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November 1, 2005 by Beth Henninger - added August 5, 2006
It was a long and sobering hike out. The fragility of life was never so apparent. It was a terrible accident, a nightmare. If we could, we would change it all. Ride our bikes in a tight pack of friends to the next camp on day three. We would be laughing about the memories we'd just made rather than trying to accept the harsh reality of our grim circumstance and understand why. Our friend just died. He fell off a cliff and died.
Why did he fall? The answer, as calloused and cliche as it sounds, it just happened. We'll never know more than that. Naturally, we ran through a million "If only..." scenarios. "If only we had moved away from the edge sooner...If only we had gone to bed earlier...If only that kid hadn't come over...If only we hadn't been drinking...If only someone had stopped him...If only we never were here in the first place." It becomes exhausting and pointless. We can't change the event or make sense of it. We are left with horrific images of a falling shadow, a mangled body and grieving friends in disbelief. There is no pulse, no breath. In the shadow of the lethal cliff, it is dark, cold and silent.
The wait for the rangers seemed eternal. The stars were vibrant, illuminating the vastness of the place, this place we loved. His body turned cold. We made tea, talked quietly and finally fell asleep from exhaustion. Friends stayed next to his body throughout the night, although we had taken some comfort in knowing that he wasn't in there anymore.
When the rangers arrived, there was little resolve. He was still dead and we were still 50 miles deep in canyon country. It just felt good that we were no longer alone. Help was coming, even if help was only a helicopter to carry away our friend's body.
Finally morning came. The sun crept into the canyon, spreading light over beauty and over tragedy. Questions were asked, help was offered, decisions were made. Our group was able to focus only on immediate tasks and plans. We stumbled through what needed to be done, taking turns being strong and being numb.
Our crew of now twelve friends had to split up in order to make it out in one day. Half of us would hike out for more support vehicles while the rest would drive the longest 50 miles that rugged road had ever presented. For some of the distance, our friend's bike was ridden, perhaps to give our friend dignity, respect and one last breath of life. His life was too short but well lived, simple and full. His last day had been picturesque, in a place he loved and with friends. He appeared strong and content. Smiles and laughter are lasting memories.
It was a long and sobering hike out. While walking I ached for his family, cursed the menacing allure of our surroundings and felt empty. We paused and stood speechless as his body was flown overhead, limp and lifeless in a white bodybag.
*Written in memory of our friend and brother Greg Stearns who passed away on November 1, 2005 in Canyonlands National Park during a bike trip on the White Rim with friends.
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