Day 360 - June 11 - Dog Canyon

"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me;"

Back in my old stomping grounds, there was a place we used to go hiking called Dog Canyon. It sat on the edge of the Tularosa Basin in southern New Mexico, and made for a great day hike. I understand now that it's a historical site and there's a visitor center and everything, but back in my day here's how it went -

You got up really early in the morning, left El Paso, Texas, and drove an hour and a half out into the desert. At some point that only the more experienced people in the car understood, you turned the truck off the road onto an unmarked, sandy dirt road that twisted off toward the hills in the distance. After bouncing up the tortuous track, through washed out ravines and around all sorts of pointy-looking cactus, you rolled to a stop at the turnaround, the dust from your passage slowly settling over you in the morning light. The only sound would be the ticking of cooling engines and the noise a group of teenagers make as they get ready to start hiking.

You look around, seeing the slope drop away into the Basin back the way you've just come. Then, turning around to look forward, you gaze up at an impenetrable wall of rock, seemingly miles high, and broken in the middle by a large gap - Dog Canyon. It's dark mouth gapes at you, backlit by the rising sun, all in forbidding shadows. Already the heat is rising - it's the desert, you know - and you feel the urgency to begin climbing in order to get off the basin floor before it starts roasting you alive. Actually, you feel the urgency to get back in the air-conditioned truck and retreat back home, but all your friends are watching; so you shoulder your pack and start the climb.

At first, it's not too bad. The slope is gentle, the heat isn't too bad, and the trail is well-marked and broad. But soon it gets worse. The heat is skyrocketing toward 110F, and the trail begins to narrow and trip over larger rocks. The cactus presses in on the trail, making each step a cautious probe forward rather than an easy stroll.

Now, the slope steepens. Your breath gets faster and more labored, and sweat begins to fall. You stop to catch your breath and ease the straps of a pack that has somehow gained weight since you left the truck. The kids behind you come to a stop too, so you settle the pack and keep hiking.

Pretty soon, you leave the cactus fields behind, a small blessing that is immediately forgotten in the realization that it's HOT. The sun has crested the ridgeline, and is beating mercilessly down on your head as you trudge, exposed, up the side of the canyon wall. You stop for a canteen break, only to see that you've already drunk half your supply of water. You've been on the trail an hour.

As the trail climbs, the sky turns brassy as the sun blazes molten white. You wonder if this is what the fiery furnace felt like. Lines of salt mark trails of dried sweat down your face. You pass twisted, stunted trees - too small to offer shade except to lizards and scorpions.

Finally, real trees begin to appear, and shade mottles the trail as it dips off the canyon wall toward the floor. A small waft of cooler air drifts down the canyon, lifting your fevered spirit with the promise of reprieve. Finally, with your canteen dry and your spirit drier, you stagger up to Frenchy's cabin, drop your pack, and collapse to the rocks for lunch.

Once you're refreshed a bit, you walk up the trail to the waterfall. It falls about 100 feet from the rocks above, dropping into a small pool before splashing down the canyon floor. It's an idyllic spot, even more ironic because there is no sign of it from below. No hint of green, no coolness on the air; even the water disappears before it reaches the basin floor far below, where you left the cars. But even as you enjoy this oasis, you know it can't last.

You see, the waterfall under which you stand hides the betrayal of Dog Canyon. Dog is a box canyon - there is no outlet to the high country. There's only one way in and one way out - the basin floor. The top of the canyon is blocked by a 100-foot tall cliff of stone. And so, after having refreshed yourself for a bit, you turn from it and begin the descent back into the furnace. Having left the garden spot under the falls, the trip back to the car seems twice as long, and twice as hot, and twice as dusty, with twice as many pebbles in your shoes, compared to the trip into the canyon - even though it's downhill now. The last trudge across the basin floor to the truck is hellishly long - no water, no coolness, no sweat left, only the idea that somewhere up ahead, lost in the heat mirages, is supposed to be a car you can get into, if somebody hasn't stolen it while you were gone.

The last few nights have felt a lot like a trek into Dog Canyon. Nobody here has gotten more than a couple hours sleep at a time, it seems - Connor has been in pain and discomfort each night all night. I know that sounds odd for someone with no sensation, but it's true, and all he can tell us is that it hurts. I think all of us had hoped for a chance to recover from the wedding excitement, but so far each night has been difficult. We would greatly appreciate your prayers that we might be able to get some rest. None of us are at our best because we're tired, and I in particular respond poorly to exhaustion. Tempers flare, patience erodes; it seems like the last shade on the planet is far behind us. But a coolness on the cheek foretells an oasis up ahead, when Joélle and Alan return from their honeymoon for a few days before leaving for Chicago. But that oasis will be very, very welcome, even if we know that we'll have to pick up our packs and keep hiking at the end of it all.

Fortunately for us, our Guide tells us that this valley of shadows is not a box canyon - it does have an end somewhere up ahead.

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