Buckskin gulch is a deep, winding gash carved into the desert rock along the border of Utah and Arizona,

a slot canyon famous for tight passageways and unpredictable flash floods.

As a search and rescue ranger working these canyons for the last decade,

I've learned to respect its brutal

simplicity. Get in, get people out, and get back safely. Nothing else matters. Until today, that formula

had always worked. It was October 23, clear skies, cool temperatures, ideal conditions for hikers.

A group of four experienced backpackers from Flagstaff went missing on a planned two-day trek

through the gulch.

I'd read the report twice.

Their emergency beacon activated briefly, sending a distress signal that lasted just 13 seconds.

Then nothing. No indication of flash flooding,

no unusual weather, just silence. Protocol dictated a solo drop-in for a visual assessment

before committing a larger team. I volunteered, confident in my knowledge of the terrain. By the pre-dawn

darkness, I repelled alone down

wire pass, the narrow shoot of sandstone barely wide enough for my shoulders. Cold air pooled at the

bottom, oddly stale and heavy. When my boots touched ground, the silence of the canyon pressed into

my ears like cotton. My flashlight beam sliced across the sandstone

walls as I moved forward, scanning for any sign of the missing hikers. At first, everything seemed

routine. After nearly an hour, I spotted a jagged piece of nylon wedged into a narrow crack,

the torn edge of a tent pole nearby. Equipment damage wasn't unusual

in tight canyons, but my gut twisted slightly. This gear had been violently shredded, as though

pulled apart rather than snagged. I continued deeper, reaching a section of the canyon where

...