A Desert Downpour

A week ago I was hiking through the rain in the canyon created by Calf Creek in southern Utah.

It was the first full day of a three-day camping trip with the young men in our Scout group. In the morning, the crowds at the Lower Calf Creek Falls trailhead had persuaded us to first explore Upper Calf Creek Falls, where we found ourselves alone at a lush desert grotto fed by a small creek that careened over a 90-foot drop into a deep, green pool. Warmed by the sun, many of us had entered the chilling waters for a brisk swim. Doing a leisurely backstroke across the pool, I had gazed up past cream-colored canyon walls to white clouds moving across a blue sky.

As we hiked up and out of the canyon, however, our trail over the slickrock became gradually darkened by a gathering storm. By the time we reached the top and began making our sandwiches, black, low clouds filled the sky, rain could be seen to the north, and occasional claps of thunder reached our ears.

Undeterred, we drove back down to the lower trailhead, hoping the crowds had dispersed. There was at least room in the parking lot this time, and as we commenced on the trail, with the dark clouds sprinkling upon us, streams of hikers flowed by on the outward leg of their hike. Before long, however, the sprinkle had increased to a steady rain, and within a mile, we were in the midst of a drenching downpour and spectacular lightning show.

By the halfway point of our hike (about a mile and a half), the group (10 boys, four adults) had become stretched out along the trail, and our radio crackled as the lead group called back for guidance. “Are we going to turn back?” a teenage voice queried hopefully.

The cold rain had soaked most clothes (especially those of young men who had neglected to bring the rain gear itemized on the packing list—“I didn’t even look at that list,” one boy remarked), and as they saw hiker after hiker heading for the parking lot, they longed to return to warm cars.

But we in the rear were having the time of our lives. Sure, it was wet, but how often do you witness a desert downpour? The lightning crackling above our heads, the thunder echoing off surrounding canyon walls, and the spontaneous waterfalls spewing forth from precipices above to hurtle hundreds of feet to the canyon floor kept our minds off the damp chill, and the promise of petroglyphs and Anasazi cliff dwellings kept us interested. [^^In the photo above you can see one of the spontaneous waterfalls as well as the petroglyphs (lower left corner).]

“Keep on keeping on” was the message sent back to the lead group (a message met with not a little complaining).

Gradually the rain lessened to a drizzle, but it didn’t stop completely. As we neared the end, we met the lead group going back on the run. They had seen the falls—if briefly—and had determined to get out of the cold as soon as they could.

Moving forward, we soon saw the 125-foot falls above the trees, and in a moment we were walking under the final grove at the edge of the sandy beach that surrounds the pool. Swollen by the rain, Lower Calf Creek Falls—normally a mild flow tumbling peacefully down a cliff—thundered over the canyon rim in a torrent that sent mist hurtling toward us, propelled by the wind that whipped down through the narrow passage. My glasses, hitherto protected from the rain by my wide-rimmed leather hat, were suddenly covered in drops from the spray. Directed by the boys who had reached the spot just before me, I moved to the side, out of the wind and spray, and I searched for a dry spot on my shirt with which I could wipe my glasses to more fully appreciate the scene. [vv The photos below illustrate the contrast between the normal falls (left) and what we encountered (right).]

For several minutes we admired the falls. We took pictures, we shared statements of incredulity, we stood again in the center of the canyon to test the strength of the wind and feel the force of the spray, awed at the power and majesty of God displayed through His creations.

As we left the falls and hiked out, the rain continued, but more lightly now. Birds began to sing, and the spontaneous waterfalls we had observed earlier had vanished. In their place were glistening ribbons of damp, darkened rock down the face of the cliffs, giving us direct evidence that water is the source of those black streaks on sandstone canyon walls.

When we reached the cars, I noted with some amazement the differing attitudes toward the experience. We had all taken the same hike in the same weather, but some of the young men complained that it ranked among the worst hikes they’d done, while others of us raved about it as one of the most incredible things we had witnessed.

Later I wondered if the difference in attitude lay in the focus. Many of those in the lead group were in the lead group because they wanted to go fast. Their purpose was to get to the end of the hike and see the falls. It was all about the destination for them. And although most of them acknowledged that the destination was truly magnificent, some of them insisted that it wasn’t worth the cold, wet hike.

Those of us in the rear group, however, were interested in the end goal, to be sure, but early on we began looking around and taking in the sights as we went. When we got to the end and saw the swollen falls, the sight was the perfect climax to a fantastic series of observations along the way. We had seen the desert in the middle of a massive thunderstorm—not a common occurrence. We had witnessed the forces of nature at work and had seen much more than the one waterfall we had anticipated at the beginning of the hike.

The message, for me, is to enjoy our journeys in life. We shouldn't be so focused on the end goal (be it an eternal objective or a long-term temporal one) that we can't find beauty and wonder along the way. When blinders focus our attention so narrowly on one point in the distance, we not only miss much, we also become more easily wearied by the trials of the trail and we question whether it is all worth the effort. But when we take time to appreciate the beauties around us, the challenges we face seem less burdensome, and the ultimate objective, when we achieve it, is enriched by the good we gathered along the way.