What happens when the answer you get isn’t the one you asked for.
Clear path. Clear reflection.
Still not as clear as I thought I was.
The Forecast (And the Ask)
We shouldered our packs at the trailhead at 3 p.m.
For two weeks leading up to this moment, the forecast had called for wind and rain.
Wind is miserable here because of the sand. You’re in a slot canyon carved out of sandstone—fine, pink grains that swirl up with the slightest breeze. It sluffs off the walls, rains down from the rim hundreds of feet above, and gets into everything… even your toothbrush sealed in a Ziplock.
Rain is better. Unless there’s a flash flood. Then you just die.
This canyon duo—Paria and Buckskin Gulch—is one of the most beautiful places in the world. It’s also one of the most dangerous. Flash floods can surge 50 feet high through sections just ten feet wide.
So we did our part.
We prayed—weeks in advance—for no wind, no rain.
God delivered. With moderate temperatures as a bonus.
The three-and-a-half-hour trek into The Confluence was about as perfect as it gets.
And that’s where the other thing I had been praying for came into play.
The answer was not what I expected.
No wind. No rain.
Just stillness—and walls that kept getting taller
The Experiment (Still in Progress)
A few days in Paria Canyon and Buckskin Gulch wrapped up the Red Rock Forge—the training phase of what’s become the Ocean to Ice (OTI).
OTI is a six-month, thousand-mile backpacking expedition through the Pacific Northwest and Canadian Rockies—used as a living laboratory. I already know prayer works; I tested that during The Great Adventure in 2003–2004.
This experiment is whether I can operate at a higher level with it—more consistently, deliberately, and in real time—as the world gets faster and less predictable.
Each week I’m sharing notes from the trail.
Dispatch 1: Be specific. Then let it go.
Dispatch 2: Act on what you already know.
Three Campsites. One Clear Favorite.
At the confluence of Paria and Buckskin is a lush oasis inside a 360-degree amphitheater of towering red sandstone, complete with a spring.
There are three camping spots:
- The Penthouse Suite
- The Cul-de-Sac
- And The Projects
One has the view of a lifetime. One has a great hammock tree. The other… is tucked into a dense patch of brush on a steep hillside.
I had prayed for the best.
Specifically—I asked for the Penthouse.
Big light. Big walls.
Easy to assume this was the right answer.
Not the One I Asked For
The only site available was The Projects.
At least we got a spot, I thought.
Still good, right?
I shrugged and we started setting up camp.
Tent—check.
Dinner—check. (Mountain House spaghetti, upgraded with leftover Parmesan packets from Moab.)
Spring water. Berry Celsius mix. Contentment.
Across from me, Leslie examined the crushed remains of what had once been a Ding Dong.
It looked less like dessert and more like kangaroo rat roadkill.
We were happy. Comfortable. Peaceful.
Then it got dark.
The next day in Buckskin Gulch.
Cold water from a recent flood still moving through.
Different moment—but part of the same story.
The Bat Cave
We left the rain fly off the tent so we could watch the full moon slide slowly down the canyon walls.
Then the sounds started.
First: a frog I named The Screamer.
Waaaaa. Waaaaa. Waaaaa.
Surprisingly melodic. Also relentless.
Then: what sounded like two human-sized plastic diapers wrestling to the death.
That was just Leslie trying to get comfortable on her crinkly nylon sleeping pad.
Then came a frog I named The Lunatic Duck.
Whaaaack. Whaaaack. Whaaaack.
Then The Cheeper.
Chuuueeeep. Cheeeep.
Then something that sounded like coconuts clacking together.
All four voices merged. Waaaaa. Whaaaack. Cheeeeep. Clop clop.
The Four Frogs Quartet performed a full-length set with the energy of a teenage rock band.
The bats showed up on cue like background dancers.
Apparently, we had pitched our tent directly in their flight path.
Big ones. Small ones. All of them flying at what felt like Mach 5, about a foot from our faces.
Because of the full moon, we could see them—darting, twisting shapes streaking through the air like tiny dragons.
One particularly chunky bat hit the mesh and bounced off like a clown on a trampoline.
Boinnng.
At this point, leaving the tent—for any reason—was no longer an option.
We had a full Category Five Batnado in progress.
Later, small and mid-sized mammals started rustling through the brush nearby. I stayed alert. One of their cousins had eaten a hole through my tent on a previous trip… to borrow my coconut ice cream ChapStick.
But mostly, we just lay there laughing.
It was wild. Unexpected. A little edgy. Oddly awe-inspiring.
And completely unforgettable.
We renamed the campsite:
The Bat Cave.
You can photograph the canyon.
You can’t photograph what happened that night.
The One I Thought I Wanted
The next morning, we saw what we had originally wanted.
The Penthouse Suite.
Perfectly positioned on a luxurious grassy knoll in the center of the amphitheater. Elevated. Scenic. Impressive.
Also… loud.
Ten guys—and about twenty shoes—had camped there the night before.
At sunrise, they began their morning routine—which included repeatedly smacking shoes together to get sand off, and discussing plans for the day.
In an echo chamber.
It sounded like a yodeling competition sponsored by hiking boots.
“John, John… where where… did did… you you… put put… the the… brownies brownies… smack smack smack smack.”
Eventually, the Clan of the Shoe Smackers moved on.
We moved in.
Leslie carried the sleeping pads.
I carried the fully assembled tent… like an ant hauling a large, poorly balanced marshmallow. I couldn’t see where I was going.
During our move we crossed paths.
“Leslie, I may or may not have fallen off the 6-foot ledge and dropped your tent into the water.”
She smiled.
“Of course you did.”
Later:
“Mike, why is my tent on its side?”
“Because it’s drying.”
We spent the next few days exploring, shooting photos, and eating remnants of the Great Ding Dong Destruction, pausing now and then to marvel at our night in the Bat Cave and our time in this wild desert canyon.
Not the Bat Cave—
but another moment we didn’t see coming.
The canyon just lit up.
The Better Answer
We did our part.
Planning. Preparation. Fitness. Execution.
And we prayed.
God did the rest—which, it turns out, is most of it.
But not always in the way I expected.
I asked for the Penthouse.
We got The Projects.
And it turned out to be the better answer.
More alive. More memorable. More fun. More… everything.
That night in what we now call The Bat Cave, I learned something I didn’t see coming:
The answer doesn’t always match the request—but it may exceed it.
And if that’s true, then part of this practice isn’t just asking clearly or acting when prompted.
It’s trusting enough to recognize the answer when it comes differently than expected.
Same questions.
Same process.
Still learning.
Northbound
Heading north to begin the Oregon Coast section.
Pack’s on. Let’s see what shows up out there.
The Great Ding Dong Destruction. There were no survivors.
