which had made the original discovery of the falls. David was pretty upset and had called John. Though I was in a hurry to get back to Mark, it was a relief to talk to John. He had been a good friend and confidant for a number of years. He had called me from a day off fishing, on a lake somewhere in southeastern Oklahoma.

I called Mark back and he was still checking on flights. Finally I was able to reach my parents. My father was to fly out of Tulsa at 5:30 the next morning. If Mark could make it to Tulsa by then they could fly together.

The Chisos Mountains Lodge closed at 9:00 P.M. There were no phones in the rooms. Having been up thirty-nine hours straight it suited me just as well to know I would not be disturbed. Robyn's family would be arriving at 4:00 A.M., giving me seven hours to rest. Mark and my dad should be arriving by about 10:00 A.M. From there we could worry about retrieving the gear. Bryan's family were en route, but I expected to hear from them in the morning as well. I told the night clerk not to wake me if anyone called and set out across the parking lot to my room.

It took me a while to get to bed. I was uncomfortable being alone. I began to appreciate the company George and Vidal had provided the night before. I picked up a copy of New Rules and read in bed for an hour or so. I was so preoccupied that none of what I was reading sank in. As I lay there my mind replayed the events of the last three days. I could not escape thinking over and over of every possible course of action I might have taken to save Bryan's life.

There had been the possibility of prusiking up the rope to where he was hanging. But the task of getting him hooked to the rope below in a fashion that we could successfully have descended together hardly seemed possible. I would have been lucky just to make the 300 foot ascent, without mechanical ascenders, in 55 degree water, much less accomplish anything once I got there. That idea was more likely to have cost my life than to have saved his.

Climbing around to the west had proven to be impossible. Suppose I had climbed to the east? After all, I had made it back with the rangers. Several problems were evident. I had only one rope with me. I would have had to leave it on one of the upper pitches to enable me to get back out. Even if I had carried it with me, it was not long enough to lower Bryan all the way to the ground. I had no real option but to go for help.

I could not doubt that I had chosen the right course of action in that regard. But what about the events afterward? Were there things we could have done differently? Had both rescue parties gone via the route George and Vidal and I took and had we brought sufficient equipment we might have been able to raise Bryan back up by midnight. Would he still have been alive? Raising his body proved to be vastly more difficult than any of us had imagined. It was unlikely we would have arrived with sufficient rescue gear no matter what. We did not know at the outset which party would get there first. Sending two parties certainly seemed a defensible choice. In any case, it would have been extraordinary for Bryan to have survived until midnight.

The real question involved the availability of the helicopter. Gary had flown in 250 miles from Midland, Texas. In order to be able to fly, once he got to the park, jet fuel had been driven in from the airport at Alpine, in five gallon plastic cans. It was Sunday afternoon. The probability of the pilot and support personnel being available at a moment's notice, getting to the park, and being able to accomplish anything before dark was essentially zero. Fitfully mulling these things over I tried to sleep.

At exactly 4:00 A.M. I awoke as if I had never slept at all. I lay awake for the next three hours waiting for Robyn and her parents to arrive. Finally, as it began getting light outside I got up, dressed and walked over to the lodge.

The receptionist handed me a stack of messages. Mark had called and he and my father were in Alpine. They expected to arrive in the park by 9:30. The Lemons were weathered in at the Austin airport. They would come as soon as possible.

The next two notes were more difficult to address. Ralph Brock, Bryan's father, had called. Sasha had called as well. After a few moments procrastination, and with no little trepidation I dialed the number of the Sunday House Hotel in Alpine.

The two conversations were quite similar. The compulsory questions about how we were doing were stiff and awkward. I knew Sashsa only slightly better than I did Bryan's parents. Death is never an easy subject to address in American society. I had no first-hand experience, apart from the death of grand-parents, and more distant relatives. Those who face it often are ill-equipped. Once we were past the formalities we were free to talk about what needed to be said.

Bryan's wife and family knew him well, certainly better than I did. They knew the man who had made the decision to descend that cliff. Sasha knew of his drive and determination. They all knew that he died as he had lived; doing what he wanted to do, precisely as he wanted to do it.

The events surrounding his death were more traumatic than tragic. Bryan found his life in pushing the horizons of the physical, intellectual, and spiritual world in which he lived. It was from times and places such as Cattail Canyon that December day that society and the people who comprise it move forward. It is people such as Bryan who care, who dare to know what no one else knows, to do what no one else has done, to peer over the edge, into the abyss and not blink, who make a difference in an all too often indifferent world.

My conversations with Ralph, Alta (Bryan's mother), and Sasha did much to ease my mind. The most difficult part was behind us. It was time to look ahead.

XVIII. LOOSE ENDS

I went into the restaurant, thinking more clearly than I had for some time. Sasha wanted to have things returned as soon as possible. Among the things I had left out in the open on the canyon floor was my camera equipment. I was fortunate there had been no frost the previous two mornings. I hoped it might be retrieved before the weather worsened.

Another matter was that of my vehicle. The keys were in the canyon. My dad called, telling me there was a Chevrolet dealer in Alpine who could make a key if we had the vehicle ID number. I gave it to him and he said he and Mark would make it to the park around noon, with a new key.

It looked like Mark and Del would be arriving at approximately the same time. The most sensible plan seemed to me to be for the three of us to go back in and retrieve the equipment. We would enter from below Cattail Falls and proceed directly upstream to the base of the falls. My family, the park service, and just about everyone else involved were opposed to my going back in the canyon.

This was not an argument I was destined to win. But there was well over 100 pounds of equipment laying on the canyon floor. With the rope being wet it would take more than two people to bring everything back out.

That morning I kept an eye out for hikers in the park who might be interested in, and able to make a hike such as the one up Cattail Canyon. After finishing breakfast, I approached a young man at an adjacent table. He appeared to be physically fit, perhaps in his late twenties. I introduced myself and asked him if he were a strong hiker. His name was Rob Kepple. He was an attorney from Houston. Rob had injured an ankle a year earlier and had come to the park to get some exercise and get back in shape. He anticipated being in the park a few more days and was glad to help. He wanted the exercise, but said he did not want to carry more than 30 to 40 pounds. That would be just about right, given what remained in the canyon.

Rob and I sat at the counter talking and drinking coffee all morning. Rob recently had quit his job with a large Houston law firm which had done some work for my father's company. Again it was good to have something to talk about other than my own problems. We went through two pots of coffee between us, and for me it was quite therapeutic.

It was a real joy when, at about noon, my dad and Mark walked through the door of the lodge. In the past Mark and I had spent some of our best time together in this park. Seeing him took some of the sting out of more recent events. By now Rob knew enough of my situation, my father's business, and Mark that it was an almost cordial gathering under such adverse circumstances.

We all went into the dining room and ordered lunch. Rob, my dad, and I all ordered roast beef sandwiches and Mark ordered a "Texas-sized" chef's salad. Before Mark's food had arrived I had finished mine and ordered another. I was still running a substantial calorie deficit from the previous several days. As we ate we discussed plans for retrieval of the equipment. We expected the Lemons to arrive at any time and shortly after we had finished eating they did.

It took us about twenty minutes to get Mark, Del and Rob ready to depart. Although we stood just three miles from the point at which they would enter the canyon, it was more than an hour's drive. At about 2:30 P.M. Rob, Del, and Mark set out along the trail to the base of Cattail Falls.

The route they would follow led south of the 100 foot drop where Cattail Canyon actually reaches the desert floor. There they would reach a saddle giving them access to the upper part of the canyon. Once in the canyon they would follow the floor for about half a mile to another great pour-off. They would by-pass this one to the east, climbing to the ridge-top above the canyon floor. Once beyond the second falls going up canyon they would have a fairly easy walk to the base of the main falls.

Mark had followed the canyon clear to the desert floor the year before. He was one of the top orienteers in America. I had no doubt he would find the spot with no difficulty. The only question was how long it would take them.

Del was in good condition, but was inexperienced at travel in this kind of rugged terrain. Rob was experienced, but in moderate condition. Mark was one of the toughest and well-conditioned people I had ever known. I knew he could get them in and out of the canyon. They did not have to take much emergency gear on the way in, because everything they could possibly need to survive was at their destination. Tent, sleeping bags, means to start a fire, food, it was all there.

The route they were taking was challenging but not technically difficult. The three of them should have been quite safe. I quickly realized, however, that sending Del had been a big mistake. Robyn's family was still trying to deal with Bryan's death and the present situation. They did not want me to go back in to the canyon for a variety of reasons. Sending Del, who though rested was not experienced, was probably an even worse idea than sending me.

Had Mark traveled into the canyon alone he undoubtedly could have made it in and out before sunset. He could not, however, have retrieved all of the equipment. With Rob and Del, there was no chance of making it back in one day, but it should be possible to get all of the gear. Just in case, my dad drove back around to the base of Cattail Falls and waited. Robyn, her parents, and I went over to the lodge for supper at about 5:00. Our conversation dealt mainly with my experience in the canyon and what Mark, Rob, and Del were now doing.

The lodge quits serving supper at 7:00 P.M. My father planned to wait below Cattail Falls until 6:30, at which time he would drive back. We knew that he couldn't make it back in time to eat so we ordered an extra plate and drove out to meet him. He was driving the Trident, complete with canoe. We thought it would be easy to spot.

It can be surprisingly difficult to distinguish vehicles in the dark. I thought one approaching vehicle looked a lot like my truck but we could see no canoe. It was no surprise, however, when we arrived at the Cattail Falls parking area and neither dad, nor the truck was there. We looked vainly for any sign of a flashlight, but there was none. We headed back to the Basin and by the time we arrived he had already eaten.

I was tired and there was nothing to be done until morning. Dad and I called my mom who had remained in Tulsa. We let her know everything was all right and what we thought our schedule would be for the next few days. I then called John, Myrna and David. David had been quite upset when he heard about the accident. We had a good, long conversation and I think he felt much better. As we talked a pack of javelinas, small wild boars, came rooting around me for food. The animals were more of a novelty than a threat or nuisance. Their presence served to remind me that it was I who was really the visitor there.

After my phone call to David I headed back over to the lodge. Though physically exhausted, I couldn't sleep. From my bag I withdrew a small note-pad. In no time I had twenty pages scribbled in barely readable script on the tiny sheets of that pad. Soon I curled up and drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, Wednesday, December 19, I arose fairly late and joined everyone for breakfast. Bob Andrew wanted to see me for a few minutes...alone. Susan Roe also needed some additional information for the Park Service report. At about 9:00 A.M. Bob and I went down to the ranger station.

Someone with the Park Service had prepared a manuscript of the questions they had asked me and my responses. Susan wanted to verify the information, fill in some gaps and have me sign the report. I gave her the notes I had written the night before. She typed them in their entirety while I waited.

Meanwhile, Bob Lemon came down to the ranger station. He was worried about Del. Susan and I tried to ease his concern, but with little success. It was not yet 10:00 A.M. and Susan thought it doubtful they could get back before 2:00. Bob and Mary Lou's fear of the unknown within that canyon was as great as my fear had been stepping back over the edge a few days earlier. This was a totally foreign environment to them.

Bob wanted to get the helicopter back from Midland and begin a search for them in the canyon if they were not back soon. I finally, firmly told them that Del, Rob, and Mark had only walking and scrambling on their route, Mark had been there before, they had more equipment and food than they could use, unlimited water, good weather, and one of them was a world class athlete and a physician. In short, the only problem was they needed a little time.

I don't know whether I eased their fears or led them to believe I might explode if the question came up again. In any case, talk of another rescue party subsided for the time being.

Shortly after Susan had finished typing my manuscript Mark, Del, and Rob arrived. It was not yet 10:45 AM. They had made it back to the car before 10:00. But it was a very different party than the one that had set out the previous afternoon. I have never seen a person as disturbed as Del appeared upon getting out of the car.

We asked them how the trip had gone and Del's grimly responded, "Get me a beer." All three of them had been through something they would never forget. Rob's ankle had given him some trouble and I helped him carry his gear back to his room. The physical challenge of getting in and out of Cattail was severe. It paled in comparison to the emotional ordeal they had experienced.

Cattail Canyon had held a very special place in my heart for eight years. It hurt to hear Rob and Del actually characterize the place as "evil." The black face, the sheer unforgiving power of that place would leave an indelible mark on each of their memories.

As much grief as I felt and as traumatic as my experience had been, I held no ill feelings about the place. It was not Cattail Canyon that had taken Bryan's life. It was Bryan who had given his life to the canyon. He had endured the challenge of reaching its inaccessible depths without a disparaging word, without fear. We received Cattail's gifts of intimacy in narrow chasms, towering cliffs, twisting pour-offs, water and wind, darkness and light. The canyon was neither opponent nor obstacle. It was not something to be defeated. It was a living entity to be experienced in a relationship to be shared and enjoyed.

Many factors prompted Bryan to make that descent. He had spent most of the eight years I had known him striving constantly to be on the "cutting edge" of every field of endeavor at which he tried his hand. This was true in his music, his work, his relationships, and his physical activities. He had sensed an opportunity in Cattail Canyon to push himself to that edge of human potential, to experience a place, and discover something no other human being knew.

The extraordinary spirit of life with which Bryan was endowed pushed him to die as he had lived. That spirit believes people live most fully at life's frontiers. Society today increasingly is becoming a vicarious culture. Audio-visual media have enabled people to feel they have experienced things without actually having done anything. Bryan was driven beyond watching other people live to living life to its full potential every day.

For the gift of my encounter with that living spirit I am eternally grateful.

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