Western Wanderlust Chronicles

The Rendezvous Begins

It was an exciting start to the weekend as Bill and I joined the Canyoning Chicks Coalition for the North Wash Rendezvous. We reconnected with familiar faces from last September and welcomed new ones to the circle. The plan? Spend the next two days testing our skills in the rugged, remote tributaries of Poison Spring Canyon.

Beneath the Surface of Stillness

There’s no warning out here—just sage-dusted mesas and sunbaked washes that lull you into thinking this desert is quiet and gentle. But step a little farther, and the ground splits wide open.

This place is both beautiful and brutal. The canyons here bear ominous names—whispers of their challenging routes and treacherous drops—and Slideanide was our first plunge into the wilderness.

Hidden within the folds of Poison Spring’s sandstone layers lies a network of canyons that demand your attention and respect. We began our day in the middle fork of the system, casually walking over soft sand—careful to avoid the delicate, dark patches of cryptobiotic crust that help hold this fragile ecosystem together. But that calm was short-lived.

The hike quickly turned into a technical descent through twisting narrows and polished chutes. The walls closed in, sunlight faded, and our team moved with precision and grit. Slideanide Canyon served up a dose of adrenaline and awe, the kind that leaves you tired but exhilarated, already hungry for more. With several beautifully sculpted narrows, creative obstacles, and a fun final rappel (or a series of steep downclimbs, depending on your route), this canyon wastes no time delivering the goods.

A Canyon That Grabs Hold

It didn’t take long before we reached the head of Slideanide. Another group was gearing up at the first rappel, so we took the bypass—scrambling down rock and loose sandstone to drop into the canyon from the side. From the start, the route was hands-on—riddled with textured downclimbs, tight chimney moves, and body-bracing “elevators.” This canyon wastes no time easing you in.

The descent kicked off with a sequence of short drops, each one a new puzzle tested our balance and problem-solving. Chimneying between narrow walls, bracing with elbows and knees, sliding through frictiony chutes—we were immediately in flow. The sandstone offered just enough grip to keep us moving, but the canyon made sure we earned every step.

The walls wrapped tighter with every turn, their colors deepening as sunlight gave way to shadow. It was a rhythm of flow and focus: one move, one obstacle, one decision at a time.

When we arrived at the big elevator downclimb, a roughly 60-foot vertical slot, I paused. It looked intimidating from above—narrow, steep, and shadowed. My nerves flared, but I eased into position and began the descent, letting gravity do its part while I maintained friction through a mix of footwork, forearms, and focus. Halfway down, I encountered two precariously placed boulders. They shifted ever so slightly. My heart skipped. I adjusted, stemmed wide, and carefully moved past them. No mistakes. No shortcuts. Just breath and movement.

I completed the downclimb unassisted with the aid of a rope. It wasn’t flawless—but it was mine. My big win of the day. And like much of Slideanide, it reminded me that growth often hides behind discomfort.

Slideanide doesn’t just test your strength—it demands your full attention. By then, we were locked into the rhythm of descent.

Downclimb After Downclimb

Slideanide doesn’t offer many breaks. It’s a canyon of constant movement—one downclimb after another, most requiring no rappel but plenty of focus. The sandstone walls curved and narrowed around us, darkening as we dropped deeper. Bill, who thrives on the challenge of problem-solving terrain, was in his element. I was still learning—but grateful for the chance to build skills in such good company.

Some members of our group stepped up as human anchors, providing support so others could downclimb safely and with confidence. That trust—shared rope, outstretched hands, quiet encouragement—is what turns canyoning from a solo effort into a team experience. Even in the most remote, silent places, we moved together.

Moments of Stillness and Sculpted Beauty

Eventually, the canyon gave us a moment to breathe. After the tight squeezes and relentless downclimbs, the walls opened just enough to let in light and space. We walked through a stretch of beautifully sculpted narrows, the sandstone smoothed by centuries of flash floods and time.

Sunlight filtered down in quiet shafts, glinting off polished walls painted in shades of rose, copper, and charcoal. We moved slowly here—not because we had to, but because we wanted to. It was a rare moment of stillness in a canyon that rarely stops moving. This place didn’t just demand effort—it offered beauty in return.

For a brief stretch, the obstacles eased, the pace softened, and we could take in the artistry of the canyon itself. Curves and contours formed by water and time. A breath. A reset. And then, just ahead, the final challenges waited—ready to pull us back into the stone.

The Final Descent

As the canyon twisted once more, the walls rose tall and narrow, funneling us toward our final obstacle. The drop here is estimated to be around 80 feet, but it’s done in stages—less a single plunge and more a winding staircase carved into stone. I chose to rappel, opting for control over improvisation.

The final rappel was pure Slideanide: dark, narrow, and sculpted like a corkscrew. I worked my way between polished walls and slid beneath a massive lodged boulder. Then, suddenly, the canyon opened up—spitting me into a wide corridor streaked with water-stained walls. Shades of bronze, rust, and shadow painted the sandstone in wild, flowing patterns.

Bill followed behind and I quickly noticed several holes in his pants. The canyon had taken its toll—fabric shredded, seams split—and he wasn’t alone. Slideanide is notorious for chewing through clothing. By the end, we wore our damage like badges of honor.

The Climber’s Exit

At the confluence with Constrychnine Canyon, we paused. Most groups take the gradual slickrock walkout from here, but ours? We had other plans: an up-climbing extravaganza.

We aimed for a low fifth-class chimney exit—a sandstone staircase disguised as a vertical puzzle. Exposed, gritty, and physical. After hours of downclimbing, this was no easy task. But it was a challenge that made the exit feel earned. With each pull and push, we gained elevation—legs shaky, arms tired, but spirits high.

Once on top, we dropped our packs and took a moment to look back. The canyon was behind us, but the experience clung like sandstone dust—etched into memory.

All that remained was the desert. An open walk across sunlit sandy path, tracing our way back to the cars. Tired, hungry, and grinning.

Shakes, Scrapes, and Satisfaction

Before calling it a day, we made the essential stop at Stan’s Burger Shack in Hanksville. The milkshakes were the real star—cold, creamy, and absolutely hit-the-spot after a long, dusty descent. The fries were crisp and the cheeseburgers? Incredible. I inhaled mine like it was the first meal I’d had in days, which, after hours of navigating Slideanide, didn’t feel far from the truth.

We sat inside, soaking in the air conditioning, letting the fatigue melt into satisfaction. Dusty, scraped, and happily exhausted, it was the kind of meal that tastes better because you’ve earned it. And with a shake in hand, it felt like the perfect ending to a day well spent.

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Day 1 Reflection

Slideanide Canyon made an impression. It pulled us in fast, threw us challenge after challenge, and reminded us just how much beauty can exist in places that demand effort. Every drop, stem, and scramble tested our focus, technique, and trust in each other. But with each move, confidence grew. So did camaraderie.

Three years ago, Bill and I drove through Poison Spring Canyon—windows down, dirt kicking up behind us, completely unaware of the sandstone labyrinths hiding just beyond the road. Being back in this same area, now exploring its depths on rope and foot instead of four wheels, gave the experience a whole new meaning. What once passed by in minutes was now revealed in rich, deliberate detail.

For me, it wasn’t just about finishing the route. It was about refining skills, embracing the mental game, and reconnecting with a place in a totally different way. We walked out with scraped arms, stretched limits, and a deeper love for these wild, hidden canyons.

Day 1 left me tired, proud, and hungry—for burgers, yes—but more so for whatever the next canyon had waiting.

Looking Ahead

As the sun dipped low behind the red cliffs and the last sips of milkshake disappeared, we knew Day 1 had given us exactly what we came for—and more. But the beauty of a canyoning weekend is that the story doesn’t end when the rope is packed. It just resets.

The next morning, with sore legs and renewed energy, we set our sights deeper into the wilds of Poison Spring. Constrychnine Canyon was waiting—steeper, darker, and even more demanding. Where Slideanide tested our technique, Constrychnine would challenge our nerves, teamwork, and trust. And we were ready.