Real Survival Stories - No Mans Canyon: Brothers in Trouble

Episode Date: September 3, 2025

A college professor and his older brother set out to explore Utah’s Canyonlands. But when a tricky climbing manoeuvre in a remote desert gully goes horribly wrong, David Cicotello finds himself stranded - without a rope and without his brother and mentor. Battling bitter cold and the ever-present danger of rockfall, David has no choice but to hunker down on a narrow ledge - with scant supplies and no means of escape…   A Noiser podcast production. Hosted by John Hopkins.   Written by Joe Viner | Produced by Ed Baranski | Assistant Producer: Luke Lonergan | Exec produced by Joel Duddell | Sound supervisor: Tom Pink | Sound design by Matt Peaty | Assembly edit by Anisha Deva | Compositions by Oliver Baines, Dorry Macaulay, Tom Pink | Mix & mastering: Ralph Tittley.   For ad-free listening, bonus material and early access to new episodes, join Noiser+. Click the subscription banner at the top of the feed to get started. Or go to noiser.com/subscriptions   If you have an amazing survival story of your own that you’d like to put forward for the show, let us know. Drop us an email at [e-mail] Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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That's why we craft the world's number one premium vodka in France, using only three of the finest natural ingredients, French winter wheat, water from Jean-Sac and yeast. With Grey Goose, we invite you to live in the moment and make time wait. Sip responsibly. March the 7th, 2011. Deep in the canyon lands of southeastern Utah, many miles from the nearest passable road, lies a wild, sun-baked sway of wilderness known as robber's roost. In the days of the old west, outlaws made their hideouts among its serpentine ravines and twisting red-rock gullies.

Today, aside from coyotes and cotton tails, few venture out this far. The sheer remoteness proving too much for all but the most intrepid explorers. At the heart of this sprawling expanse, no man's canyon is a hairline crack in the earth's crust, a narrow, vein-like gorge that snakes off the main artery of the dirty devil river. Getting here means using a rope and harness to navigate miles of tight, maizey ravines, clambering over wind-swept mesas, and slogging through vast tracts of cactus-strewn desert. And getting here is the easy part. Getting out poses a far greater challenge.

As 57-year-old, David Chiquitello knows all too well. David sits on a rocky ledge partway down no man's canyon. He is 100 feet above the ground. Scattered around him are assorted pieces of climbing gear, a harness, a repell device, some carabinas. But no rope. And without a rope, David is stranded. For me, the focus was in the form of a mantra.

Get to Friday. get to friday get to friday now i thought that would be the earliest day of my rescue because when our loved ones didn't hear the phone call thursday night they would act as night falls in the desert the temperature plummets the harsh wind whistles down the canyon slicing through david's thin climbing clothes shivering he stretches his fingers over a tiny campfire built from the few burnable scraps he could find in his pack. Get to Friday. The objective is simple enough.

He should have just enough rations to make it through the next four days. It's going to be rough, physically and mentally, but doable. That is, as long as nothing unexpected happens. The physicality of heat and cold over time make sandstone, fragile. And if there's enough hard rain coming down, it can loosen up rock that's already fragile from the thawing and the baking. And Monday night start the rain. It starts slowly, just a few drops. But within moments, the heavens open, a deluge. David looks up at the top of the canyon wall, far above his head,

where the rain is now hammering the fragile sandstone ring. But what I hear during the night and in the darkness as I hear some rocks coming down. David scrambles to the back of the ledge, desperately searching for some protection from the downpour and from the falling rocks, each one threatening to make a fatal collision. I don't know if it's just fragments that are coming down, or if there's going to be a big rock slide coming down. I was terrified beyond all terror. Ever wondered what you would do when disaster strikes?

If your life depended on your next decision, could you make the right choice? Welcome to real survival stories. These are the astonishing tales of ordinary people thrown into extraordinary situations. People suddenly forced to fight for their lives. In this episode, we meet David Chiquotella. In the spring of 2011, the college professor is exploring Utah's canyon lands

with his older brother, Lewis. For David, these climbing trips are as much about bonding with his sibling, as they are about enjoying nature. But when a tricky manoeuvre in a remote desert canyon goes horribly wrong, David finds himself stranded without a rope and without his brother and mentor. He had come down on the rope, and the rope went with him, and I shouted out his name, and there was no reply. Battling bitter cold and the ever-present danger of Rockfall,

David must hunker down on a narrow ledge with scant supplies. and no means of escape. I have no rope. I had no equipment. There was just no way out. I'm John Hopkins from the Noyser Podcast Network. This is real survival stories. It's March the 5th, 2011 in Utah.

Two brothers hike through a wide, flat, desert valley, leaving footprints in the red, sun-baked clay. A mild breeze cuts in from the west, rustling the sagebrush. In the cobalt blue sky, a bird of prey circles, scouring the arid land-skylars. scouring the arid landscape for lizards and jackrabbits. 57-year-old David Chichotello pauses for a breather. Puffing and panting, he lifts his head and looks up at his older brother, Lewis, striding out in front. David smiles. He's happy to be following his brother's footsteps.

He's been doing it one way or another since he was young. Lewis is 13 years older. He was starting college when David was still in kindergarten. When it was David's turn to go off to university, his older brother already seemed impossibly worldly and urbane. He was in his early 30s. He was our professor. And I grew up a lot around him because he was a big influence.

He introduced me to a lot of different things. I had my first Asian food. I went to a Grateful Dead concert. He was my guide to everything. David hitches his backpack onto his shoulders and hurries to keep up. Even at 70, Lewis is still a trailblazer. After that initial period of bonding, when David was at college, the two brothers drifted apart. David went off to become an English teacher, first in Nebraska, then in Tennessee,

with Lewis based hundreds of miles away, teaching art in Colorado. But then, a few years ago, they reconnected over a shared interest, exploring the dramatic landscapes of the American Southwest. As a keen rock climber, Lewis suggested to David that he should learn too. It's the only way to properly explore this part of the world. David didn't take much convincing. If it meant spending more quality time with his brother, he was in. While I learned how to climb in a gym and got certified,

I didn't learn how to climb until I went into the canyons with my brother. That was field work. That was field experience. And he was my sort of mentor and teacher there and coached me up and got me confident on the rope. And that was another one of those bonding periods too. For David, it was like rolling back the years. Lewis showing him how to use climbing ropes, the way it once shown him how to hold chopsticks

or groove to eclectic rock music. Their hair might be a little grayer, their eyesight a little worse, but the brotherly bond was still very much intact. Once David had reached a sufficient level, they were out climbing in the wild side by side. helping each other scale and descend sheer rock faces. They get away whenever possible, usually one trip a year,

but more if they can, Utah, Arizona, Colorado, collecting pins in their map of the southwest. Though it's never really been about the climbing itself. It was those special moments alone, where we could talk as we hiked, where we could sit around the campfire and enjoy our meal in silence, and take in this beautiful landscape,

this 360-degree view of, you know, the canyon lands with the Milky Way above you at night. And I really enjoyed learning something new. And my brother was there, and we both enjoyed it. That was, yeah, that was part of it. It's just after 9 a.m. on Sunday, March the 6th. David and Lewis are hiking up to the north fork of No Man's Canyon. A red, Martian landscape extends out in all directions.

A rolling sea of sandstone studied with bristly sagebrush, dropping away into hidden gulches and gullies. When they reach the trailhead, they spot only two sets of footwork. their own from the day before when they came to scout this area it means that nobody else has come up here they're completely alone although in these parts that's hardly unexpected it's the remoteness of this region that draws in climbers and adventurous the extreme isolation once attracted famous outlaws who carved their hideaways into its stone-walled canyons, giving the place its name.

Well, this part of Utah, which is known as Robbers Roost, goes back to the 19th century when outlaws who would go into these canyons where the cowboys didn't even come, because they wanted to get away from, you know, the law. And Butch Cassidy and his gang were known to frequent these canyons in Robber's Roost, and no one would want to go in there because of its remoteness. Unlike Butch Cassidy and his gang, David and Lewis have every intention of staying visible and easy to find. They've taken every possible precaution, going through the checklist to ensure that should anything happen, there are contingencies in place. The first golden rule is to leave a map clearly marked with their intended routes and destinations.

David gave one to his partner Rhonda, Lewis, to his wife, Millie. So that's number one, leave him at. Number two, we were going together. Lewis and I were a team. We were two people, okay? I wasn't going alone. He wasn't going alone. And again, that's at the top of the list too, right?

And thirdly, people knew where we were going. Out here, preparation is critical. Robber's Roost is a sprawling wilderness of nearly 3,000 square miles, a vast tract of desert, cut with a maze of sandstone canyons. On a map, these canyons resemble forks of lightning, ripping through the red earth. Most of them are slot canyons, which means they're not the Grand Canyon. They are very narrow in places in which you have to use your physical abilities to chimney up, narrow areas, and then climb down, to get over obstacles. Okay, so this is a lot of how the problem solve through narrow slots.

For rock climbers, this place is like a theme park, an endless variety of tricky descents down tunnels gouged by water and wind. But it's not all fun on games. When canyon-eering, danger comes in many forms. Flash floods can strike at any moment, filling a dry canyon with a deluge of white water. Then there's the risk of rock falls, scorpion stings, and of course the remoteness. Out here, with rescue often days away,

even a non-fatal injury can be a death sentence. With Amex Platinum, access to exclusive Amex pre-sale tickets can score you a spot trackside. So being a fan for life turns into the trip of a lifetime. That's the powerful backing of Amex. Pre-sale tickets for future events subject to availability and vary by race. Turns and conditions apply. Learn more at amex.ca. This episode is brought to you by Defender.

With its 626 horsepower twin-turbo V8 engine, the Defender Octa is taking on the Dakar rally. The ultimate off-road challenge. Learn more at landrover.ca. It's about midday. David and Lewis are descending into No Man's Canyon, a hairline crack in the earth, leading 100 feet down to a dry creek bed. Their plan is to down climb through No Man's, then exit through the North Fork and hike back to the trailhead. Lewis goes first, rappelling partway down to a small, sloping ledge. Ordinarily, the Chiquettello brothers are hard to tell apart.

Both are tall and rangy, with soft paint-brush mustaches and wisps of grey hair curling out from underneath their baseball caps. When climbing, though, it's easy to spot who's the more experienced. David has become proficient these past few years, but Lewis is a total natural. His movements are effortless and self-assured, with none of the hesitation that can still sometimes creep into David's technique. The younger Chicotella waits until he hears his brother call up, then clips his rope into the harness, and eases himself past the rim down to where Lewis is waiting for him.

There they assess the next stage of the climb. this part of the slok slopes about 20 feet to the edge, to the actual edge, and then it drops. But in that place, it's very narrow, and only one climber can go down that sort of slopy area to the edge, stand, and then go down. So Lewis and I could not go down together and stand together at the edge. It had to be one climber at a time. As always, Lewis goes first. David watches him make his way down the sloping section towards the edge. To make this 100-foot descent, the brothers are using a single 200-foot rope,

the middle of which they've marked with a piece of white tape. It's a simple but important trick. When setting up this rappel, it's crucial to have equal lengths of rope hanging on both sides of the anchor, Otherwise, they could run out of rope before reaching the ground. By pulling the rope through the anchor until the tape appears, the brothers know the rope is perfectly centered and thus safe to use. We saw that piece of tape, and we stopped, and Lewis was to go first. And he ties in and begins to go down that slopey area to the edge.

And I'm back in about 20 feet watching him go down. Down. At 200 feet, the rope they're using is only just long enough, because a rappel rope should be at least double the length of the descent. Ideally, the rope should be significantly longer than the wall to leave a margin for error, and to avoid the risk of coming up short before reaching the ground. But by using the white tape to center the rope at the anchor, the brothers have ensured they have enough rope on each side.

It should be plain sailing. David catches a final glimpse of Lewis, his bright, with spectacled eyes, squinting in concentration, before he slides out of view. All I'm seeing now from my position back in that slotty area is the rope, as hot as it could be, over the edge, and I don't see my brother anymore because it's a blind view. He's over the edge and going down. David watches the rope snake through the rappel ring, stretched tight across the smooth, rust-colored stone. Lewis is on a free-hanging rappel. That is, his body isn't touching the rock.

He's just hanging from the rope, dangling above a lofty, hundred-foot drop, making a controlled descent. After a few moments, David hears his brother's voice. He says, oops, the rope is short. Now, in that moment, I froze and I could imagine what he was saying, because to say, oop, the rope is short means that the strands are not equal. David's stomach drops.

This isn't good. If the strands aren't equal, Lewis might be descending on the shorter side of the rope. It seems he's now suspended above the canyon floor, hanging on the line with no way to safely descend the final distance. David, still unable to see him, has no clue how high above the ground Lewis is. Could be five feet, ten feet, fifty. But just as the panic starts to rise, Lewis calls out again. But as quickly as my brother said, oops, the rope is short.

The next thing he says to me is, No biggie. Now, when my dear brother said, no biggie, that was all I needed to know to understand that he had it under control. Reassured, David relaxes. Lewis has everything in hand. Of course he does. He's just said so.

A few more seconds pass. And I'm watching the rope, and that rope is talked. Through the rappel ring and down over the edge. And I've been asked many times, how long was it before you saw that rope zip through the rappel ring and go down over the edge? And when I think about that and try to reconstruct that moment, I may be able to count 1,0001, 1,0002, 1,0003. Can't say for certain, but it was rapid. David blinks, not quite processing what he's just seen. He stares at the empty rappel ring,

as if by looking hard enough he might wheel the rope to reappear. But it's gone, zipped through the ring and down over the edge. In that moment, I knew what happened. He had come down on the rope, and the rope went. with him and I shouted out his name and there was no reply. It's lunchtime on Sunday, March 6th, 2011. Somewhere in the wilderness of southeastern Utah, David Chiquetello stands on a narrow ledge partway down a deep slopped canyon. His heart drums inside his ribs and a cold sweat

prickles across his skin. He calls out Lewis's name. But the wind sighing through the canyon is his only reply. Moments ago, David watched as the rope his brother was using to descend suddenly slipped through the rappel ring. It can mean only one thing. Lewis must have fallen. He did not cry out. He did not land hard because I heard nothing from my vanagement. And by the way, in those slot canyons it's more like the Carnegie Hall. It's wonderful acoustics in there. But I heard no crying out and I heard no hard landing.

The questions pile up. Why didn't Lewis cry out when he fell? Why wasn't there a sound? No impact, no thud. Just seconds before, he had shouted, no biggie, as if everything was under control. So what went wrong? David keeps calling out. His voice choked with panicked tears.

Whatever condition Lewis is in, he's clearly not able to reply. Instinctively, David moves forwards. But in the next instant, he freezes. The 200-foot rope that fell with Lewis was their only full-length climbing rope. All he has now is a short 20-foot static rope, useful for setting anchors or back-ups, but far too short to descend with. Unable to climb down from this ledge, maybe his only option is back up. David squints, shielding his eyes from the blazing afternoon sun. There is an overhanging mantle, 10 feet above him, a jutting shelf of sandstone.

Climbing past that obstacle without a proper rope would be impossible. In short, he has no way up, no way down, no way out. I had no equipment to use with my static rope to throw over that mantle, to hook onto something and climb over it. Okay? There was just no way out the way we came in. David inhaled slowly, trying to keep himself centered. Clearly, his options are limited.

There's zero cell service out here, so he isn't able to call for help. Without appropriate equipment, any attempts to scramble or climb out of here would likely end in disaster. It's at this point that David's time in the Boy Scout, comes in useful. There's an old rule. If you ever get lost in the wilderness, don't try to immediately find your way back. You'll only risk stumbling into deeper trouble. Instead, stay in place. Your best hope of rescue is often by sitting tight and waiting. And so, even though it means giving up on reaching Lewis for now, that's what David does. With tears coursing down his cheeks, He slumps down on the stony ground and waits.

But then... Within a few minutes of making this decision, I heard my brother moan, and it was the only time I heard any audible sounds. And he did a little moaning, and I rushed to that kind of sloddy opening and called out his name to see if I could have any kind of... conversation, and it stopped. David cranes his neck, but he can't see past the sloping edge of the wall. Any closer to the drop, he'd risk falling. He calls out again and again, pleading for Lewis to

respond. It's no use. His brother is out of reach and out of earshot. Maybe he's also out of time. But David is in danger too, however much it pains him. For now, he has to focus on his own situation. So I would imagine it's about three o'clock in the afternoon, Sunday, March 6th, and it's survival time. You can get protein at home or a protein latte at Tim's.

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Hey, happens to the best of us. Enjoy some goldfish cheddar crackers. Goldfish have short memories. Be like goldfish. He takes off his pack and empties it onto the ledge. The plan had been to camp out here in the desert until Friday, five days from now. But they'd intended to return to their campsite this evening, which means David only has enough food and water on him for a safe.

single day. I deconstructed my lunch and decided that I was going to ration my sandwich, ration my orange, ration my power bar, and ration my trail mix. I had a 16-ounce plastic bottle of water, and I had a liter of iced tea that I had put a large slice of lemon in that morning, because I like lemon in my iced tea. David peers at the warm liquid sloshing around his half-liter water bottle. You can already feel the saliva thickening on his tongue. A drink right now would be very welcome, but he needs to pace himself.

The sun shimmers overhead, its radiance spilling down into the narrow slot. David looks around for shade. At the back of the ledge, the overhanging mantle offers some shelter, a spot where he can stay cool. and if necessary, dry. Even in the desert, sudden rainstorms aren't unheard of. I was protected from the elements. If there was going to be rain,

it wasn't going to be raining right on top of me, because that part of the area was kind of cavey, so I was protected back there. Next, David takes inventory of the rest of his supplies. He spreads everything out on the ground at his feet, a couple of metal clips, a roll of climbing tape, his penknife, some spare clothes. Then he pulls apart the backpack itself, ripping out the styrofoam padding and laying it alongside the rest of the gear. He frowns at his modest stockpile. He's a long way from an ideal

survival kit. But then, with some creativity, perhaps he can make these few items work to his advantage. He places his empty backpack at the rear of the ledge underneath the overhang and lies down on it. As an improvised sleeping mat is not bad. He gazes up at the azure stripe of sky sandwiched between the canyon walls and closes his eyes. For me, the focus was in the form of a mantra, get to Friday, get to Friday, get to Friday. Now, I thought that would be the earliest day of my rescue because when our loved ones didn't hear the phone call Thursday night, they would act.

Night descends quickly and brings with it a sharp drop in temperature. David pulls a pair of woolen leggings on underneath his climbing trousers. He rolls up some spare socks and tucks them under his baseball cap. as makeshift earmuffs. It is going to be a tough night. In this part of Utah, the daytime warmth can be misleading. Despite being a desert, this region sits at a very high elevation. When the sun goes down, the cold picks up.

The temperature forecast that week in Utah was perfect. It was going to be in the mid-60s and 60s. sunny during the day, great for day hiking, but at night, it would be freezing or in the 20s. And we're talking about Fahrenheit, of course. So I try to get as creative as possible with keeping myself warm at night. David takes the styrofoam padding from his backpack and shoves it under his shirt for one final additional layer. Then, with his arms wrapped around his chest, he sits back.

and tries to get some sleep. Get to Friday. It's a simple enough plan, but putting those words into practice is anything but simple. This isn't just a test of patience. It's a test of mental toughness. Not everyone could keep themselves sane

and centered in such circumstances. But David has been through hell before. A few years ago, he suffered a devastating loss. I lost a dear son at 30. He passed away from brain cancer. That moment in my life to lose a child at that young age, he was 30. If I did not have that kind of positivity and how to handle adversity, it kind of leveled up in me that resilience. You know, the 23rd Psalm, let me be a preacher here for a moment.

Though we walk through the valley, King David says through the valley. He doesn't say we're stopping, through the valley. And so that metaphor has really resonated with me. I'm going to get through this. I'm going to get through this. David's first full day in the canyon passes slowly. An uncomfortable mind-numbing procession of empty hours. His ever-increasing hunger is the only way to differentiate one moment from the next.

When darkness falls again, he manages to gather together some scraps of paper from his backpack and burn them. Keep his fingers warm. He is sitting there, hands outstretched above his makeshift campfire, when he feels it, a single drop of rain. The one night that I was terrified beyond all terror was a night that rain came. And that's not a good thing to have in slot canyons because the physicality of heat and cold over time make sandstone fragile. And if there's enough hard,

rain coming down, it can loosen up rock that's already fragile from the thawing and the baking, and Monday night started the rain. It was rainwater flowing through these cracks in the sedimentary bedrock that first began carving these canyons millions of years ago. It will go on shaping them for millions more, eroding their sandstone walls in powerful, surging flash floods. As the rain intensifies, David crawls to the back of the ledge. He sits beneath the semi-protective overhang, knees drawn into his chest, trying to stay dry. The downpour is torrential, heavy sheets thundering into the canyon, soaking him despite his meager shelter. And getting wet, that's the least of his worries.

But what I hear during the night and in the darkness, and there's only the stars to light up this area as I hear some rocks coming down. I don't know if it's just fragments that are coming down, or if there's going to be a big rock slide coming down. Rocks flash past in the rain-filled darkness, echoing off the walls, splintering into shrapnel. Flinching, David covers his head with his arms and braces for what is starting to feel like the inevitable.

But mercifully, the deadly avalanche doesn't come. The rain gradually eases off, the danger passes for now. At some point he must have drifted off, because when David opens his eyes, it's day again, bright and crisp. He stretches out, warming his limbs in the pool of sunlight creeping across the shadowed ledge. After last night's scare, the fact that he's still breathing counts for something, a small victory to help him get through another morning. He looks up at the sky, clear again, as if last night's rain never happened.

Come Friday, if all goes well, the brothers will be reported missing, and a helicopter will be sent out to scour these canyons. David turns his attention to making himself easier to spot. He looks around at the items littered about this ledge. His gaze settles on a sheet of stiff plastic pulled from the inside of his backpack. Then on the webbing pockets lining the pack's exterior, maybe it's enough to construct a help sign. I used webbing to put the letters, H-E-L.

Then I stopped and said, what are you doing cutting webbing? It's taking too much time. Get your climbers tape out. And I made L and P with white climbing tape. So I had a multicolored help word. David admias his handiwork. He lays the sign out flat on the sloping ledge, held in place with a couple of rocks. It's a solid piece of improvisation.

But will it be enough? He looks up again at the sliver of sky peeking down through the canyon. This ravine is one of hundreds in the area, a single offshoot of a tree branch with countless others exactly like it. The odds are incredibly slim, but he has to trust that an eagle-eyed helicopter pilot will somehow spot him. And so he sits on his empty backpack and resumes his agonizing weight. I became engaged in my surroundings. Those days were beautiful. And while tedious and boring, I looked out that slot exit every day and watched the ravens and watched the skyline and watch the contrails come across from the jet airplanes.

And at night, I was able to track Orion cross that slot. And that's how I kept time. From his lonely perch, David watches the world go by. Despite everything, there is a quiet comfort in the rhythm. them of it all, the steady turning of the earth, the certainty of day turning into night and night into day, only for it all to start again. The birds, the stars, the aeroplanes, the fading contrails. Amid the clockwork like monotony, David seeks diversion where he can find it. I began to sing, oh beautiful for space, it just came to me. And later,

in therapy, I learned from my therapist that singing is comforting. And that just came to me naturally. Now, I didn't belt out tune after tune, but it was something to occupy my time. Throughout all this, keeping calm is a relentless battle, suppressing negative thoughts and emotional outbursts, made all the more difficult because living. Lewis's fate is still unknown. I knew how I was experiencing it in the moments after he fell. I was weeping uncontrollably. And that's no way to get to Friday if you're in that state.

And so that idea of pushing the beach ball underneath the water for that week. And it's really between the ears. It's getting your mind focused on survival and engaging in, things that sort of support that. Tuesday seeps into Wednesday, which bleeds into Thursday. David's rations are now running very thin. He only has a few scraps of food left, and he's down to the last drops of water. Thankfully, he's still got that litre bottle of iced tea, a final reserve he held back

for when things turned desperate. On Thursday, hoping this will be his last day on the ledge, he goes to take a swig of what promises to be a mightily refreshing drink. But when he picks up the bottle of iced tea, you can tell something's wrong. That wonderful ice tea that I had and had fixed that wonderful piece of lemon, that lemon turned brown and black by midweek. And I was so damn angry that it happened when I opened it up on Thursday and I could smell the rancidness.

I got so enraged that I just tossed that bottle back and forth in my hands, and the tea went everywhere. David throws the empty bottle aside, seething with frustration. It's tiny moments like this that can be the difference between life and death. Incensed, he slumps down on the ground and picks up his main water bottle. Just a few milliliters remain. His mouth burns with dehydration, but he doesn't take a sip. Instead, he makes a pledge.

I'm not going to drink the rest of that water until I'm rescued, and that's what my goal is. And even if I do become in a kind of a hallucination sort of situation, and I'm feeling like I'm going to pass out, my plan was to just let it happen. That's about as far as I got to thinking about my mortality. It shouldn't come to that, surely. Today is Thursday, the final full day of their trip.

Right about now, David's partner, Ronda, should be expecting a call, telling her is on his way home. When she doesn't hear from him, she'll promptly notify the authorities, and the search and rescue party will be sent out. As night falls, David's optimism builds. Tomorrow, this will be all over. And so that Thursday night, that was my night of like anticipation, because everything has been geared up for getting rescued on Friday.

Well, that wasn't the plan, because Friday came and it came and it came and it went. And no rescue. And I was very disappointed. I mean, I was dejected. Summer's here, and you can now get almost anything you need for your sunny days delivered with Uber Eats. What do we mean by almost? Well, you can't get a well-groom lawn delivered, but you can get a chicken parmesan delivered. A cabana? That's a no. But a banana, that's a yes.

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They slow down the progression of myopia. So your child can continue to discover all the world has to offer through their own eyes. Light the path to a brighter future with stellar lenses for myopia control. Learn more at SLOR.com. And ask your family eye care professional for SLOR Stellist lenses at your child's next visit. It's Friday night in the Utah desert. David lies on his back in the dark, still processing the disappointment of not being rescued. Get to Friday. That had been his plan. Now what?

Before there was an end point, a destination to focus on. Now, time stretches out endlessly before him. A great, yawning void. And with his supplies all but gone, it seems the only thing that awaits is a death sentence. The canyon walls appear somehow tall of them before. His ledge even more sunken and obscured in shadow. Nobody will find him here.

But then... Then he hears it. heard the helicopter and later i was told it was about 11 o'clock when the utah state patrol helicopter came down that canyon and was searching at night david jumps to his feet his heart pounding the chopper swoops low over the canyon the dazzling beam of its search like flashing across the opening i stood up on that interior ledge and i said i'm here and shouted they couldn't hear me but that was the impulse. And in that moment, I felt this relief they're searching for us and felt confident that they would come around the next day. The helicopter moves off, but the fact

that they're looking in the right spot is what matters. Tomorrow, when it's light, they'll come back. Just a few more hours. And sure enough, when the next day, they'll come back. And sure enough, The next morning arrives. I hear them again. I see them again. I get up off that interior ledge, have my help sign in my hand, stand up where they can see me,

and they acknowledge with their horn that they've seen me. It's the sound he's been praying for. A few moments later, a search and rescue officer repels down to the ledge. He asks what happened. And David explains as best he can about Lewis, the accident, and his six days alone in the slot canyon. The officer straps him into a device, a kind of harness attached to a winch that will enable him to climb past the overhanging mantle and out of the canyon. With members of the search and rescue team operating the winch, David is able to clamber up from the ledge.

And I just walked up that rock face. They turned this and turned it and turned it and kind of pulled me up. And when I got up to that place where the mantle was that I couldn't climb over, I was able to reach up to them, the rescue guys, and they picked me up over the mantle. They just hauled me over the edge there, and I was out of where I was for six days. David climbs inside the helicopter. The rescue team reassure him they'll come back for Louis. but their priority right now is getting him to safety. At this point, he still doesn't have definitive confirmation that his brother is dead,

even if the chance of a different outcome is practically non-existent. The aircraft roars as it turns a full 180 and chugs back to the trailhead, where David's truck is parked and where he needs to retrieve his cell phone and wallet. It's here that his worst fears are confirmed. When I got back to the truck, a sheriff was there, and the sheriff informed me officially about my brother's passing. He gave me the notification and shared his condolences. And then I got back in the helicopter and went to Moab. David is admitted to hospital in Moab, where a doctor checks his vitals and gets him fed and rehydrated.

Lying in his hospital bed, the survival mindset that kept him focused in the canyon, finally switches off, leaving space for the grief that he's been keeping at bay. He also begins to work out what must have happened to Lewis, how this skilled and experienced climber could have made such a fatal error. The piece of white tape, marking the center of the rope, must have shifted during the previous rappels. When Lewis began his descent, the rope was not evenly distributed on either side of the repell device. One end was shorter than the other, stranding him partway down the wall. As for what exactly happened next, there is no way of knowing for sure.

But David says he has a theory for the likeliest explanation. Lewis was descending on the shorter strand of rope. When he reached the end of the rope, he decided to take a leap of faith. When he said no biggie, what was in his mind was that he was planning to go down to where that short piece ended because he couldn't go any further. And what we expect he did was to get down as close as he could and jump the rest of the way. When Lewis jumped, the rope must have slipped through the anchor device and fallen with him. This is what left David stranded.

Whether the jump was ultimately too big for Lewis or something else unforeseen happened, the leap clearly did not go to plan. Based on the autopsy report, Lewis broke his pelvis when he made impact with the ground. Though it wasn't in itself a fatal injury, it left him critically incapacitated. He was immobilized. He couldn't move. And being a type 2 diabetic, he couldn't take his medicine. And so eventually he went into a diabetic coma, and he passed away.

After leaving hospital, David goes home to Tennessee. He returns to his teaching job, tries to recover some semblance of normal life. But his grief casts a shadow, often manifesting in strange, unanticipated ways. I was dealing with some things that were quite unexpected with grief. Because at one point, I was angry at Lewis because why in the hell did you do what you did and put me in this position? And I got through that. I had to deal with what I would call intrusive thoughts. When I would lay down at night and sleep, my mind, I was back in that canyon.

I was back on that ledge for months. That was the image in my head. It takes many difficult and painful months. But gradually, with the help of his family, his therapist, and his priest, David starts to heal. In the years since, he's found new ways to process his trauma, new avenues to channel his pain into something constructive. He's written a memoir and gives motivational speeches, sharing his message of survival and brotherly love. David says he finds comfort in talking about the accident, about his survival on the ledge, and ultimately about Lewis.

He was a tour to force. He was valedictorian of his high school class. He went to Carnegie Institute of Technology. And he spoke his mind, too, which, again, sort of emboldened me to have opinions and speak them, you know, confidently. I would say each time I make a presentation and this manuscript that would get published

just to honor my brother and that's where we're back to. We're back to the beginning. We're back to Lewis. And that's what's meaningful at the end of the day. In the next episode, we journey to one of the hottest places on Earth.

where temperatures can soar to over 50 degrees Celsius. In 2016, Chas Powell embarks on an epic quest to walk the full length of the Zambizi River from source to mouth, a staggering 2,000 mile long trek through harsh terrain and even harsher weather. After two months, Chaz is making good headway until his progress grinds to a sudden halt. Before long, he will find himself exposed on the wide-open savannah with no shade, no water, and unimaginable heat.

Somehow, with grim irony, a journey along one of Africa's largest sources of fresh water will transform into a desperate battle against dehydration. That's next time on real survival stories. Listen today without waiting and without ads by subscribing to Noisa Plus. Macadamia cream cold brew from Starbucks is made just the way you like it. Handcrafted cold foam topped with toasted cookie crumble.

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