Braving the Maze District
Subscribe Now!Off road and out of this world
Lying in a small pool of rainwater, and potentially my own tears, the thought of locating my headlamp and sleeping pad was overwhelming. Exhausted from exploring the desert that day, I deliriously rifled through mounds of gear in the tightly packed vehicles.
I was in the heart of Canyonlands National Park, home to a network of canyons that tempted my friends and me into loading up our trucks and heading out into the desert for some adventurous off-roading. Now, one night into the trip, I was fatigued and more tired than I had ever been before, and we were paying for our obliviousness to the challenging terrain of the Maze District.
With towering sandstone pinnacles and sprinkled sagebrush that make one canyon indistinguishable from the next, the Maze District is the most remote part of any national park in the Lower 48. Only 2,000 visitors each year explore this secluded area while backpacking, canyoneering and biking.
Planning our trip, my friends and I had to acquire a permit three months in advance. Daily travel in the Maze would be slow and tedious. The roads – if you can even call them that – are rocky and winding, and they demand high clearance four-wheel-drive vehicles. Every bend in the road is a puzzle to solve, and experts recommend having a friend outside the vehicle to guide you around particularly tricky areas.
We lost cell reception after five hours’ travel from Salt Lake City and said goodbye to the ease of pavement by the time we reached the Hans Flat Ranger Station.
Welcoming us, the park ranger sternly called on our trip leader to bring her the overnight permit. “Me, I guess,” my friend Jake responded with a murmured chuckle.
The seven of us were confident about our off-roading trip until the park ranger started her spiel. This must be important, we thought to ourselves while gathering in front of the counter.
Make sure you have an emergency medical kit, she said. Drink no less than one gallon of water per person per day, and pack at least 10 extra gallons of fuel per vehicle with a spare tire and jack. Remember that vehicle towing has fees often exceeding $2,000, and only one tow company services this remote outback. My friends and I looked at each other nervously, suddenly feeling less enthusiastic about the trip ahead.
“Who does the 2006 Toyota Tundra belong to?” she asked.
“Mine,” Chris replied with pursed lips and a moment’s pause, undoubtedly questioning what his friends had gotten him into. The extended wheel base will be challenging but manageable, she reassured us. “Just ooze, slowly ooze, over the rocks,” she said, “and you should be fine.”
We had no idea how much oozing was ahead of us.
We loaded the trucks and got the group moving. The initial descent into the Maze, known as the Flint Trail, was carved into a sheer cliff, a place where you wouldn’t want to find your tires greased in clay. In any case, we couldn’t just turn around. Once we passed a certain point on the trail, we were committed.
Winding through corridors of juniper, painted with blooming wildflowers and cactuses, we thought about the ranger’s precautionary advice while reassuring Chris his vehicle would be fine.
“The next few miles will be challenging, and you will definitely scrape,” said another park ranger who was patrolling the area in a Jeep built for the terrain. Her casual facial expression should have inspired confidence as she continued in the opposite direction without further warning.
We made it through the infamous “Z-turn” with few issues other than a bent exhaust pipe and a few scraping screams from the undercarriage of the Tundra. Approaching the next problematic feature only a few hundred feet later, we carefully positioned rocks and rehearsed tire placements for nearly 20 minutes before our first attempt.
Twirling his hair in the unnerving boredom, Willie reminded Chris to “ooze” at every opportunity while he gently eased over the first ledge and onto our first ramp. Despite the contradicting guidance from two or three friends outside the vehicle, the first move had been executed perfectly; however, as the Tundra began to crawl up the second ledge, its frame slowly twisted and the front tires lost traction.
Walking around the vehicle in silence and utter dismay, we realized both ends of the Tundra were suspended between ledges.
The only thing that will get us out of this situation is a helicopter, I thought. We exchanged theories for dislodging the truck and eventually decided to build earth around the tires to gain traction, but the area around us was picked clean. Every nugget had been used build the ramp that got us into this pickle.
We quickly formed a seven-man fire line and extended our search perimeter, avoiding cactuses. Things weren’t looking good for us. If only we had a tow strap!
To our surprise, we discovered one member of our crew was withholding vital information. Jake soon wandered to his Jeep and came back with a strap. He connected it to the frame of the Tundra and pulled us out.
I’m still not sure if he had just forgotten about the strap or if he was enjoying watching us suffer in some sadistic pleasure.
Hours quickly vanished as Willie – resembling a tank commander with his body positioned in the sunroof – guided our safe passage over the unforgiving terrain.
After that misadventure, we were starting to get the hang of the Maze District, and we were finally able to appreciate the incredible beauty of the area. Underneath crisp blue skies, we traversed exposed canyon walls. We descended terraces of slick rock, shelves carved by small pools of water and cracks with weathered trees growing from them. We even saw cliffsides adorned with pictographs and petroglyphs.
As we navigated the meandering desert wash, we challenged ourselves once again by leaving our vehicles behind and squeezing our bodies through High Spur Canyon. Claustrophobic at times, the textured walls revealed slot canyons of spiraling sandstone.
Bridging our way above cloudy pools of cold water, we anxiously questioned when we would encounter a long rappel. Beams of warming light guided us through glowing corridors before reaching a spacious opening with massive boulders. As Jake, Ian and Mac double-checked the pre-existing anchors, the remaining members and I equipped ourselves with ski helmets then peered over the 80-foot drop in silence and reverence.
My thoughts couldn’t help but reference an awkward rappel down a tiny 10-foot wall earlier in the day, when I found myself upside down (due to the weight of my camera equipment) amidst the laughter of my friends. What if this happened way up here?
Leaning over the edge, Ian confidently reassured me as I inched my way down – upright, I may add – my comfort growing every foot closer to the ground. With encouragement from above and below, everyone successfully descended, regrouping with enthusiasm – thank goodness that was over.
It was a relaxed atmosphere around camp that night as we gazed at the La Sal Mountains. Surrounded by endless solitude on a high plateau, we stood underneath a singular spire of towering rock and felt as if the desert were ours.
The past week was magical, our friendship had strengthened, and in celebration Ian treated us to champagne at sunset. Lying shoulder to shoulder, we conserved heat and gazed at dozens of shooting stars, serenaded with relaxed sighs and the Milky Way.
We had barely shut our eyes before the first rays of morning light struck our tents, turning them into sweltering ovens. It was time to
go home.
Rationing gas, and our gauges below empty, we all crested the Flint Trail as it began to snow. We had left just in time, since water and clay make for some pretty fierce driving conditions.
With more than 40 hours spent in the vehicles and no remaining music, I volunteered to drive for the first time. The wind outside the vehicle lulled Willie and Chris to sleep, the silence provoking my thoughts of a hot shower – and of returning to explore the desert once again with my friends.
The information below is required for social login
Sign In
Create New Account