It’s 8am on a brisk Saturday in January, and I’m shuffling through my gear closet, rallying Sunny’s winter puffy and praying for a full fuel canister. Nope. If my new hiking partner doesn’t have any, it’ll be a chilly evening for me. We’re thick in the doldrums of winter, and short days and work stress have weighed down my spirit. If nothing else, I hope a few days out in the desert will provide a recharge, if not a factory reset. The cold will certainly shock my system.
My new hiking partner, Danette, rolls up in front of my house promptly 7:30 am. All smiles, laughter, and stoke, and unfortunately, with a preference for cold food. With hopes of hot tea tonight gone but reassurance that I’ll be with good company, I load up and we set off into the Swell.
We are doing a portion of a loop published by Steve Allen and quietly used by the Swell backpacking family. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, Allen spent his weekends exploring southern Utah, swapping stories with cowboys and picking up tales of winding routes that afford entry to the cliffs of Canyon Country for those astute enough to find them. Today, Danette and I will be either astute or regretful; my beta says nothing about sketchy exposure or steep scrambles, but I’ve been out in the desert enough by now to take that with a grain of salt.
Sids Mountain Wilderness was designated in 2019, though it was one of the best places to backpack in the Swell long before that. The wilderness encompasses the Little Grand Canyon of the San Rafael River gorge and its tributary canyons, several of which hold water and are thus more conducive to camping than the drier parts of the Swell. They also afford an immense amount of space to explore away from roads and the drone of civilization: the wilderness itself is nearly 50,000 acres, but its dramatic terrain makes it feel far more remote. By southern Utah standards, it strikes a balance of outstanding backcountry in reasonable proximity to civilization; our trailhead is only a little over an hour from my driveway, and the roads are well-maintained and easy to navigate.
Our route? Not so much. After much talus tip-toeing and slickrock scrambling we gain the saddle into our destination, taking in sweeping views of Virgin Spring Canyon to the west and Cane Wash to the east, with the desert peaks – Window Blind, Assembly Hall, Pinnacle Point – rising up in the distance. Each one beckons in its own way. My climbing has slowed since I got Sunny, but the desire to explore simmers, nonetheless.
We spend the next hour picking our way down to the canyon and route-finding on jarringly loose rock. We ultimately track down the route into the canyon – a foreboding talus slope that drops a few hundred vertical feet. With the sun dipping towards the horizon, we decide a full loop into and through Virgin Spring might be best attempted on a longer trip. I find us a patch of mostly-flat slickrock (the superior campsite, if I may be so bold) and we settle in for a long, chilly night. My Jell-o legs are a reminder that I am out of shape, and I mentally commit to some serious squats.
Danette wakes me up before dawn, and after some tossing and turning, I resign to the inevitability of cold and the promise of sunrise. We pack camp and climb back up the saddle just in time to see the sun rising over the desert. Whenever I come out here into the Swell, I claim a destination, a goal, a project: find this route, get to the top of that mesa, scout out some water source or old stock trail. But I think this is my real purpose, my real reason for being here. Warm sun on my face, the first rays of light over a dreamy landscape. They say darkness is in the forecast every day – both metaphorically and, for Search and Rescue, literally. Renewed by a fresh day and kind company and playful dog rearing to go, I am reminded of the inverse: every night ends in dawn.
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