Lake Powell--the two most controversial words you can say to environmentalist and water recreation enthusiast alike. The 186 mile long reservoir with almost 2000 miles of shoreline is anything but dull. Numerous opportunities exist for hikers and boaters alike. Formed by the Corps of Engineers back in 1963 by damming Glen Canyon, one of the most scenic and vast stretches of the Colorado river. Glen Canyon has been referred to as the "other Grand Canyon" and for good reason--this amazing stretch of desert could take you weeks to explore just one time. The question isn't what to do, the question is what are you willing to trek to see on your first trip?

I have ventured past Lake Powell for years, usually on trips near Page, AZ at its southern most tip, where Glen Canyon Dam stands at over 500 feet in height up the narrow canyon walls. In 2004 the lake reached an unprecendented level of 50% full, the least amount of water the lake has seen since 1980. I had explored shorelines and access around Page several times but wanted a more complete experience of the splendor of Glen Canyon. The dropping water levels exposed features that had not been visible for over 40 years. This was the opportunity of a lifetime--I knew that I would have to hit the water to truly experience Lake Powell's hidden beauty and this was the year to do it.

It's hard to visualize exactly what 186 miles worth of lake is really like. Heck, seeing the whole thing on a map only gives you the misguided belief that you can zip, zip here and vroom, see Defiance House and then bang, right down to Rainbow Bridge. The sobering reality is that travel on the lake requires great planning to make sure you're not paddling for 25 miles to get back to the nearest gas station. And compounding the problems of logistics, one of the 4 marinas was closed this year due to dropping water levels. The others are experiencing major reconstruction to keep up with the dropping levels to continue boat launching as normal. This trip could prove to be more of an adventure than I ever imagined. With two fellow photographer friends and boat secured, we ventured out to visit this region formerly unknown to us.

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Day 1

My first view of the lake was upon our arrival at Bullfrog Marina, one of the two marinas at the northern half of the lake. What can only be described as a white bathtub ring was clearly evident along the sprawling reddish cliff walls that extended from horizon to horizon. My first thought: What kind of marring effect this 'ring' would have on the beauty of Glen Canyon? A couple of hours later as we motored up the channel to visit Defiance House, one of the many Ancestral Puebloan cliff dwelling ruins, I realized that this ring is just another blip on the timeclock of geologic history and could easily be scoured off by the relentless forces of wind and rain that originally shaped this paradise. Give it another 40 years and you wouldn't recognize it again.

The average depth of the lake is approximately 200', so doing some quick math at 50% full, that means the 'bathtub ring' is sitting 100 feet above your boat as you slide past the grand sandstone walls. It's one of the few times you really get a sense of scale in a desert canyon. Your sense of distance can be easily fooled from a picture or even just standing and looking at a scene some distance away from you. From afar, the bathtub ring looks like it's just a tiny fraction of the lake's depth. As our boat slid down the lake, and I was next to one of these walls, I realized that the top of the ring is 10 stories above my head, and that's just about 1/3 to 1/4 the height of the wall I could see. Suddenly, I feel very, very small and hope that I don't drop anything out of the boat. It's a long dive to the bottom.

But this ring is just an indicator that the Lady of the Lake is now allowing us to view her house, someplace she's hidden from us for the past 4 decades. My excitement grows as we approach the side canyon that leads us to Defiance House. We reach an abrupt end when the beach comes around a sharp bend that has 4 other boats already moored for the afternoon, possibly even the night. Clearly, we're not alone.

Jumping off on the beach, I encounter my first zebra mussel infestation. These parasitic creatures came from some boat long ago that had but a single drop of water containing their embryotic cysts, just waiting for reemergence in a vast new body of water. They are more visible now that the water levels are plummeting. I can only guess to what extent they have colonized the lake--this beach is covered with these small black-and-white striped clams. And they add a not-so-wonderful fishy smell to the beach that should otherwise reek of wet sand. Signs warn of these critters at every marina boat ramp and now I can see why. Too bad the damage has already been done--the only thing we can hope for now is to drain the whole lake and await their suffocation to end the invasion.

Walking up the canyon and across the mud flat to venture towards our first goal, Defiance House, the real impact of Glen Canyon's flooding is now apparent. Massive cottonwoods, dead for over 30 years, now mere skeletons of their former existence, stand as reminders that the canyon was not always a lake. Now a garden graveyard, these giants stand with odd bits of fishing line, rope, bags and other trash dangling from their bare branches, like some remnant from a bad horror movie. Walking past them is surreal. The floor of the canyon, covered with fresh silt during the water's recession, provides a fertile bed for the tamarisk that now lines the bottom. It's an odd contrast of life and death. A small creek trickles down the middle searching for the end of its journey to the lake.

Farther up the canyon, we see that vegetation has reclaimed more ground--a tribute to Nature's tenacity. The bottoms are now teeming with life. A process that has been repeated for millenia is happening once again. And finally, the ruin is in sight. Midway up the cliff wall, nested safely into a south-facing crook where 800 years ago, sit several stone structures where a bustling family unit once lived. Now abandoned, and restored from Park Service work, Defiance House provides an excellent example of classic Ancestral Puebloan living. Consisting of a kiva, a small house, and perhaps some grain storage areas, the ruin is thought to support a family of about 12-20. Like most ruins in the Four Corners area, the reasons for abandonment of this sanctuary are unknown. Famine, war, drought--all possibilities but the exact reasons remain unknown. Standing here and gazing up and down this lovely place, I can see that whatever drove them out, it certainly wasn't an easy decision to leave. The water level used to permit a boat to approach within a few hundred yards of the ruin. Now, a one mile hike is required. I'm sure Ed Abbey would have preferred it that way.

We return to camp that night and fall asleep to the sounds of fish jumping in the lagoon where our boat is beached. Those fish certainly can't be thrilled at the prospect of losing more than 50% of their habitat. Tonight, them seem oblivious, happily jumping at all the mosquitos and gnats swarming near the surface.

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Day 2

Today, our travels will take us from our northern most spot, down to the Escalante Arm, with a well-timed stop for gas at our starting point, Halls Crossing. We make it back to the marina, but our boat's top speed is a mere 8 miles per hour. An old motor is the culprit and I secretly hope that we won't be needed the paddles for more push offs at the marina and shore. However, the slow rate of travel gives me time to absorb the vastness of the walls--the sheer enormity of the cliffs. I relieve some monotony by volunteering to drive the boat as I observe the ancient sandstone and feel insignificant.

The Escalante arm is the one of the largest river inlets of the lake. And by far one of the more spectacular side trips so far. High canyon walls with spiraling pinnacles, nooks, and crannies meet our eyes at every direction. Moving up the canyon, the walls slowly close in on us from both sides. The feeling is almost claustrophobic but our depth gauge indicates that these channels are still almost a hundred feet deep. We are essentially floating in a very large slot canyon.

The Cathedral in the Desert is our destination for mid-morning. We navigate down the various side canyons marked with buoys until we are idling through a very tight slot canyon, just barely wider than our boat. We kill the engine and the three of us push the boat along the channel using the paddles against the walls. The echos of the paddle connecting with stone are intermixed with random obscenities as we scrape the boat at times. Mostly we're just silent, looking at the reflected light from the water on the walls and amazed at every turn we make down this narrow slot. We come to a dead end and fire up the engine to bring the boat to a halt.

Cathedral in the Desert is a rare treat. While most slot canyons offer something of a unique experience being able to touch both sides of a towering canyon with walls over 100 feet tall at the same time, Cathedral in the Desert is like a small church carved out of the middle of a long hall of sandstone. Named for the echos that sound like you're in the middle of an Old World gothic cathedral, this grotto was flooded in the mid 60s so access was only possible from an overland route that required several miles of hard hiking. Even then, the actual Cathedral itself is totally inaccessible from the top, so this water level recession offers a rare insight into the original feel of the grotto.

As we approach the wall, a crack where a tiny spring pours off just above the boat, we spy a small rope that has knots in it. It is not until we return home that I realize this small waterfall is the famous waterfall of the Cathedral itself. Mistakenly, we believe that we need to climb up and over to experience the Cathedral. The echos in the massive room attempt to tell us we have found what we sought. But we pull the boat over to the side and unknowingly grasp the cord, which looks as if someone placed it there for easier access up to another grotto. However, the seep has given rise to a myriad of moss and algae, which has rendered the crack almost unclimbable. Well, not really unclimbable, but the likelihood of falling into the water has increased tenfold. Between the narrow diameter of the rope and the 25 pounds of water- intolerant camera gear we'd need to climb with, we eye the ascent with suspicion. After a few minutes of debate, we sadly agree that our success in climbing would be low and so we begin the return down the slot. Only after we come home and I am writing this story do I realize that the Cathedral itself will finally be free of water the following spring. Our goal had been achieved, but we were too blind to realize it.

Late in the afternoon, we pass something of a famous spot--Hole in the Rock. From my vantage point in the boat, it looks more like "Crack in the Rock". This particular spot was the location where some very determined Mormon pioneers, mostly out of desperation, were trying to find their way past Glen Canyon. This particular spot happened to be the only one they could find that would accomodate a reasonable descent into the canyon. What consitutes reasonable? Well, apparently in Canyon Country when your options are few and it's likely your water supply is running low, a small crack, big enough for a single horse at a time, down a 45 degree slope of questionable, broken sandstone seems awfully reasonable. These brave folks managed to disassemble an entire wagon train and bring it down to the canyon bottom, horses and all, through this route. Looking through the binoculars, I still can't picture all of this in my mind, but I am awed by the determination of the human spirit.

Our rate of travel only manages to get us about half way down from the Escalante arm before the sun starts its nightly descent, so we find the nearest island that looks safe. There are published maps of the Lake Powell shorelines and they are excellent navigation tools. However with the current water levels, they are almost useless in locating decent camping spots. No marked camping beach from the map even exists right now, so you're on your own. Fortunately, there are many untold wonders of the canyon that are exposed and we find a nice island that happens to have some convenient cliffs to photograph for sunset. A calm evening brings the water to near-stillness and the deafening silence falls with the darkness. 

 

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Day 3

During the night, a curious event--a boat passed by in the middle of the night. Not exactly what you might call a fishing expedition. We theorize about the origin of our nocturnal travelers and agree that whatever the journey, it was not likely for legitimate purposes. Running the canyon in the dark is not for the faint of heart, and certainly not for the wise. Without proper gear, your boat could easily be torn apart in a crash with some hidden underwater hazard. Unfortunately, reporting it will be futile. Park funding has cut most of the ranger staff down to a bare minimum, and they spend the majority of the time around the marinas where the real action is--drunken boaters, lost tourists, and traffic cop duty to deal with the crowds. It's a shame that no one will be able to follow up on this happening. We press farther south towards our goal for the morning, Dangling Rope Marina.

We arrive at the canyon mouth and motor our way into the marina. Dangling Rope Marina is named after the discovery of a woven fiber rope that was used by the Ancestral Puebloans to access this particular canyon during their time in the area. Today this canyon is the home to the only non-land-accessible marina on the lake. And when you imagine the traffic coming here during the peak months, it's an impressive operation. Garbage barges shipping out the waste of dozens of boats, floating pontoons to support mobile docks, and a photovoltaic array that supplies the local power. Small wonder that everything costs a fortune, too. At $3 a gallon and the only game in town, we fill up our boat and prepare to move on our way farther south.

Our next stop is Face Canyon, the farthest southern point of our journey this trip. The lake widens at this point, numerous side canyons-turned-inlets show themselves along the sides, presenting infinite possibilities for side trips. We, however, are on a mission. The maps note an arch near here, and we're determined to find it. However, the maps don't really tell us how far we can get with the fallen water level, so we're at a loss as to how far we need to hike to find it. Moreover, there are several slots up which we can travel to find our destination trailhead, so we're going to play it by ear.

Our first attempt lands us up a narrow slot--so narrow, in fact, we shut the motor off to navigate using the walls and oars to push ourselves in a controlled manner up the channel. The depth indicator of the boat still claims we have an average of 30-60 feet of water beneath us. I can only imagine what wonderful sights would emerge below us in a drained lake--rich, curved sandstone walls, gently carved from years of trickling water down their faces. The cool shade of the slot is a welcome relief to the burning heat surrounding us. Reaching the end of the slot, we realize that we face two problems: the slot ended in a nearly vertical wall, with no visible or safe method to climb out, and it's not enough room to turn the 18' boat around. We must backtrack manually with the boat facing in an awkward direction to navigate.

On the way out, we spy a sandstone fin slanting down towards the water at an angle that might be conducive to climbing. There are several bushes growing along the crevice separating the fin from the wall behind it--an indicator of something solid to catch water! We stop the boat and assess our chances of making it up the fin. Somehow, I stupidly volunteer to check it out. Stepping off the boat and up the fin, I realize that getting back into the boat will have a non-zero chance of allowing me to slip and fall into the water if I'm not careful. Fortunately, the day is hot and the thought of a short, quick swim is not unwelcome. I continue bushwhacking up the fin.

Desert flora is not without its own safety precautions. Looking up the fin, I see what appears to be simple tumbleweed. From my home state, I figure this will be an easy climb over the brush. I forget that Mother Nature protects her desert kin with special weapons to discourage all but the most tenacious of plant-eaters. As I step into my first pile, I realize that I've put my legs into the plant equivalent of a barbed-wire bush-- not at all what I expected. The pain is minimal and I keep going. Reaching the top, I am covered with tiny scratches from my mid-thigh down. And I have no choice but to return the way I came...Not the swiftest move I've made today.

My search at the top doesn't yield any obvious clues to the whereabouts of the arch. No landmarks exist that show what should be a tall rock formation sticking up, at least from my vantage point. I call back to my companions below and begin the treacherous descent. Somehow, I manage to make it to the boat, slightly more scratched, but no worse for the wear. We begin our push back out of the channel to explore another finger of this sandstone maze.

Our second choice of canyon yields another narrow passage, but with a more promising end. As we approach the end, the water quickly becomes shallow and we spy a pile of sand on a shore about 10' wide. We approach cautiously and check our beach for solidity. As we feared, part of it is quicksand. But just past the point where the oar can reach, it feels fairly solid and stable. We push back, wedge the oars on the walls as hard as we can, pushing with all our might and make a mighty rush to the bank, hoping we'll beach just high enough to disembark safely. Our plan succeeds, and we're off on a short hike in the punishing sun to see if we are any closer to finding our arch.

Emerging from the coolness of the canyon and after a couple of interesting climbs through narrow passages, the slot opens up at the bottom of a long sandstone hill. Our choices are go back or up. We begin slogging up the slickrock for a better view of our surroundings. We are greeted as we climb by various blooming plants--desert evening primrose, globe mallow and the bright fuschia flowers of some hedgehog cacti. It's a good excuse to stop, catch my breath and take in the unspoiled views of this beautiful land. I notice just how accustomed to the cooling effect of the lake I've become in such a short time. My hour-long departure from it has me sweating up a storm. Between the sun and the reflected heat of the rocks, it must easily be 100 degrees where I'm standing. I remind myself how lucky we are to have water nearby under these circumstances.

Ascending the hill, we spy some sort of formation near the top of a saddle that could be our arch. We see little alternative and walk up that direction to check out our only lead. The sun beats down heavily upon us and I'm already thinking about returning to our beach where the temperatures are easily 15-20 degrees cooler. Circling around what appears to be a steep, unclimbable slope, we find that indeed, our arch is reachable! The angle of approach did not reveal our pinnacle as an arch initially. We climb up and observe the strange geologic interaction between fire, sand, and iron, leaving an odd mixture of darkened stone shaped like a ring carved for a titan. It's quite a sight, and well worth the radiant, oven-like heat that now surrounds from the mid-afternoon sun. We agree that a morning shot would be best for light on this noble feature and return to the boat for our journey out.

An uneventful exit from the canyon is filled with peaceful, late-day light on the canyon walls, adding a magical glow to our departure. The reflections on the calm water in the deep slots are pensive and evocative, keeping our conversation to a minimum as we proceed across the lake to locate our camp for the night.

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Day 4 & 5

Our camp sits on the opposing canyon shore of Face Canyon, and as morning appears, we pack up and head back to our previous day's destination for some sweet early-morning light on our arch. Returning up the slot canyon, our navigation seems less strained with the secret knowledge of the correct canyon turn sequence. Approaching the beach, we strain the oars along the wall and push ourselves up high enough on the sand for another safe landing

Returning up the canyon, the cooler air of the morning makes the chill of the slot seem less pleasant, although I realize this won't last for long as the sun climbs relentlessly higher to cook us for yet another day. Our weather has been quite warm--low to high 90s, and with us crusing on the lake most of the time, it feels almost perfect. During our travels, I find myself dipping my hat into the lake water and placing it directly on my head to maintain a comfortable temperature.

We ascend the hill once again, but decide to change the approach slightly. Slickrock has always been a joy to climb for me, but like most people, the climb is rarely a problem. It's the descent that will get you in trouble. Figuring that I wouldn't come back down the way I came up, I decide to climb the steep gully directly below the arch that will cut off about 5 min of hiking. My companions wisely choose to go around the hill. As the hill gets steeper, I put my hands down on the ground to improve my balance. About 3/4 of the way up, suddenly sand breaks loose under my shoe and it's like I'm on a slide. My companions stare in shock as they watch me helplessly descend. I have no choice but to ride it down to a stopping point, but my hands are now being subjected to very harsh chafing--like having a sander turned on low while your hands are directly on it. My wedding ring saves my left hand from too much pressure somehow, but my right doesn't have the same luck. I'm now the victim of road rash on both hands, much worse on the right. And the object of ridicule as I sheepishly follow the same trail my friends took minutes before, cursing my bad judgment and my open wounds.

We shoot the arch and I nurse my wounded hands and ego. We putter around the area for awhile, taking advantage of the shady slopes protecting some of the flowers noted from the day before. The area is covered with cryptobiotic soil and I'm hopping from rock to rock, avoiding the possibility of damaging years of growth from a single footprint. Satisfied that we've captured some good images and enjoyed a nice side trip to such a remote arch, we head back to the boat and motor up the lake to our next destination, Rainbow Bridge.

Rainbow Bridge is a spectacle to behold within the parcel of Glen Canyon. A separate national monument from Lake Powell, it was first discovered by Caucasians back in 1909. Long known to the Navajo tribes of the area, it is considered sacred ground to them. It is also the considered the world's largest natural bridge with a span of 275 feet and a height of 250 feet (although, even this is considered a subject of debate since the distinction between 'arch' and 'bridge' is a subtle one, and there are arches much taller or wider than this one). At one point, boats could drive underneath the great arc, although the practice has stopped after protests by the local tribes. Now, with water levels so low, a mile plus hike is required to even approach the bridge.

This is clearly one of the more popular tourist spots in the canyon and the presence of a large but almost empty NPS dock, capable of holding 2-3 dozen boats of varying sizes indicates that we could have had large crowds. Somehow, we luck out and are the only boat attempting to dock when we arrive. We have the arch to ourselves, a rare moment indeed.

After our quiet side trip to behold the magnificent beauty of the arch, we proceed to head up the canyon to our destination for the night--the mouth of the San Juan river. Maps warn of a lack of services up this river arm, and given the resources we've used to proceed just down the main channel, I can understand why they would speak so strongly to discourage people from travelling large distances up this canyon. Sometimes it seems, the main job of the NPS is to save people from themselves.

A gently sloping sandstone table with a gravel beach beckons us for the night. We setup camp and have the good fortune to photograph the sunset right from the shore of camp. With so many twists and turns, almost every campsite in Lake Powell seems conducive to capturing the beauty of the rising or setting sun. We drink in the solitude and enjoy the overwhelming silence that calms the mind from so many distractions in our city-dwelling lives.

Although we want to remain on the lake for a longer time, mechanical problems with our aging watercraft have given us pause about exploring side canyons any further. We awake the next day to pack and I find our boat's owner working away on the engine which has given us no end of trouble since the beginning of our trip. I wonder what the day will have in store for us, although it turns out I don't have to wait long to find out. About 9 miles away from our original launch point of Halls Crossing, the engine seizes and we come to a dead stop in the water. After a few tense moments, we paddle ashore to the nearest spot where the boat can approach land and call back to the marina. Luckily, we're within radio range and within an hour, a tow boat comes to recover our crippled craft back to the marina.

While our trip has been cut short, my longing to explore Lake Powell's secret coves and infinite canyon mazes has only been fueled by this brief journey to view her previously hidden treasures. The draw of this place is clear for both sides of the controversy--the question remains, what does the future of this fragile place hold for us? As we pull the dead boat from the water, the only question I can answer is whether I will return. Yes, absolutely, unequivocally, YES. Perhaps that was the only answer I needed in the first place.

-Dave Rodenbaugh,  May 2004

 

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