My Story: How I Fell in Love with Slot Canyons
My love for slot canyons started on a family trip to Utah’s San Rafael Swell in 1991. I was 8 years old when we hiked Little Wild Horse Canyon, and it completely blew my mind.
I was a cognizant kid and walking into a place where the canyon walls are close enough to touch with both hands, yet rise so high above you felt like I was on another planet! Every bend looked different. Every turn felt like a maze. There was even stagnant water in the slot canyon where we stepped on rocks to cross it as a family effort because we didn’t want to get our shoes wet. I remember coming home and thinking about that experience…and that slot canyon…for weeks afterward.
Something about it flipped a switch in my head: I wanted to see what else was out there. Were there similar places?
A canyon does not have to be huge or famous to leave a lasting impression. Sometimes one trip is enough to change what you want to do with the rest of your free time.
Back then, Little Wild Horse Canyon was not on everybody’s radar. There were no Instagram and YouTube shorts almost demanding you where to go, no line of people waiting for the same photo, and no crowds moving through the narrows. The internet eventually changed all of that. Today, many of these places are being loved to death—and that is part of why stewardship and canyon ethics matter so much to me.
Those early trips with my mom and my family pushed me farther into the outdoors. I joined the Boy Scouts, hiked more, camped more, and became increasingly curious about the places that were not sitting right next to the road.
Then Came “The Subway”
A decade later, one of our Scout leaders told us about an “epic” route in Zion National Park called The Subway. I had already been to Zion and done the normal hikes, but this was different. It involved narrow canyon walls, cold water, swimming, ropes, and rappelling.
At about 17 years old, that was all I needed to hear.
This was before YouTube, Instagram, Reddit threads, GPS tracks, and a thousand online trip reports or blog posts. Google was not yet the all-knowing oracle it is today. Hiking meant hiking. Ropes and climbing over rock obstacles felt like that belonged to people who rock climbed.
The Subway changed that for me.
Here I was in the middle of southern Utah, where summer heat can easily be 100 F degrees, and deep inside this canyon was cold, clear water flowing year-round from so many springs! There were green mossy walls, red-rock cascades, waterfalls, and sections of canyon that looked nothing like the desert surface above.
I walked out knowing I needed more of this in my life.
“What truly hooked me was not just the beauty. It was the challenge.”
Every obstacle asked a question. Can we downclimb this? Do we need the rope? Where is the anchor? Is it safe? How do we get everybody through this with all our different body shapes and sizes? What happens if the next person is less comfortable than I am? What happens if the next person gets stuck?
That problem-solving element became one of my favorite parts of the sport. Canyoneering was not just walking through a beautiful place. Decisions mattered. Teamwork mattered. Preparation mattered. A small mistake could have real consequences.
Fear Eventually Became Respect
Early on, slot canyons intimidated me—and they should have. They are narrow, dark, sometimes cold, often remote and distant, and frequently committing once you pull the ropes. Flash floods are real. Escape routes may not exist. Once you pull the rope after a rappel, going backward may no longer be an option.
As I gained experience, that fear slowly turned into something more useful: respect.
The canyon does not care how confident you feel, how expensive your gear is, or how many canyons you have done. Mistakes compound quickly. Little problems become bigger problems when people are tired, cold, dehydrated, stressed, or miles from the trailhead and safety of the vehicles.
And over decades of doing this sport, I started seeing things that bothered me.
I saw poorly rigged anchors. I saw people pushing beyond their skill level. I saw beginners copying systems they found online without understanding why the system worked—or what could happen when it did not. I saw groups succeed when, if we are being honest, luck had done more work than skill or preparation.
That realization stuck with me.
Where Does a Beginner Start?
The more I learned, the more obvious another problem became: there was no clear starting line.
Canyoneering information was spread across guidebooks, forums, blogs, websites, videos, classes, and word-of-mouth advice. Some of it was excellent. Some of it was outdated or incomplete. Much of it assumed the reader already understood the terminology, gear, knots, anchors, or canyon rating system.
If you already knew experienced canyoneers, great. If you did not, you were often left trying to assemble the puzzle yourself.
That is the gap I wanted to help fill.
I did not want to scare beginners away from canyoneering. I wanted them to understand what they were getting into. There were ambiguous answers on forums posts that begged the questions – “You need a harness, yes…but what kind of harness?”, “You need static rope, yes…but what kind of rope and how long?”, and “what do I do if x or y happens?” – “be lucky” was one response that I remember. Those answers that were “low effort” weren’t satisfying enough. Beginners don’t know what they don’t know. And as a beginner, you sure don’t know a lot! Hence the questions! I would get furious internally when experts knew all of this information but sat silently (for x or y reasons, even if they are legitimate and sincere) for days and weeks. This inspired me to help out – I wanted people to know why we do things—not just memorize a knot because somebody on the internet tied it that way or said to bring this for the trip not knowing the full dynamics of their group.
Regardless I could see that “core” ideology was emerging and marked these done. With all of this, I wanted beginners to have a clear path forward and that everyone was on equal footing and understanding. Once you start asking the right questions, many more questions naturally follow.
That Eventually Became Canyoneering101
Canyoneering101 is not about “gatekeeping”, pretending I have every answer, or claiming there is only one correct way to move through a canyon. There is just enough variation in this sport to allow for that.
However, it is about creating a shared foundation: safety, judgment, preparation, teamwork, terminology, common gear, foundational knots, technical awareness, ethics, and respect for the places we get to explore.
Slot canyons are incredible places, but they demand humility and care. If you are willing to learn, prepare, practice, listen to experienced people, and keep your ego out of the decision-making process, canyoneering can give you experiences and friendships you will remember for the rest of your life.
That first walk through Little Wild Horse Canyon started something for me in 1991. I am still chasing that same feeling of wanting to see what is around the next corner.
—Brett