Cliffs, Courage and Compassion: Sand Cave Surprises

It was supposed to be a quick adventure.

One mile out and back. A popular family hike just outside of Kanab, Utah, with an up-close-and-personal visit to wind-carved sandstone caves high up on the cliff face. We packed light. No snacks, just water. We figured we'd be up and back and then head to a nearby slot canyon for another hike.

What we didn't expect was multiple encounters with twisted ankles, strained muscles, and a trip to the hospital.

In less than 30 minutes, we helped two different strangers off the rocks—one sure that her ankle was broken, the other woozy, shaken, and physically unable to descend. They either were alone or with companions who were unable to get them down. And oddly enough, others on this busy hike did not stop to help. Dozens of hikers passed, eyes on the trail or their phones, maybe assuming someone else would handle it. Maybe assuming we were together.

So there we were:
Two grandparents in their seventies.
Five kids under twelve.
One mildly concerned father coaxing a stranger down a rock face.
One very focused mother guiding a two-year-old down by bum shuffle.
And a wily spaniel, running headfirst down the rockface.

What a motley crew of a rescue party.

It was, in short, beautiful and strange. The Sand Caves were spectacular—carved naturally into the rock, high above the trail, offering sweeping views and the kind of light that makes you want to whisper. But getting there required climbing a rope, scrambling boulders, and traversing a tilted rock slab with a sheer drop to one side. More of a “terrifying scramble with a somewhat overconfident toddler” than a “Sunday stroll.”

Which made us wonder: were the injuries on this day just a fluke? Or was there a deeper disconnect between the hike’s popularity and its true difficulty? Why were so many people—fit, independent, phone-equipped—unable or unwilling to lend a hand?

And when did we start assuming that someone else would help?

The answer, perhaps, is both sobering and simple. We rely on our phones. We think there’s always someone more capable just behind us. We don’t want to get involved. We don’t want to be late. Or maybe—we’ve just forgotten what it feels like to be needed.

But our kids reminded us.

Because after crossing paths with strangers in need, dusty descents and a trip to the hospital, what stuck with the kids wasn’t the caves or the cliffs. It was the helping.

“Can we stop and help someone else?” they asked, a few miles down the road.

And that, more than anything, made the whole hike worth it.