After we left Arches National Park, Andrew, Jon and I headed down to Robber’s Roost, to see if we couldn’t wedge our way through some of the area’s narrow slot canyons.
The isolated Roost, with its secretive passages through the bed rock, made an ideal hideaway for outlaws, including Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The land above is sagebrush scrub , cattle and mesas with views of the snowy Ragged Mountain and The Horn to the south and La Sal Mountains in the east. Things start to get interesting near the Dirty Devil River, which has carved a miles-wide gash into the ground. Between the canyon walls, lies a deserted moonscape of sun-bleached stone and shattered rock. Runoff from the rains has carved slots into this stone, narrow, deep.
Andrew and I were making our second visit to Chamber’s Canyon. To read about our trip last year go here: In The Master’s Chambers.
It would be an adventure in its own right, as well as something of a tune up for the longer Bluejohn Canyon that we would do the next day.
I definitely wasn’t expecting Chambers to be a breeze just because I’ve done it before. For one thing, we found more water on the canyon bottom this time. That meant not only that we would take a few freezing dips in pools, it also meant we’d have to take on the trickiest canyoneering sections in wet shoes.
At one point, we took on a narrow section where we would have almost certainly gotten stuck if we’d tried walking through along the canyon floor. Instead, we had to chimney climb one or more times our height to get to a spot wide enough that we could pass horizontally. This wouldn’t have been so hard if the walls weren’t so damn close together. It took all my effort to generate the pressure to hold my body weight up between the walls. Wet shoes were no help.
I flailed and struggled with the smooth-walls, taking what tiny handholds I could. Even raising myself half an inch took colossal effort. My muscles were sick of holding up my body weight, begged me to let up and ease myself into the narrow trap between the walls below. I felt my grip weaken, the drops of panic seeping into my blood, exhaustion . I fought back with rage: wild shouts of profanity against the canyon, my own weakness, whatever inertia that kept me hanging there.
I refused to accept that I’d lose this battle against gravity. With painful, tearing progress, I started to drag myself horizontally between the walls. The rough edges felt like a belt sander against my skin, tearing knees, elbows hands and ass as I fought my way through.
After about a hundred feet, the walls widened out by an alcove. I didn’t know if I was supposed to climb above. I knew there would be no way I could do it. I made my way across and down, let my feet sink into the soft sand.
