A Terrifying Night in the Grand Canyon: Facing Flash Flood Fears During a Massive Storm
Have you ever faced a moment when you truly thought it might be your last? That's exactly what raced through my mind during a stormy night backpacking in the Grand Canyon.
BOOM!!!
The first thunderclap echoed in the distance as rain hammered my tent relentlessly.
“It'll pass soon,” I reassured myself. “Yesterday's storm was short-lived; this one will be too.”
BOOM!!!
Thunder grew closer, reverberating off the canyon walls. I lay in my compact backpacking tent, trying to stay calm.
Glancing up, I spotted 20 or 30 spiders of various sizes scurrying across the screen—seeking shelter under the rainfly from the downpour. Though outside, the sight sent shivers down my spine, evoking memories of Fear Factor contestants buried in insects. I wouldn't last a second.
I prayed they wouldn't get inside.
A fierce gust shook the tent violently, lifting the staked sides like a sail in a gale.
“Crap! Hope the tarp didn't blow off our packs!”
I brushed spiders from the screen door, checked my shoes for scorpions (left under the rainfly), and slipped them on.
Peering out, rain pelted my face. The tarp had indeed flown off, soaking our backpacks. The sky was nearly black with storm clouds, lightning flickering ever closer.
BOOM!!!
Thunder boomed overhead, heightening my anxiety. I wrestled the tarp back over the packs against whipping winds, repositioning rocks to secure it.
“Damn! Where's Scott? I need help!”
After anchoring it as best I could, I dashed back to the tent—completely drenched.
Inside, I worried about Scott, who had hiked to Mooney Falls 30 minutes earlier. He had expressed unease about our tent's proximity to the river, fearing a flash flood. We were right beside it.
My thoughts turned to the 2008 flash flood here, when campers were evacuated amid a raging, muddy torrent, stranding others.
The tent's only view was a small hole facing the river. Avoiding spiders, I peered out to check the water level. Impossible to tell.
I tried reading but couldn't focus. Instead, I obsessively monitored the river through the peephole.
My sleeping bag grew damp; mud was splashing through the low screen. The tarp over our packs was meant as a tent footprint to protect the floor—a necessary sacrifice over soaking our gear.
“Please, let this storm end,” I muttered.
Rustling outside brought hope. “Buddy? You okay?” Scott called.
“Thank God you're back!”
Scott squeezed in, recounting how rain hit at Mooney Falls. Falling branches and gale-force winds shredded his umbrella on the return hike.
“River looks stable now, but watch it closely. Hope this doesn't last,” he said.
We sat silently as thunder pounded, shaking the canyon.
BOOM!!!
The loudest thunder I'd ever heard. So much for serene camping.
Rain paused briefly for dinner with neighbors, but as we lay down, it resumed. Sleepless until our dreaded 4 a.m. alarm.
