My First Experience Canyoneering

Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico

The exploration of canyons is probably as old as the human race itself, but the modern sport of Canyoneering (also called Canyoning) seems to have got its start in 1905 when Edouard Martel, "the father of modern Speleology," conducted a hair-raising hiking and rafting expedition down the Gorges du Verdon, the largest canyon in Europe.

A big part of Canyoneering is rappelling down waterfalls, plunging into a freezing-cold pool at the bottom and swimming for your life. I'm a cave explorer and when I first heard about this sport from my caving friends, I replied, "What's the point of rappelling if there's not something important at the bottom of your rope...like a cave?"

Avoiding Canyoneering

So, for several years I managed to stay high and dry on weekends until along came Rodrigo Orozco, also known as Mexico's Tarantula Man (because he's raising 7,000 of them at his home) with an offer I couldn't refuse. "I'm going to abseil down a waterfall," he said, "located in a place so beautiful that I want to be buried there someday." That got my attention, but when Rodrigo mentioned that he hates to get wet while Canyoneering, I really became interested. "I always put my rope as far from the falling water as possible," he told me.

I was sold. "Dry canyoneering? That's for me!" I told him.

The next Sunday, I joined Rodrigo and several friends. Most of these planned to rappel down the falls, including my nieces, nine-year-old Xela and seven-year-old Meli Lloyd. "If they can do it," I said, "so can I."

Hiking near Guadalajara

Off we drove to the spot where our 90-minute hike would begin. Did I forget to mention that Canyoneering often includes more hiking than rappelling? Well, in this case the landscape we passed through was so varied and beautiful, I soon forgot all about the waterfall jump. October is definitely wild-flower month around Guadalajara and we were dazzled by the variety and profusion of all we saw. Add to this the amazing talent of Tarantula Man for finding curious creatures every time he overturns a stone, and you have the recipe for a marvelous outing. Frogs, spiders, scorpions, brightly colored butterflies and, of course tarantulas, seemed to be lurking everywhere. So were plenty of mud and several streams we had to cross.

At last we reached our goal, which Rodrigo instructed me to refer to as "Nameless Falls," as he would prefer to keep the place secret. My friends then attached a rope to a convenient tree, supposedly in a spot well away from the cascade. This, however, I couldn't determine, since it was just about impossible to see anything directly beneath us.

Rappelling down Nameless Falls

"John, why don't you go first?" said Rodrigo.

"OK, if you're sure the rope reaches all the way to the bottom."

"I hope so," came the less-than-comforting reply.

Leaning backward over the edge of a black, gaping cave entrance is a lot easier than doing the same out in the blue, where you can actually see the tops of trees far below you, giving your brain plenty of time to calculate what will become of your body if something goes wrong. This may be why some people never get beyond the first lesson in Rappelling 101, which, of course, includes standing at the edge of a cliff, connected to the rope by your rappelling device, leaning back and jumping. For some people, terror sets in during the leaning-back part, just at the moment they look down, and nothing on earth can get them to actually go ahead and jump, thus putting a quick end to their rappelling career.

In my case, being the first to jump turned out to have a big advantage: a favorable breeze was blowing the waterfall spray away from me at that moment and I had a very pleasant and dry slide down the rope.

At last, from the bottom, I could see the waterfall in all its glory. It was about 60 meters high and much wider than the little river up on the top. There was a nice pool at its foot which would be inviting in the summer but I was happy to be wearing a jacket on this autumn day.

Not Exactly Dry Canyoneering

As my companions descended, each one got a little wetter than the previous because the spray had started to blow towards the rope. This meant that the last one over the edge, little Meli (who came down with Rodrigo Orozco on parallel ropes), ended up soaked to the skin. To raise our body temperatures, we quickly began hiking up a very steep trail back to the head of the waterfall.

At last I could call myself a canyoneer of sorts, but I think it will be a long time before I forget little Meli's final assessment of this sport, made as she stood soaked to the skin at the foot of the falls.

"What was it like, Meli?" we asked her.

Shivering, she looked up at us from under the helmet she was still wearing: "C-c-cold and w-w-wet," she said through chattering teeth, and I will add no further comment.