Finding God in the Gulch

Bright yellow jacket. Cold canyon water. Faith and foolishness in equal measure.

Preface – The Search Begins

We don’t always set out looking for a spiritual transformation.

We just want to go on a hike.

We want to sleep under the stars, chase beauty through narrow sandstone corridors, and maybe eat a few pink frosted animal cookies along the way. But somewhere between packing gear and stepping into a canyon, something shifts. We start asking deeper questions. Not the kind you write in a journal and forget—but the kind that tug at your soul and won’t let go.

This is the story of what I found on one occasion when I said yes to that tug.

It’s about what happens when you leave behind comfort, step willingly into the unknown, and walk toward the places where silence speaks loudest. It’s a story of sandstone cathedrals, flooded trails, frog choirs, and quicksand—with just enough chaos to make sure God stays front and center.

I hope, in this dialogue, you find permission to wander—and to wonder.

Because sometimes, the adventure is the altar.

1 – The Pickle Beside the Canyon Burger

How a nameless oasis, a loyal dog, and pink frosted cookies prepared me for the sacred unknown.

"It’s the soundless thirst that pulls you toward the well of light, it’s the wordless longing that drives you to the oasis in the desert."— The Oasis of Now, Sohrab Sepehri

It was a perfect day in mid-May. Leslie, Rick, Beth, and I rose in the cool, calm pre-dawn hours to begin our four-hour hike—packs loaded, spirits high—across muddy trails, over rocky stretches, and through winding canyons dotted with wildflowers, all leading to one of our favorite destinations.

Our destination was an oasis—lush, hidden, and unlike anything else in the deserts of southern Utah.

Technically, it doesn’t have a name. On the map, it’s simply marked “campground.” Verbally, it’s referred to as that spot where you can camp near the mouth of Buckskin Gulch just before the confluence with the Paria River. A bit of a mouthful. I call it “Caiya’s Cove” now, in honor of my late border collie/golden retriever mix who loved this place with her whole tail-wagging heart.

Caiya’s Cove is flanked by towering terra-cotta canyon walls streaked with zebra-like ribbons of maroon, sepia, and deep crimson—as if Mother Nature had taken a paintbrush to the stone and let the colors run wild. At the canyon’s bend, a clear spring flows through cottonwoods, ferns, and tall grass. A cool breeze occasionally stirs the air, and you can hear the gentle patter of sand falling from above—catapulted from the canyon rim hundreds of feet overhead.

Swallows and hummingbirds fill the skies. Sometimes a raven will glide past low and deliberate, like a WWII fighter plane—its wings slicing the air, its feathers audibly rustling, and its beady black eyes giving you the once-over. Its CAAAAAWW bounces off the canyon walls like a boomerang, turning one bird into what sounds like a dozen.

As dusk falls, frogs and red-spotted toads begin their chorus while bats emerge and zag through the canopy.

Caiya’s Cove may be spectacular, but let’s be honest—it never earned a proper name because it’s more of a scenic sidekick than a star attraction. Think of it as the pickle on the plate next to the gourmet burger that is Buckskin Gulch. And yes, Buckskin is the headliner. But don’t overlook that pickle—it’s pretty fantastic.

We had hiked from the White House Trailhead in Paria Canyon, a gentle decent that unfolded gradually. At first, it was all open desert and blazing sun, with the occasional cactus and wildflower to distract us. But slowly—almost imperceptibly—the canyon walls began to rise around us, closing in like theater curtains. Before we knew it, we were surrounded.

Just before the confluence with Buckskin Gulch, the canyon narrowed to about twenty feet wide. The walls were smooth and fluted, colored in shades of chocolate and slate. A ribbon of knee-deep water stretched wall to wall—glassy, translucent, and turquoise like Caribbean sea glass. For fifty yards, the canyon floor shimmered like a liquid runway.

At the end of the stretch, the canyon veered sharply left guarded by a sheer cliff hundreds of feet tall. The sun was just right, casting warm canary and orange hues onto the cliff face, which then reflected back into the water. A glowing creamsicle stripe split the aquamarine stream—pure magic.

Naturally, we all stopped to take photos.

Rick was the first to step into the water, slogging through while I snapped photos behind him. Just before the bend, he stopped and turned to wait for us. As we approached I caught his eye and gave him the silent nod of trail camaraderie that said, “Thanks for waiting. Let’s keep going.”

But then, he didn’t move.

His face shifted from calm to confused to slightly alarmed.

“Uh... I think I’m stuck.”

“What’s the matter, Rick?” I called out. “Having a little trouble walking?”

“Dude. I’m in quicksand.”

I laughed, of course. “Don’t worry! That happened to my mom in this same exact spot a couple years ago. She lost her shoes and fell straight into the mud, but she was fine. Couldn’t stop laughing afterward.”

Rick relaxed a little, smiled—and then, with a heroic burst of energy, yanked one leg loose, followed by the other. His shoes stayed on, but his calves were now encased in brown mud that looked like thick chocolate socks.

“That was crazy,” he said, laughing.

At the confluence, we stopped to marvel at the scene. I walked a few feet into Buckskin Gulch and turned to take a photo. Rick, Leslie, and Beth stood heroically with their packs in front of a towering cliff face, the top third of it glowing in warm morning light. The Paria River bent around both sides in a massive horseshoe formation, vanishing into deep canyon corridors.

“This is an amazing shot!” I shouted. “You’re welcome in advance!”

We kept our voices low after that, partly to respect the sacred stillness of the place and partly because the canyon walls turned every whisper into surround sound. It was pretty cool just listening to the sound of our footsteps as they echoed in crisp, hollow tones as we hiked the final quarter mile to Caiya’s Cove.

The cliffs narrowed and rose higher still, and shallow braided rivulets of clear string water crisscrossed the canyon floor. The sun disappeared. The vegetation vanished. The world went quiet.

Then—green. Lush, vivid, unmistakable. The scent of life hung thick in the air.

Within minutes, we arrived. Caiya’s Cove.

We followed a pink sandy trail that wove past cottonwoods, then climbed through grasses to a high, flat perch about 80 feet above the canyon floor. It felt like the stage of a divine opera house—framed by ferns, streaked rock, and seeping springs. A shade tree stood at the back of the stage like a leftover prop. The floor was soft, salmon-colored sand, flat and wide enough for four tents with room to spare.

And we had it all to ourselves.

We burst into laughter and chatter, giddy with our good fortune. Each of us instinctively celebrated in our own way. I pulled out a bag of pink frosted animal cookies with rainbow sprinkles, unfolded my camp chair, and settled in like royalty. Leslie started inflating her sleeping pad. Rick and Beth collapsed onto flat sun-warmed rocks, soaking in the moment. Beth produced an avocado and a knife from her pack like some kind of desert genie.

We spent the afternoon setting up camp, napping, reading, and relishing every minute of rare, unhurried time. No phones. No plans. Just peace in a spot that felt like paradise.

Before it was “Caiya’s Cove,” it was just her favorite nap spot. 2018, where it all began.

2 – Into the Lair of the Really Big Ape

Slot canyons, reverent silence, and that time a raven accidentally became my spirit guide. 

“I know there’s a God. I’ve felt Him: out alone in the desert at night—the tremendous mystery.”— C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

Just steps beyond Caiya’s Cove, the entrance to the best part of Buckskin Gulch looms like a gateway to something ancient and unknowable. I call it The Entrance to King Kong’s Lair—dark, narrow, slightly unsettling, and rising hundreds of feet into the sky.

Technically, we entered Buckskin earlier in the day, when we turned right at the confluence. But I’ve always considered the far end of Caiya’s Cove to be the true mouth of the Gulch. That’s where it changes—visually, spiritually, atmospherically. Where the canyon displays it’s unique identity. It’s the heart. It’s where the real story begins.

At sixteen miles long, Buckskin Gulch is one of the deepest and longest slot canyons in the world. And as a bonus for those of us who like a little solitude with our awe, only twenty overnight permits are issued each day.

I’ve hiked Buckskin in just about every way imaginable—top to bottom, bottom to top, dry, muddy, waist-deep in water. Sometimes I do the whole stretch in one go. But most often, I return to this section—the mile or so right above Caiya’s Cove, the part I lovingly refer to as King Kong’s Lair.

This trip felt extra special. Beth and Leslie had never been here before, and Rick hadn’t returned in years. There’s something uniquely satisfying about watching someone take it in for the first time—the disbelief, the speechlessness, the way their eyes scan and refocus, as if trying to convince their brain it’s all real.

I see this place almost every year. It never loses its magic.

After a blissful afternoon at Caiya’s Cove, the shadows began to stretch across the canyon floor. Around 3 p.m., we packed light daypacks with extra layers of clothing and made our descent from the high camp platform, back to the canyon floor—this time on the opposite side of the cove from where we’d entered.

More water was visible on this side, fanning out across the terrain. On our right, thick vegetation thrived. On the left, only the occasional brave shrub made a cameo appearance.

Then we saw it.

The entrance.

That massive, dark, silent crack in the stone. The walls narrowed, rising higher and higher until it felt like we were being funneled into the unknown. It was easy to picture King Kong stepping out of the shadows—his massive footfalls rumbling toward us.

As we crossed the invisible threshold into Buckskin, everything changed.

The vegetation disappeared. Light dimmed. The canyon walls—once welcoming—now felt intimidating and holy.

The surfaces were mesmerizing. Some sections were polished smooth; others were warped and twisted like melted wax. The stone was carved with gargoyle faces, ripples, and waves, painted in a surreal spectrum—burnt orange, ochre, salmon, deep maroon, ash gray, and even flashes of purple, blue, and yellowish hues. It was less a trail and more a living cathedral.

Nobody said much.

A hush fell over us, as if the canyon itself demanded reverence.

Then someone whispered, “Wow.”

Somewhere deeper in the Gulch, a raven called. Its cry echoed off the walls, sounding regal and wild, like a trumpet announcing the arrival of royalty.

Often, a raven’s caw sounds like mischief to me… like, “I’m raiding the dumpster!” Here, it sounded like ceremony.

For the next couple hours, we wove through Buckskin’s interior. The conversation resumed in gentle tones, respectful of the space. We moved through tight corridors filled with ankle- or knee-deep water, then through dry pockets that opened up a bit more.

No two views were the same. The entire canyon was a shifting art gallery.

Slot canyons are famous for their changing light, and today the shadows made the colors richer, more saturated. Deep chocolate, vibrant orange, yellow dustings, and that rare canyon purple—the kind that only shows up when the light is low and the soul is paying attention.

By the time we returned to camp, we were all happily spent. Tired, muddy, and blissed out. The adrenaline of discovery had given way to a peaceful exhaustion.

The price of awe had been paid in full. And we had gotten our money’s worth.

The entrance to King Kong’s Lair. Or, as Leslie calls it: “Definitely your idea.”

3 – The Uselessness of Wonder

How a place with zero practical value became sacred anyway.

Buckskin Gulch hasn’t always been an A-list destination. It spent most of its millions of years as a completely anonymous gorge, utterly uninterested in tourism or fame. It wasn’t until August 28, 1984, that it was officially recognized as part of the National Wilderness Preservation System—tucked into the Paria Canyon–Vermilion Cliffs Wilderness. Even then, it took years before it caught the attention of hikers, influencers, and adventure guides.

Its current big-league status? A tiny blip on the timeline.

What surprised me most when I first started exploring the area was how little written history existed about Buckskin Gulch. There were no legends. No ancient trade routes. No ghost towns or outlaw hideouts. Just silence.

But then it hit me: this place has almost no utility.

It’s not arable. There are no herds of buffalo. No gold mines. No settlements. No halfway-decent place to park a wagon or build a saloon. And definitely no gas station offering 64-ounce Diet Mountain Dews and pebble ice.

It’s 16 miles of twisting, narrow slot canyon—walls stretching 500 feet high, squeezing in as tight as 5 feet across. Occasionally, a flash flood barrels through like a freight train, with water surging over 50 feet high.

This isn’t a place people historically visited. It’s a place people avoided.

The truth is, until our modern era—complete with accurate weather forecasts, GPS, synthetic outerwear, and recreational privilege—Buckskin Gulch served no practical human purpose. It was irrelevant by design.

And yet now, people come from all over the world to walk through its corridors. They bring cameras and journals and freeze-dried meals. They come to admire. Then they leave, hoping their legs will forgive them.

So what changed?

The land didn’t. We did.

Humans have never truly told the story of Buckskin Gulch. The canyon tells its own tale, written in rock layers—whispers from the basement of time. Here, the land is the main character. And it’s clearly in charge.

Its newfound relevance has come about because of a shift in perspective. A different point of view.

In another era, this place was dismissed. Now, it’s a pilgrimage. Not because the canyon changed, but because we finally learned how to see it.

So what happened? What changed in us that made a useless slot canyon suddenly sacred?

Answering that question requires speaking in sweeping generalizations. What I’m about to say won’t apply to everyone. But for the sake of clarity—and perhaps catharsis—I’m going to say it like it does.

Because sometimes, in order to dig something true out of the mud, you have to speak like a prophet… even if you’re just a muddy hiker with a granola bar in your pocket.

Leslie meets cathedral. Awe: activated.

Chapter 4 – The Gospel of Making Do

Before adventure was trendy, survival was the only storyline.

For at least 10,000 years, long before hashtags and hiking permits, people lived in this region. The Fremont and Anasazi cultures made their homes near dependable water sources. They grew corn, beans, and squash, coaxing life from the desert with early irrigation systems that were little more than ditches and grit.

It worked—barely. The desert didn’t make anything easy.

Paria Canyon, which runs past Buckskin Gulch, sometimes served as a travel corridor toward the Colorado River. But it wasn’t a place to settle. The ever-present threat of flash floods rendered it inhospitable, even deadly.

The Anasazi eventually vanished from their southwestern settlements around 1250 AD. No one knows for sure why. Theories abound—drought, conflict, migration, collapse. Whatever the cause, they left behind ruins, petroglyphs, and a mystery that refuses to die.

After them came other tribes—Utes, Navajos, Paiutes. Each adapted in their own way. They hunted, gathered, traded. They lived with the land rather than against it. No Instagram posts. No van conversions. Just the raw and relentless act of staying alive.

They survived by taking what they had and making it work.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t curated. But it was enough.

And sometimes, enough is everything.

5 – Faith, Flash Floods, and Film Crews

How pioneers, prophets, and John Wayne turned a desert into a destination.

“Everything in the world must have design or the human mind rejects it. But in addition, it must have purpose, or the human conscience shies away from it.”— John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley

The earliest recorded white exploration of this region came in 1776, when the Spanish Dominguez-Escalante party passed through—Franciscan monks searching for a route and a reason to settle. Their missionary dreams didn’t quite pan out. The terrain was too brutal. Their dreams of settlements were abandoned.

Later, as fur trappers moved west, they too dismissed the area. Too rugged. Too dry. Not enough beavers to justify the effort. They moved on.

Then, in 1847, pioneers from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—the “Saints”—entered the Great Basin and founded Salt Lake City. Just two years later, their leader, the prophet Brigham Young, sent Apostle Parley P. Pratt south on an exploration mission. His task: identify viable land for settlements along the southern route to California. It roughly followed today’s I-15.

Pratt described southern Utah as a land “thrown together in dreadful confusion... a country in ruins.”

He wasn’t wrong. But even ruin has potential if your worldview includes God and grit.

In 1854, Jacob Hamblin was appointed head of the Church’s Indian Mission and ventured even deeper into the desert. As he gained knowledge of the region, Hamblin became the go-to guide for government expeditions—including John Wesley Powell’s Grand Canyon explorations via the Colorado River. Hamblin also helped establish the settlement of Kanab.

At first, Kanab was a fort—built for protection from Native American attacks. Years later, after treaties brought relative peace, the fort grew into a town.

Back then, the nearest settlement to Buckskin Gulch was Kanab—still a solid 45 miles away. Page, Arizona, which is technically closer at 32 miles, didn’t exist until 1957. It was built to house workers during construction of the Glen Canyon Dam.

The early Saints of Kanab were a tough, faithful crew—frontiersmen with large families, sometimes multiple wives, and an unwavering belief that God had called them to the wilderness. They didn’t settle for convenience. They chose hardship. They left behind warm homes and fertile farms in northern Utah to carve out a life in this raw, remote terrain.

And somehow, in the wilderness, they didn’t just survive. They thrived.

Their mission wasn’t rooted in survival alone. It was about obedience, purpose, and faith. That mindset elevated everything they did. When life was hard—and it was always hard—they got creative.

They built forts. Then made peace.

Peace led to towns.

Towns needed water, so they built reservoirs and developed smarter irrigation.

Flash floods destroyed those reservoirs, so they rebuilt stronger ones, shifted crops, and expanded into ranching.

Kanab remained isolated for decades. Snow-choked mountains loomed to the north. The Colorado River Gorge carved a deep barrier to the south. No railroads. Few roads. Just the occasional wagon wheel and a whole lot of prayer.

When Utah gained statehood in 1896, the gates opened.

Edwin D. Woolley, an early community leader, saw the potential for tourism. Riding through the area, he reportedly declared: “This is one of the Wonders of the World! People will come from all quarters of the globe and will pay great sums of money to gaze on what we now behold.”

And they did.

Artists like Thomas Moran, illustrators like W.H. Holmes, and photographers like Jack Hillers and Timothy O’Sullivan captured the region’s beauty for a wider world.

Even Buffalo Bill came to town. He scouted the area as a potential adventure resort for wealthy English tourists. (In the end, he decided it was too rugged to turn a profit.)

Eventually, Highway 89 was built. National parks were established. And just like that, sleepy Kanab found itself in the middle of a natural trifecta—Zion, Bryce Canyon, and the Grand Canyon all within reach.

Then came the Parry Brothers.

They started a tourism business in Kanab and had a bold idea: persuade Hollywood filmmakers to shoot their westerns here. It worked. In 1924, Deadwood Coach was filmed on location, and over 100 films followed. John Wayne himself became a regular visitor.

Kanab earned its nickname: “Little Hollywood.”

From early exploration, to forts and treaties, to floods and ranches, to faith, film, and tourism—Kanab and the Saints found a way to thrive. Sure, technology helped. But the foundation was always spiritual.

They left behind safety. They stepped into chaos. And they built something lasting—not because it was easy, but because they believed it mattered and put their faith in God.

Some places make you look up in wonder. Others make you look up and whisper, “Whoa.”

6 – The Temple Built by Water and Time

How a narrow canyon in the desert became a spiritual corridor to peace beyond understanding.

“There is a connection between heaven and earth. Finding that connection makes everything meaningful, including death. Missing it makes everything meaningless, including life.”— John H. Groberg, The Other Side of Heaven

As national parks surged in popularity and visitor numbers exploded, it was inevitable that some would go searching for the next great frontier. A quieter cathedral. A wilder escape.

Eventually, they found Buckskin Gulch. And they embraced it.

But why?

It’s still a taxing trek through remote desert. It’s long. It’s unpredictable. It’s often uncomfortable. And yet, people come. Over and over.

Because here—hidden among mud and sunburn and aching calves—there is a high likelihood of encountering something extraordinary.

Awe.

The kind of awe that overrides everything else. The kind people describe as magical, peaceful, soul-expanding. The kind that doesn’t just hit the body, but breaks beyond it. That rare moment when you sense something bigger moving through you, and you're reminded—viscerally—that you're not alone in the universe.

Yes… awe.

I’d argue that what visitors experience in Buckskin Gulch mirrors, in a concentrated form, what the early Saints experienced in southern Utah. Both involve a deliberate choice: to leave behind comfort and step into chaos, fully aware that hardship awaits.

But they go anyway.

Visiting Buckskin Gulch is like stepping into a natural temple—an ancient cathedral of stone. Its walls aren’t made by human hands, but carved by time, water, and the relentless push of creation itself. And within that space, many encounter God—not in theory, but in quiet flashes of unmistakable presence.

Most people don’t go to Buckskin Gulch for recreation alone. Not really. They go because something is calling them forward. Something deeper.

Is hiking in the desert fun? That depends on your definition. For some, yes. For others, not at all.

But for those who say yes, that joy is likely holistic. It's not just the hike—it’s the peace that lives in the after. The kind of peace that outlasts the soreness and the sweat.

The kind of peace Philippians 4:7 talks about:

“And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds through Christ Jesus.”

That peace begins in places like Caiya’s Cove. And it magnifies in Buckskin Gulch.

Not despite the challenge—but because of it.

Leslie walks through knee-deep canyon water, because peace isn’t going to find itself—and neither is hypothermia.

7 – God in the Gap

Why awe lives where reason ends, and faith begins.

Visiting Buckskin Gulch isn’t just an adventure—it’s an invitation. One that can lead directly to a connection with God.

That connection might come as a feeling of awe. Or as peace that surpasses all understanding.

It works today because we no longer see this place through a lens of survival or utility. We don’t need Buckskin to be farmland. We don’t need it to house us, feed us, or shelter us from the storm. Instead, we’re free to see it for what it truly is: beautiful. Sacred. Untamed.

Technology helps. Accurate weather forecasts allow us to monitor storms upstream and avoid danger. Lightweight water purifiers, dehydrated meals, insulated sleeping bags—these things make hardship less harsh. They create margin.

But even with all our gear, even with our forecasts and freeze-dried lasagna, stepping away from the air-conditioned security of a vehicle into that narrow canyon is still stepping into chaos.

You’re still entering a space where God is the only sure thing.

And that’s the perfect recipe for encountering Him.

Because the connection doesn’t come in spite of the canyon’s unpredictability. It comes because of it.

It’s wild. It’s beautiful. It’s beyond control.

And in a world that often feels carefully managed, calculated, and over-insulated, that’s exactly where many of us find God waiting.

Proof that reverence sometimes looks like a hike in wet socks.

8 – Zombie Frogs and Answered Prayers

Three sacred hacks for turning the wilderness into a holy encounter.

There are three “cheat codes” I’ve discovered that help make those moments of awe more consistent—and more profound:

• Pray

• Observe

• Acknowledge

Pray

God is real—and accessible. Prayer opens the line of communication. It’s how we exercise faith, and how we begin to connect with the divine.

Talk to Him. Ask for what you need. It doesn’t have to be poetic.

Before this trip, I prayed every day for weeks. I asked for help, protection, and a few specific things I hoped to experience—some practical, some personal. I brought it all to Him.

Then, I paid attention.

Observe

Permits

Scoring an overnight permit for Buckskin Gulch in May is like winning a radio contest in the ‘90s. Only 20 permits per day. For May, they’re released online at 10 a.m. on February 1, and they’re gone in seconds. Blink and you’re out of luck—try again next year.

I practiced preloading the form. Practiced clicking. But I also prayed.

When the time came, I landed a permit for four people on the exact days I wanted. Yes, I had practiced. But the margin for error was huge—and it got filled in a very obvious way.

Weather

Two weeks before the trip, the region was hammered with rain. The Paria River was swollen. Buckskin was flooded with deep, icy pools and thick mud. It looked borderline impassable—or, at best, miserable.

Then the forecast started calling for high winds. Adding insult to injury. Floods AND winds. Not just breezy. Gusts over 40 mph.

If you’ve never experienced high canyon wind, imagine hearing a roar like a freight train before a wave of sand slaps you in the face. It gets in your eyes, your tent, your food, your gear. It covers your sleeping bag and electronics. You taste grit in everything, trying to figure out how it even got into your toothpaste.

I prayed—for clear skies, safe water levels, and no wind.

And guess what?

The wind never came. The water at the Confluence was almost nonexistent. The spring in Caiya’s Cove flowed normally. Down in Buckskin, we encountered more water than usual, but only knee-deep—and it added to the magic. Over three days, we crossed paths with just one pair of hikers that came from the top and described swimming through icy pools, slogging through deep mud, and being colder than they’d ever been in their lives.

Meanwhile, our trip felt... charmed. I call it a miracle.

PeopleCaiya’s Cove is best experienced in solitude. If other campers show up, their voices bounce off the canyon walls like karaoke in a cathedral.

I prayed for quiet—and packed earplugs, just in case.

No one else showed up. Another miracle.

Frogs

In Puerto Rico, where I live most of the time, the frogs (called coquí) make an entrancing nighttime sound. I was looking forward to hearing the frog chorus at the cove.

I didn’t pray about this detail. It was important to me, but I forgot to ask.

God noticed anyway.

This year, the usual nighttime soundtrack included a few new voices—some weird and wonderful additions to the amphibian choir.

One I dubbed “The Frog Bird”—its call sounded like a cross between a frog and a hawk. The other? “The Zombie Frog.” Picture a wailing undead frog. Yes, like a ghostly amphibian howling from the underworld. Somehow it wasn’t terrifying—it was actually... kind of cool. Strange. Memorable. Beautiful in its own haunted way.

Acknowledge

Out in the wilderness, I observed answers to prayers—spoken and unspoken—every single day. Sometimes they were obvious. Sometimes they appeared only after I slowed down, quieted my soul, and paid attention.

And when I did, I saw more. Felt more. Received more.

Awe is real. But it often requires a second look. And acknowledgment turns awe into something deeper: gratitude. Relationship. Worship.

If prayer opens the door, and observation lets you peek inside—acknowledgment is stepping through and sitting at the table.

Proof that light at the end of the tunnel is sometimes... just you.

9 – Where the Trail Turns Sacred

In Buckskin Gulch, the line between faith and adventure disappears.

“In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing.”— Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It

On the final morning of the trip, Leslie and I woke at 5 a.m.—still dark out—and quietly made our way into Buckskin Gulch for a photo shoot. We brought headlamps for the early shadows and hoped to catch the canyon lit in golden hour light.

As we stepped into King Kong’s Lair, it was especially quiet. We both began walking instinctively softer, like Native American scouts in a movie—each step more mindful than the last. It was so still that I half-expected our breaths to echo. So we barely breathed.

Then something shifted.

A feeling settled in. Tingly. Alive. Sacred.

God filled the space.

I felt reverence, gratitude, awe. I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay right there forever. Later, Leslie told me she felt the same—so intensely, in fact, that her body responded the only way it could: with tears. A lot of them.

Looking back on that moment now, I find myself breathing slowly. In. Pause. Out. Pause. Trying to relive it—not just in memory, but in spirit.

I feel peace.

After a long stretch of silence, we shifted into “photoshoot mode,” capturing some of our best shots from the entire trip. At one location, the ideal angle required Leslie to walk through water well past her knees. It was early—and cold. So I made the executive (and cowardly) call: “That’s a wrap for this section.”

She gave me a long, unimpressed look, then said, “I didn’t get up at 5 a.m. to be a wimp. Keep the camera ready. I’m going in.”

One of our final shooting spots was a section of the Gulch I call The Cathedral. It’s where the canyon walls rise as tall as anywhere, but curve inward at the top—forming a kind of natural vaulted ceiling. The floor makes a sharp left turn, then runs 75 feet before veering sharply right. In the center is a raised platform of white sand I call the altar—about 15 feet long and 8 feet wide.

When you stand at the entrance to the Cathedral and look in, and someone’s standing on that altar, it’s as if heaven itself is shining down on them. The surrounding walls are dark, streaked with orange and purple, shaped by time into monstrous gargoyle forms peering down from above.

It’s cinematic. It’s sacred. It’s unforgettable.

On the walk back, Leslie and I paused to talk about what we had experienced—what we felt. We spoke of peace, wonder, gratitude. We thanked God for the bats and the frogs, for the cliffs and the light, for pink frosted animal cookies and cold canyon air.

And mostly—for Him.

For letting us come on an adventure that led us closer to Him.

Buckskin Gulch became, for us, the perfect convergence of wilderness and worship—where there was no clear line between religion and adventure.

In seeking out these kinds of experiences, I believe people are looking for more than adrenaline or solitude. Whether they realize it or not, they’re chasing something deeper. An escape from noise. A return to peace. A search for God in places where He is easier to find—in His temples of stone and silence.

People have long called Buckskin Gulch “beautiful” and “rugged.” That’s never been in dispute. But maybe someday, with a little more openness, education, and reverence, more people will move beyond just surviving or thriving. Maybe they’ll find awe. Maybe they’ll find God.

And maybe—just maybe—they’ll start calling this land holy.

Basecamp, blissed out. One tent, one tree, one sacred slice of canyon silence.

Epilogue – Still Walking

The truth is, I don’t think the journey ever really ends.

Not the hiking one. And definitely not the spiritual one.

I’ve left Buckskin Gulch and returned to the everyday world—emails, traffic, weather apps, grocery store aisles. But part of me is still walking that canyon. Still listening for echoes. Still watching for glimpses of God in ordinary things.

And I think that’s the point.

Because if you’ve ever stood at the base of a sandstone wall streaked with ancient color, if you’ve ever heard the call of a raven ring through a cathedral of stone, then you know: God is not confined to stained glass and pews. He’s in the mud. He’s in the wind. He’s in the Zombie Frog.

And He’s not hard to find.

You just have to pay attention.

Back when Caiya led the way and I just tried to keep up. 2018 in the Gulch of wonder.

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