SANDBAGGED
What I learned about grit and gratitude canyoneering with my oldest son
Sandbagging, in the colloquial language of adventure guides, is withholding key information regarding the duration, elevation, distance, and/ or difficulty of an adventure. My son sandbagged me on every level possible on our most recent canyoneering trip. As we say in NY, “this fucking guy.”
It took me an embarrassingly long time to clue in that the experience I thought I was going to have with Jackson and his girlfriend, Paige, both professional guiders and climbers, and the one that was unraveling before me were markedly different. I chalk this up to a confluence of factors: 1) I woke up with a terrible head cold the morning of our trip, 2) he called the first part of the trek a “hike,” 3) he casually offered “I didn’t want to tell you too much about it in advance,” 4) I live at sea level, 5) I have only been canyoneering twice prior so I assumed he’d go easy on me, and lastly, I just didn’t think to ask many questions as he was so excited and so chill about the day. To top it off, I nibbled a light breakfast that morning thinking we’d be picnicking later on hearty lamb and rice leftovers in the car as our recovery meal. Oh, and he mentioned that it was “all waterfalls.” How pretty! I thought. How. Pretty.
In the parking lot, we loaded up our packs with the appropriate amount of rope, water, our harnesses, helmets, and rain jackets. Thick, fluffy clouds rolled in lazily; Jackson triple checked the forecast to make sure they wouldn’t transform into dangerous rainmakers. I felt very safe with him and Paige; they are not reckless, they are experienced, they do this for work and for fun. My confidence in my rappelling ability was fairly solid in the moment. I knew that Jackson would give me the gear and instruction I needed to be successful. Period. I didn’t think much about the trek. Until I looked up.
We were starting our walk at the base of a sizable mountain range. Even with this incontrovertible evidence directly before me that I was about to be physically challenged, I remained joyfully delulu. My 27-year-old first born wanted nothing more than to share his incredible life with me. And I was there for it, 100 percent. It was just a hike in, then some slipping down ropes, oohing and ahhing at sun dappled red canyon walls and waterfalls along the way. This was fine. I was fine. It’s going to be fine.
Jackson happily decreed, “it’s only about an hour and fifteen-minute hike up.” Huh. That hit a little different. He offered me a hiking pole; I gladly accepted. I became mildly aware that my inflamed sinuses were taking up an uncomfortable amount of space in my skull. My chest felt constricted and warm, like a chonky tabby was napping on it. I questioned my fit for the day: I wore a thick weave top instead of a lighter, breathable cotton. We began our walk at 7000 feet.
Jackson led Paige and I onto the Hidden Haven Hiking Trail with the Benson Creek Canyon as our ultimate destination. It started easily enough, a beautiful, wooded, well protected path. Jackson chirped and chatted about how great that it wasn’t too sunny, and that the only part that was a bit steep wasn’t until the middle, then it was flat again at the top; the first of many minimizations. I was willingly and steadfastly gullible. The banter between him and Paige was light and lovely, it was a joy to eavesdrop. We pressed on.
After about 45 minutes, I found that I needed to stop regularly to catch my breath, cool down, and then calm down. I developed a cadence of movement, rest, movement, rest. My inner monologue went something like:
What have I done? Did I prioritize Jackson’s wishes over my own health? Am I strong enough to do this? I don’t want to be a burden. I have one chance to impress Paige, suck it up. Why do I need to impress Paige? There are no rules! I can go at my own pace. They will wait, they will be ok if I slow down. Way down. Drink! Maybe I shouldn’t have taken cold medicine? Maybe I should have taken more? Can I ask Jackson to carry my pack for a bit? There are no rules!
David Goggins even made an appearance on my shoulder, swearing at me to “stop being a little bitch! Your son wants you here! You are making memories of a lifetime! Get your ass up and MOVE! There’s no going back! You can do this! Show these kids what a badass looks like!”
It occurred to me that I wasn’t hiking, at least not according to my definition and expectation. I was mountain climbing, with a head cold and a deeply sea-level physique that made me feel like I could only fill one third of one lung at any given time.
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I have a tattoo on my right forearm: “sometimes quickly sometimes slowly.” Our 1 hour and 15-minute hike stretched into a slog of nearly 2 hours. Imagine getting on one of those rotating, continuous staircase machines at the gym. I can’t survive 5 minutes on those. And yet, there I was trudging up 1000 vertical feet. Paige was very understanding and immensely patient with me, and not out of breath (at all). She recounted in her lilting, singsong voice that she’d been sandbagged by Jackson before. And now. Sandbagged? I was getting an education.
I truly didn’t want to complain, and we were way too far up to turn back even if I really pushed for it. The only way out was up. I started to make some low-grade snarky comments to Jackson about not knowing what I was getting into. I had to sit a few times. I did finally ask him to carry my pack; for crying out loud, he’s 27 and can bust out 18 miles before lunch like it’s a jaunt around the block. He can help a mother out. At one point, he “confessed” that he forgot the worst of the incline was actually nearer the top. I maybe kinda sorta believed him. A little. Honestly, it was tough to be angry; Jackson’s sparkly, enthusiastic grin melted my irritation away over and over again.
Only once did I indulge a moment of deep panic. I was breathless, hot, and nauseous, praying that the altitude and my lack of fitness wouldn’t be the nails in my coffin. Mostly, I was trying to avoid triggering a mental spiral of berating myself for putting another’s needs before my own for the zillionth time, to my detriment, to make them happy. Jackson came over and touched my shoulder warmly. He carried my pack and gave me water. He looked so damn happy in this world, his world. I was grateful to be invited.
The trail flattened out as promised and we hiked the final couple hundred feet easily and comfortably to the clear, cold Benson Creek that drops into the mouth of the canyon. I was relaxed and excited for the fun part, the easy part: getting back down. I’d previously enjoyed clipping onto a rope, and awkwardly walking down the walls of a canyon, feet splayed apart, confident in the secure connectors Jackson and Paige would set up. I could go slowly. I could look at the water. I began a new inner monologue of hyping myself up with lots of positivity and attaboys. What I failed to grasp was that we were rappelling IN the waterfalls. Not near them.
Once I saw Paige drop in and disappear over the lip and into the dark slot, my stomach started to dance, my intestines tightened, my knees fluttered. Huh? I was confident! This should not be happening. Jackson began his instruction to me. I must have gotten a look on my face or asked something concerning, because he aggressively said, “do not take your fucking hands off the rope! You are the only thing holding you up. Got it?” I remember him being nicer last time. While it didn’t increase my confidence much, the message landed loud and clear. Yes. I got it. And I leaned back, away from him, away from the light, poised over the edge.
I started descending, but I moved a little too quickly and hip checked the wall to my right. That’s gonna leave a mark! I forgot which hand would be safe to release to help me get my bearings. My left. My left I can release and put on the wall to re-center. Got it. Keep going. The water splashed on my feet, on my body, on my face, all the way down. This was a 105’ rappel, with a ledge about halfway down. I landed on it awkwardly and spun myself around under the water; it was overwhelming, gushing in my face. I relished the thought of quenching my desiccated mouth, then wisely chose not to. I got my bearings, leaned back, wiped my face, and thought about all the choices I’d made that got me to this moment. It was scary. It was exhilarating. It wasn’t over.
The next 50 feet were easier to manage, and Paige was waiting at the bottom, shouting supportive messages that I couldn’t really make out over the sound of the gushing water. She was beaming when I arrived. I felt a little more equal to the remainder of the tasks before me. I unclipped, yelled up to Jackson, “off rope!” and waited nearby while he made his descent.
The rest of the waterfalls were smaller, ranging from about 40 to 50 feet on average. We followed the flow of the creek down and out. The sun shone brightly in a blue bird sky high above us, glimpses of which we enjoyed depending on the width of the canyon. It was breathtaking in the way that fills my heart. We developed an easy rhythm. There was laughing and chatter. My confidence was building each step forward. The shorter walk from the last rappel to the car was energetic and brisk. We traversed a small metal bridge I remembered seeing “back when I had hope.” I thanked them both for their patience and generous care.
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Here’s the thing. The revelation that formed quietly in my heart is this: Jackson had faith in me, a bigger faith than I had in myself. My son wasn’t about to dumb it down for me, or discount my abilities, even if I did. He fully expected that I would triumph. He sees me as capable, tough, maybe even a little bit of a badass. That’s intoxicating. And humbling. And makes my heart ache with love and appreciation. I’d gladly get sandbagged by him again. In fact, I’m confident I will. And I will love every memory-making moment of it.
OMG... you did this! This is an amazing piece of writing.
You ARE badass. Whew. What a tale so perfectly told!