The Canyoneering Trip From Smell: A Skunk Rescue — Part 1

by Mike Putiak

If someone asked you to name the critters you'd most like to avoid while hiking, your list would probably start with the potential killers-the big, toothy flesh maulers (like bears and big cats) and the creepy, slithery venom injectors (like snakes and spiders). But if they asked you to ignore physical harm as a factor and to only consider general disgust and repellence, skunks would probably be at the top of your list, right?

Lucky me. In the fall of 2003, within a period of one week, I had not one but two close encounters with a skunk. The first encounter was unexpected and unavoidable. The second, however, was not only expected and avoidable . . . it was planned. If you're curious as to why someone would intentionally arrange a close encounter with a skunk, read on. . . .

In the wee morning hours of November 17, 2003, I drove through snow flurries up the slick, muddy road toward Orderville Canyon with Rick Green, my canyoneering buddy from Escalante. Our goal today was to travel down Birch Hollow, through Orderville, and end at a second vehicle we parked at the Temple of Sinawava. Piece o' cake, right? Well, yeah . . . except it was sooo darn cold outside that we found ourselves coming up with reasons to turn back-dangerous ice, loose rock, brittle webbing, blah, blah, blah. But once at the trailhead, we yanked our gear from the truck, hoisted it onto our backs, and started bushwhacking down Birch Hollow.

As is usually the case, the situation felt and looked better once we were moving. And despite a light fog and the accumulating clay on our boots, we were making good time. We soon reached our first rappel and dropped into the technical section of Birch Hollow. Today was the first of six days planned for slot canyon adventures, and we were having a ball. Good weather, beautiful scenery, fun canyon-everything was sailing along without a hitch. Well, at least until we got to the seventh rappel.

While I pulled the rope from our sixth rappel, Rick continued down canyon to set up the seventh. After bagging the rope and proceeding toward the next anchor station, I was surprised to find Rick lying on the ground just below the anchor, peering over the edge at something below.

I asked Rick if there was a problem, if anything was wrong. Rick somehow managed to squeak out the words, "Mike, we've got company."

What?! I didn't see how that was possible. There was no indication that anyone had gone down the canyon before us today. So I asked Rick, "How could anyone have hiked down this muddy canyon without leaving a single footprint?"

"Because it's not an anyone," Rick explained. "It's a skunk."

Attempting to process this news, I walked over to the edge for a look-see, while laughing and accusing Rick of messing with my head. But he wasn't kidding. Eighty feet below us, at the bottom of a vertical drop, sitting on a narrow ledge in a small muddy chamber, was a skunk.

Then I remembered. In a Birch Hollow trip report on Todd's Hiking Guide, I recalled reading about a skunk that was trapped in this canyon. But that report was written two months ago. How could he still be alive? How could he survive that long with no apparent source of food, or shelter from rain and flash floods?

That's when it hit me. Up to this point the skunk had been nothing more to me than an obstacle to avoid. But now, recognizing that he had been trapped in this dark, dank slot canyon for at least two months, my fear was replaced with sympathy. He had fallen 80 feet into a small, stone chamber, half filled with sand and half with water. I was overcome with respect for his determination to survive. I could see that the skunk was curled up on a small ledge above the muddy pothole. Opposite the pothole was the only way out of the chamber-down a sheer 60-foot drop to the canyon floor below.

Rick whistled a few times to gauge his alertness, but there was no response. A louder, sharper whistle finally got him to look up. A shout got him to move his head. Rick and I kept sniffing, testing the air for the slightest hint of skunk smell, but it never came. We assessed his probable condition as weakened from malnutrition and figured we might have a chance of getting through the chamber scent-free if we were quiet and avoided large or sudden movements.

We calmly set up the rope, and Rick rappelled first into the skunk chamber. On his slow descent, the skunk began to pace nervously along the back wall. Once on the chamber floor, Rick slowly made his way toward the opening, hugging the chamber wall to maintain maximum distance from his chamber-mate. Amazingly, as Rick completed his cross to the anchor station at the opening, the skunk turned away from Rick and put his head in a small corner on the back wall. Observing from above, I can't tell you how incredibly sad it was to see him hiding his eyes in a small sandstone crack, so hopelessly seeking shelter. While Rick began to set the next rope, I slowly descended and pulled the rope as quietly as possible. As the rope whooshed down against the fluted chute, I nervously watched the skunk turn away from the wall and face me. And then, he relaxed his body and laid his head down, as if to sleep. That image of resignation and weariness was heartbreaking. Rick and I agreed we wouldn't soon forget it.

Backcountry protocol notwithstanding, Rick left behind a generous mound of granola as payment for our passage through the chamber. Now prepared to rappel out of the chamber, Rick and I looked back at our exhausted friend and thanked him for not once raising his tail against us in defense.

Over the next two days, Rick and I navigated through Mystery Canyon and Pine Creek, reveling in beautiful weather and perfect conditions. Like most hiking buddies, we talked about the usual stuff-ideas for future trips, gear we love, gear we hate, people we like, people we like less, what to do for dinner that night, etcetera. But we also talked quite a bit about the buddy we left behind-the skunk . . . the prisoner of Birch Hollow.

Neither of us could shake that sad, lonely image, which was apparently etched not only into our minds but our hearts as well. But while our hearts were telling us to go back and rescue him from his prison, our minds were telling us to be practical, enjoy our vacation, and learn some valuable life lessons-like death being inevitable and life not being fair. Life or death? Compassion or stupidity? Should we or shouldn't we? Rick and I wrestled with the pros and cons of conducting a skunk rescue.

We posed the question to our friend Verlyn Hawks, who met us in Springdale Wednesday night. Since Verlyn planned to join us for some Zion canyoneering adventures over the next three days, he would be part of our rescue mission-if we decided to go through with it. So Verlyn obviously had a voice and vote in the matter. We set aside Saturday, our final day, as the contingency day for either a slot canyon trip or a skunk rescue.

Over the next two days, through Fat Man's Misery and Behunin, Verlyn added his thoughts to the pro and con debate. So now there were three of us finding as many reasons for the rescue as against it. Well, at least until Friday when we saw the weekend weather report: a massive cold front was expected to arrive late on Saturday, dropping temperatures into the low twenties that night. Birch Hollow would see its first hard freeze of the season.

That did it. End of debate. Let's roll. . . .

The skunk was coming out.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Over dinner that night we formulated a rescue plan. Various scenarios and contingencies were considered and evaluated. Gear requirements and tactical sequences were established. Post-rescue and release scenarios were considered. And although we really didn't know if he was male or female, we simply picked male and gave him a name. We named him "Keeper," because he was trapped in a "keeper" canyon, and also because we considered him a fighter-a true survivor that shouldn't be left to die. A keeper.

After months of hardship and deprivation, we doubted that Keeper was sufficiently prepared to survive the fast approaching winter if we merely released him in the woods once we got him out of the chamber. More than just a prison breakout, Keeper would need some time in a controlled environment, one with shelter, warmth, and adequate food to prepare him for the winter. Rick called our animal-loving friend, Kristi Kulidge, who eagerly accepted the challenge of finding someone capable of-and willing to-care for a skunk. In almost no time at all, Kristi made arrangements with some people in Kanab who were willing to accept Keeper and nurture him back into fighting shape for the upcoming winter.

"Oh, and don't worry about cost," Kristi added. "They want to help."