Words and Photos by Briana DeSanctis
*Water Canyon is no longer on the official route of the ADT
It was October in the isolated Nevada desert, and there I was, thousands of miles into my American Discovery Trail (ADT) thru hike. Being a woman of research, I'd known for some time about Nevada's remote and rugged landscape and the imminent challenges I'd face during this tender shoulder season. I was hiking into my third consecutive winter on trail before I'd eventually complete my thru-hike in February.
When most people think of Nevada, they think of Las Vegas or Reno, but as I entered the trail leading into Water Canyon, I felt like I was on another planet.
I began my trek that day south of Ely, Nevada. Ely is a small Wild West mining town that boasts casinos, brothels, and an impressive railroad museum. The town, situated in the path of totality, was bustling and brimming to the gills with tourists and stargazers for the 2023 solar eclipse. While all the motels and campgrounds were completely booked in Ely proper, it seemed the horde didn't wander outside city limits.
My hike that day wasn't one of high mileage. I started from Ward Charcoal Ovens in the afternoon as I was only navigating through the canyon–less than 10 miles. My dad and step-mom were visiting from the East Coast and had coordinated to pick me up at the western opening of Water Canyon in the evening. There wasn't even a tiny hope of a cell signal, but I was able to send texts through my Garmin InReach via satellite, and the Starlink my parents had on their rental Sprinter van allowed them to receive and reply to my messages.
Earlier that morning I skimmed any extra weight out of my pack. One to two days of food and only the essentials I needed for camping out if necessary. Nevada is no joke. Even a semi-slackpack should be taken seriously. Furthermore, don't always trust the trail, your maps, a weather forecast, or what most people tell you.
I bid adieu to my folks, and my hike began. There were some new (to me) mammal tracks. Quite a bit larger than a raccoon, smaller than most bears but similar to both in style, I wondered if the prints belonged to a badger. Do badgers exist in Nevada? The tracks veered off as I continued down the slowly deteriorating trail.
After about six miles into the canyon, my progress significantly decelerated. The steep rock and scree-covered walls were closing in with every few steps as concentrations of large thornbushes multiplied by each passing second. The trail became harder to identify and was now crossing the stream back and forth, unable to find its way. Who else would be stupid enough to wrangle through this bullshit?
The trail finally disappeared. I was no longer hiking but bushwhacking and pushing my body through the stinging pricker bushes. It became nearly impossible to negotiate my way through the narrow openings. The venomous spikes shredded my arms, legs, and clothing. I was a bloody mess. My hat was ripped off and entombed in thorns. My sunglasses were snagged from my face. I worried about my expensive and new inflatable sleeping pad strapped to the top of my pack. That was an important piece of gear for the upcoming frigid months, and I could not afford to buy another one.
I quite literally fought my way through the rubble until I was physically unable to force myself through more thorns. My scratched-up and raw skin throbbed and ached. Darkness was setting in. I looked at the map on my phone. I was a mere HALF MILE from the west end of Water Canyon. If I could only keep pushing. But my progress had slowed so much that I knew a half mile would probably take most of an hour. My body pleaded for the blood-drawing slicing to stop.
After flicking my headlamp on and off it was clear that shining a light would be futile, blinding, and misleading. The thorn bushes were thick and encompassed the entire canyon. The rushing stream at the bottom was covered in these barbed bushes, concealing rocks, roots, holes and other hazards. I strained my eyesight to envision how I might continue but the canyon had become too dark. I decided to set up camp and re-evaluate my strategy.
To my amazement, I spotted one rock-covered area clear of thorns, just barely big enough to set up camp. My tiny fire was short-lived and too close to my tent, but its purpose was to create smoke to warn wildlife of my presence. I sent a couple messages to my dad via the Garmin, only to find out they were also unable to get to my pickup point.
BRIANA: BLOODY AND HALF MILE FROM POINT. OVERGROWN. STOPPING HERE.
DAD: ROAD WASHED OUT. 530 GOT BACK TO HWY. MOTEL IN PRESTON.
BRIANA: SO CUT UP, AND HAT IS GONE. I SERIOUSLY SHOULD HAVE TAKEN ANOTHER WAY. STUCK. GOING TO CLIMB OUT TOMORROW. HOPEFULLY.
DAD: K. AT MOTEL. SOUNDS GOOD.
I had a quick snack for dinner and wrote this spicy journal entry in my Gaia GPS notes:
"Fuck this campsite and trail I am all scratched up trying to find my way out of this stupid canyon. Dad and Bing went to a motel in Preston. I am in mountain lion city. I took a Xanax and a Tylenol PM, so hopefully, I sleep well on these rocks. Crossed river six times already, legs are totally bleeding and thorns in them, lost my hat, probably ripped the shit out of my sleeping pad, and I still have to find my way out tomorrow."
In the morning, I woke up to the sun hitting the top of the tall rock formations. Small caves dotted the cliffs high overhead. It was beautiful, but I was more concerned about making it out of Water Canyon as painlessly as possible.
As I sat up and stretched, I was greeted with intense pain. My bloody legs had stuck to the sleeping bag liner while I slept. I winced as I ripped each cut free from the silk sheet. Once liberated, a breakfast bar and coffee ensued while I planned an escape route.
There were three ways I could get out of Water Canyon unless I sprouted wings or obtained a jetpack. The first way would naturally be to continue fighting through the thorns for the last half mile. I gazed in that direction, but my burning legs pleaded with me not to put them through any more of that torture. The second way would be to turn around. It was a slightly tempting thought, but again, I wasn't going back through what I'd experienced the day before. Absolutely not. The third way seemed to be the quickest route and took me out of the thorns- but I had to climb the canyon wall to get out. There was no trail. Some places looked very steep, but I studied the topography on my map and looked at the canyon wall with my eyes. A route was born. As a plane flew tens of thousands of feet above me, I threw my head back and screamed, "Get me out of here!" The sound of rushing water drowned out my cry and its echoes.
A pep-talk with my still-scared-of-heights self before embarking on this climb reminded me to keep a level head: Move deliberately. Slow and steady. Do not freak out and keep your points of contact. You have gone through way worse shit than this. Remember that cornice on Lake Ann Pass? What about that sketchy river crossing in the Midwest? You got attacked by domestic dogs every day in Ohio! How bad can this be? You've GOT this!
I was getting it–for a little while, anyway. The climb started with me having to cross over the stream through the thorns, and that erased any possibility of me changing my mind and turning back. The canyon wall was not solid rock but scree with large rocks here and there, most of which were loose. The going was extremely slow and the higher I got, the more squirrelly the traverse became. I was adding a lot of distance by attempting to create switchbacks.
This method became so detrimental that I said screw it and began to climb straight up to the place I visualized (but didn't actually see from my tent) that might ease up on the vertical. As I grabbed for a rock I couldn't trust, my footing was also lost, and I slid 45 feet back down the wall. It scared the ever-living shit out of me, but I was able to self-arrest before sliding off the cliff that I'd just avoided climbing.
This occurred two or three more times and I was getting worn out. Trekking poles were useless in this situation and had been dropped during the last slide. My body was sore and tired. It was now noon, and the sun was beating down. With the last of my strength, I pulled myself onto a rock the size of my behind and made myself as flat as I could against the wall, removing one pack strap from my shoulder.
I drank some water, had a snack, applied sunscreen and put my winter beanie on for some extra protection. There were only two choices now. Leave my pack behind and try to climb out without it, or try to call for help. How would someone begin to get me out of here? I knew exactly where I was–that wasn't a problem. Miles away in the valley I could see the dust clouds of vehicles driving on the dirt roads. None of those people knew there was a person up there, stuck on the canyon wall, almost finished with her hike across America.
If I left my pack behind and successfully attempted to climb out, I'd be alive. I'd also be forced to end my hike. That gear was too expensive to replace after being on trail for so long without a steady income. I had come much too far to end my hike. I had to prove I could do this and do it well. In the face of adversity it was most important for me to continue to inspire people and to empower women. I had to get out of there alive.
It seemed silly and extravagant to call for help. I'd always said I wouldn't push that button until I was on my deathbed, and in that case, I'd already had a pretty good run, so to hell with it. My injuries were painful but cosmetic only. The biggest blow was to my ego, and possibly my wallet. How much would it cost to extract me? The thought sent my lip quivering, and I felt my throat close up. I was fine, really. But I wasn't moving anywhere and that was the problem. And I wasn't getting out of there with my pack.
I held my Garmin in my hand with tears streaming down my face. This must be how people feel on those reality survival shows when they tap out. I'm such an idiot. I closed my eyes and held the button. Once the SOS had been initiated, I let my dad know what was going on.
BRIANA: AFTERNOON B4 I CAN GET TO YOU. I AM IN TROUBLE
DAD: BOOKED ANOTHER NITE. YOU CAN SHOWER/SLEEP. BING & I WORKED SOME WATER DROPS NEED TO DISCUSS
BRIANA: SOS. TOO STEEP. STUCK ON SIDE OF CANYON. NEED HELP. I PUSHED SOS BUTTON.
DAD: D CALLED. SAYS GARMIN TEAM ACTIVATING RESCUE. GET COMFORTABLE AND WAIT. TALKING TO LOCAL, SAYS TOO ROUGH FOR HORSES FROM PRESTON. YOU'RE NOT THE FIRST TO B RESCUED
DAD: R U SAFE?
BRIANA: FOR NOW. ON VERTICAL. CALM BUT UNCOMFORTABLE.
DAD: TIE YOURSELF IN, GOING TO BE A BIT.
BRIANA: MAKE SURE DISPATCH AWARE HORSES CANNOT GET HERE.
DAD: YOUR 8 MILES FROM HOTEL IN PRESTON
BRIANA: YOU'RE*
DAD: PEOPLE AT STORE SAID WATER CANYON NOT NAVIGABLE
BRIANA: I'M WELL AWARE
DAD: HELI ON THE WAY TO EVALUATE. D HAS THE COMMS, I HAVE NO OTHER INFO.
My cousin Diane (D) had been alerted by dispatch as she was my emergency contact and also began to send messages to me with more updated info. The verdict on the helicopter was a no-go; the opening was too slim and rocky to try an air rescue. SAR was sending in two people on foot to hike up the back side of the wall I was on to reach me.
I'd been sitting still for two hours, and one side of my body had completely fallen asleep. Still butchered and bloody, I was swarmed by biting flies as if I were already a corpse. Turkey vultures circled above, waiting for me to succumb to the elements. I recorded videos to document the incident while trying to make light of the situation.
In the distance, I saw more dust clouds, but this time, they were getting bigger and coming toward me. I knew that Search and Rescue was on their way. Dispatch let me know that two personnel were en route and on foot. Pretty soon, I saw movement about a quarter mile from me on another ledge. I ripped off my hi-vis beanie and waved it in the air with one hand. I flashed my phone back and forth in the sun with the other and began yelling as loud as I could. I kept yelling until I knew for sure they had eyes on me.
Within 15 minutes I was talking to Jay and Jason. They helped me by carrying my pack and were even able to recover my trekking poles. "We were relieved when dispatch told us you're a thru hiker. You never know who might try coming through here totally unprepared."
"I was fine to spend a night or two, honestly, but it would have been extremely uncomfortable," I replied.
We made our way up and over the canyon wall and down the spine to the small dirt lot where vehicles were waiting. For some reason, I'd imagined emergency vehicles with flashing lights, overbearing EMTs in uniform, and possibly someone there to stick me with a six-figure bill.
I was wrong. The people who stepped out of the two personal use pickup trucks looked more like they belonged in ZZ Top than on a rescue mission. This is the Wild West, baby. It was such a relief. They treated me with kindness and reassured me that I'd done the right thing. Jay and Jason even thanked me for getting them away from their desk jobs! They wouldn't accept gifts or payment and said that a successful rescue is more valuable than anything else.
I got a ride with one of the guys into Preston, where my dad and Bing were waiting for me at Lane's Ranch Motel. My stepmother's jaw dropped when she saw how shredded I was. My dad handed me a cold beer. I thanked everyone profusely, took a really painful shower, and washed (some of) the hiker stink out of my clothing. After a good night's rest, I was back at it, hiking the next day.
Like they say, all's well that ends well. This incident reinforced to me the importance of staying calm and keeping your head together during uncertain times. Thanks a million to Jason, Jay, Dave and Andy for taking the time to help me out. I might not have finished my hike without y'all. Also huge thanks to the dispatcher for orchestrating it all.
My advice to anyone who faces a similar situation: Isolated incidents do not define the rest of your adventures. Keep having fun out there, and always be prepared for mishaps. Don't be ashamed to ask for help when you really need it. You're worth way more alive. Even if you don't think so, someone does.
For two years, Brianna DeSanctis trekked across fifteen states following the 6,800-mile American Discovery Trail, becoming the first woman to do so in the process. She finished with a pack load of stories and experiences that we’re excited to share in future posts.
