Because Flat Stanley is a faux child, made from poster board and crayons, his expression usually never changes. But on this morning, as he looks down on a flash flood rushing through Buckskin Gulch, perched precariously on a rock ledge, Flat Stanley somehow looks terrified. Wendy, Rich, Suzanne, Wini, and I walk as close as we're willing to the canyon's edge and cautiously look down at the raging river below us. We all look at each other in disbelief, without knowing what to say or do. We go quietly about our morning chores: making breakfast, packing up our sleeping bags, and disassembling our tents.

The group rests above Buckskin Gulch after climbing out of the canyon.

"I'm going down there to explore," I finally announce. "Does anyone want to come?" Of course, adventurous Wendy volunteers, and the two of us climb down the slippery, sandy vertical rock comprising Middle Route and into the water. For about a quarter mile, we hike through the muddy canyon, literally testing the water. When we return to the ledges above, we report that river seems traversable, though it sometimes reached above our knees.

"But it could get a lot deeper, and we can't see deep mud holes or sharp rocks under the water," Suzanne says. "And what if it starts raining again?"

"I want to finish the hike," Wendy insists.

I feel unsure. On one hand, I am confident that, if we continue hiking through the canyon, we will inevitably escape the Gulch. The water isn't moving too fast, it's not too deep, and we have watched the water level lower during the morning. The worst of the flood is over. On the other hand, I am afraid that even if we manage to continue safely, walking continuously through six miles of cold river water and mud will make everyone miserable. I am also aware of a log jam, about four miles ahead of us, that could turn out to be impassible due to the flood. In other situations, with more seasoned hikers, I might eagerly take such a risk, knowing that we might be forced to turn back, walking eight unnecessary miles. But we're all here to have fun, not to prove our machismo.

A hiker traverses Middle Route near The Dive.

"I will not be peer-pressured into doing this hike," Suzanne says sharply. Wini and Rich also vote to climb out of the canyon and escape across the desert.

In my ideal world, we would spend another day camping above the canyon to wait out the flood. But we have only a one-day water supply remaining, and since the opaque flood water is saturated with mud, it doesn't seem enticing, even filtered.

Flat Stanley stays broodingly quiet, as though he's about to make a vital, life-saving decision.

Finally, our uncertainty and the rising, hot sun make the decision for us. We reluctantly climb out of the canyon and begin making our way across the trail-less Utah backcountry, in 91-degree heat. We don't know exactly where we're going, which, for me, I admit, is my favorite kind of adventure. I use the topographical maps in my GPS device to find our way around The Dive, a stretch of severe, orange and red sandstone cliffs, blocking our route to the closest trailhead. Everyone in the group complains about the sizzling weather, but as I trudge along, I find myself enjoying the adventure and extraordinary views of Utah.

The Paria River flows near the White House Trailhead.

"Hank, you're our Moses," Suzanne remarks as she watches me lead the caravan across the scorching sand.

Though her comparison of the Red Sea to the reddish Dive seems clever, I think to myself, I'm no Moses. For one thing, as we walk, my only theology is, "Drink lots of water and wear your hat." I also pray that I'm not like Moses, because, after all, in Exodus, Moses dies before reaching Israel. I hope to stay alive all the way to the White House Trailhead.

Rock formations near the White House Trailhead

As the desert sun continues to boil us, Wendy sits down and tells us that she feels faint. We all stop under the shade of a tree to have a lunch of sausage and tuna burritos, and she thankfully begins to recover. For dessert, we eat the freeze-dried Neapolitan ice cream bars that I have packed. They taste like ice cream from an alternate universe, a universe where ice cream is the temperature of boiling water. It melts into a warm, gooey mess in our mouths, but, somehow, it still manages to taste like ice cream. Flat Stanley seems so nervous about our fate that he doesn't eat a thing. But soon, we easily reach the Paria River and follow it, without incident, to the trailhead.

Wini hikes up rock formations near the White House Trailhead.

Wini and I quickly convince two French tourists to drive us to a nearby town (Page, Arizona), where we then hire a man and his wife with a huge pickup truck to drive us down the long, dirt road leading to our car at the Wire Pass Trailhead. As we drive, the Native American couple entertains us by teaching us a number of useful Navajo vocabulary words. But halfway down the road, we discover yet another river (actually, the same flash flood), flowing across the road. Apparently, escaping this flood is not in my destiny, as it has made the road mostly impassible. I start to wonder if I really might share Moses's fate. Our driver muscles his high-riding pickup truck through the water, but then he announces, "You'll never get your car out of here."

I ask him if he might be willing to help tow our car if we get stuck, and he generously agrees. But miraculously, when Wini and I get in our car and I slam the accelerator, we escape the flash flood, yet again, unscathed. Thankfully, I am not like Moses after all.

He doesn't say so aloud, but Flat Stanley seems elated. He may be the luckiest boy made of paper in the world. After all, he is very vulnerable to water, and yet, over the past two days, he has escaped two instances of the same flash flood.

As I put him back in an envelope to send him on his next journey, I feel confident that the stories of this Flat Stanley's adventures will be some of the most exciting in my nephew's second grade class. Maybe, I imagine, if this Flat Stanley ever learns to talk, he'll even impress the class by greeting them with "Ya'at'eeh" -- the word for "Hello," in Navajo.