Lake Powell and
a Ride through Utah
The New York Times travel section is fond of Utah. Frequently one will find stories touting the joy of rock climbing in Zion, canyoneering in Canyonlands or hiking with the Red Mountain Spa. Since I’ve done many of the activities or been to their recommended destinations, I always read with particular interest. However, I was more than fascinated when they came out with a story describing the wonders of Cathedral of the Desert on Lake Powell. At the time I mentioned it to several friends, of which many said that they were interested, but the conversation was dropped there and our lives went back to the regular schedule of hiking, biking and golfing.
Jeff and Penny Feldman were antithesis of this scenario. When they stated that we should do the trip, I took it to mean the same as with everyone else, “It would be nice, but it’s too much work, too expensive and too much planning.” However, in early May, Penny called again stating that we really, really should do the Cathedral. We tried in vain to convince others to join us, but everyone had previous commitments or other reasons for not going. Since I was dreading the long drive to Bullfrog and we couldn’t get other adventurers, Kim and I had pretty much decided to forget the Cathedral. When I called Penny to limp wristedly wimp out, I was shocked to hear that they were willing, ready and able. They were true Marines. Then, like a gift from Heaven, she offered that we should ride along with them in their deluxe Avalanche. Now, it was a done deal. My wrists were once again strong and we are ready to roll.
The long drive over to Bullfrog was scenic and interesting, as we drove back roads across Utah that we hadn’t traveled before or it had been years since our last excursion. We stopped for a sandwich and coffee in scenic Torrey, marveled at the vistas of Capital Reef and excitement grew in the cab of the truck as we tore down the highway across the rugged, but beautiful wastelands of central Utah.
When we finally pulled into the campground at the marina, Jeff drove the two loops three times each surveying the sites for the ultimate camping site. We finally unloaded our gear, which was enough to equip the 7th army division, and Jeff and I drove off to the store to procure wood and check on our boat for the next day’s excursion. When we returned, we found our women were waiting to move, as a huge diesel pickup had returned to the site next to ours and the owner had immediately fired up the generator for his massive fifth wheel trailer. I’m sure he didn’t want to miss “Dr. Phil.” I mean, who would want to be sitting outside in the gorgeous natural surroundings of Bullfrog when you could be watching the good doctor lambasting some helpless deadbeat with a mega dose of common sense?
We again drove the loops several times and this time settled for “the best site in the whole campground,” which was pointed out to us by the local attendant the next morning. Kim and I were the cooks that night, preparing white chili and bread served with cold beer. We took a stroll after dinner and enjoyed a sunset of oranges and purples in the western sky. No camping adventure would be complete without sitting around the campfire being mesmerized by the flickering flames, talking of nothing important. We spent a good two hours frozen in this state before realizing that it was well beyond our bed time of 10:00 P.M. Kim and I frantically scurried off to slumber on our inflated mattress, sleeping like babies until the Spring chill awoke us early the next morning.
After a quick cup of joe and breakfast, we loaded up the truck and headed to the docks, making it there at a few minutes after they opened at 8:00 A.M. We signed away our lives, were given a cursory lesson on driving a 19 foot Boston Whaler and then were released to play on the lake.
I was the first captain. I was also nervous. I had visions of rocks leaping out of the drought stricken waters of the mega reservoir and plunging our heavy fiberglass boat to the bottom of the sea, ruining everyone’s fun for all time . However, all of my concern was for naught. It was as easy as driving your Toyota down main street America. All one had to do was follow the “dotted line,” a series of red and green buoys arranged several hundreds of yards apart.
The lake was amazing. It was like one big wading pool, not a ripple to be found anywhere, surrounded on all sides by towering walls of brilliant red and white Navaho sandstone rock. A few other rental power boats were racing towards our destination, and we did see a few slow moving house boats chugging up and downstream, but overall, it lake’s climate was peaceful and you felt that you were out among nature, not experiencing the manic character that Lake Powell possesses from June through September each summer.
We purposely sped to our destination, not knowing how long it would take us to find the elusive Cathedral of the Desert. Upon arriving at the mouth of the Escalante River a full half hour ahead of schedule, we poked our nose into the narrowing canyon and throttled down while in search of the second arm veering off to the left. Once we found it, we followed the narrowing finger of water back through the towering canyon for a good two miles, where it dead ended. Everything had been so gorgeous, so cool, but now we were in a truly special spot. The walls of the canyon seemingly had narrowed as they jutted upwards several hundred feet, leaving only a narrow opening for the sun’s rays to penetrate this oval shaped echo chamber. At the end of the canyon, a small water fall fell into the lake and next to it, the sun’s rays danced weirdly on the red sandstone, making a light show of natural proportions. One could see why they named this place Cathedral, as it instantly impacted your mood. Sure the boats were still idling quietly, and yes, you could see two cycle oil being emitted by the three to four boats there while we visiting this majestic spot, but nevertheless, it had a calming effect on you. I noticed that we were all whispering to each other, as if we would offend the Lord or Mother Nature by marveling about it all at full volume. Finally after depressing the shutter button on our cameras for the hundredth time, we exited the canyon and continued our search for more adventures.
The young men at the marina had been taught to lie like politicians. When asked about how long our gas would last us, our young male attendant told us that we only had enough to reach the Cathedral and come straight back to the dock. No messing around. No side trips. Straight there, shut down the engine and then straight back to the marina. However, when we looked down at the gauge at Cathedral, we found that we were still above the 3/4 full. We agreed that he was a liar and that we could continue in our exploration of side canyons.
Jeff had taken the lead as our captain now, and he ably maneuvered up several narrow fingers of water protruding from the Escalante Arm. All were scenic and special enough to be a national park in any other state, but here on Lake Powell, they were just one of hundreds just like them. My favorite was Davis Gulch, an especially narrow, winding slot canyon that was filled with downed timber. We hoped to see the famous ___ Arch, but as the water became shallower and the dead trees in the water became more and more difficult to navigate around, Jeff made a wise decision to turn around. Standing in the back of the boat, I helplessly watched him narrowly miss a rock wall by a scant half inch with our propeller as he backed up in a tight spot, but like an old tug boat captain, he thrust it into forward at the last possible moment and screamed out of the slot like he had been doing this every day for the last thirty years of his life.
Finally, tiring of exploration and being hot, I suggested a swim. My buddies probably thought that I was crazy. When I dove off the back of the boat, I wasn’t so sure that I was making a sound decision, as it was still May and one could still see snow on the nearby Henry Mountains. Nevertheless, I bucked up my courage and took the plunge to find that the water was pleasantly refreshing. No, it wasn’t the “wild dive in, jump back out in a panic” that I had grown up with in the mountains of Montana; it was decent, swimmable water. Soon I convinced Jeff to join me and then Penny made the decision to leap. Penny was funny. She stood on the back of the boat anguishing over the decision to jump for what seemed like minutes and then when she finally hit the water she pummeled it into a wild froth while motoring quickly towards the back of the boat in a state of panic. Then, when the synapses had finally over ruled the preconceived notion of dying of hypothermia, she relaxed and stroked the water comfortably, swimming around the boat for several minutes before pulling herself out to warm her body in the sun.
We finally headed back to the dock, having traveled around a hundred miles and having burned around $165 of gas and oil. I thought life couldn’t get any better at that point, but Penny and Jeff kept the momentum rolling by building a masterful, hundred ingredient mystery salad that included everything from sun dried tomatoes to shrimp. After a couple of beers and our fabulous salad, we again took a leisurely stroll to admire the nearby wildflowers and purplish, orange glow of the sunset.
We loaded up the truck the next morning and struck out for home by the scenic Burr Trail, a partially paved, partially rutted, wash board road through the middle of Capital Reef National Park. I could see Jeff wanted to get home, but Penny was wonderful. She insisted that he stop the car time and again, so I could leap out and take another picture. I'm not kidding when I state that we probably stopped every five miles. It was that beautiful.
At one point, we drove a rough spur road to the embarkation point for the Upper Muley Twist hike. We only had time to wander a half mile up the trail to the top of a giant upheaval in the earth’s surface, but it was well worth the effort, as the vistas were spellbinding.
One would think that at some point you would reach the apex of your vacation experience and then quietly sit back and reflect on all that you had experienced. Not the case in Utah. Our drive home kept our eyes glued to a continual array of towering sandstone buttes, rugged canyons, snow covered mountain peaks and a gorgeous array of fluorescent wild flowers. Where else but Utah can you take a leisurely drive through three national parks and two national monuments in one afternoon? I sat in that back seat enthralled at my new state’s beauty, waiting to see what was around the next corner. It always seemed like it got better. From the famous hog back on highway 12 between Boulder and Escalante to the magnificent hoo-doos of Bryce, and finally the Grand Daddy of them all, Zion, the vistas were unending. Honestly, you felt like you were watching the travel channel from the back seat of Jeff’s Chevy.
The drive had other fun distractions, too. We stopped for a tasty picnic lunch, complements of the Feldman’s, and played “Name that Tune,” reliving the music of our youth via satellite radio. Since my recollection didn’t go beyond a few Allman Brothers works or the Eagles, they had me play the part of moderator in this never ending game. Although Kim was hot on Van Morrison and Clapton, and Jeff knew his early 70’s hard rock, it was Penny who was the champion, knowing nearly every Motown tune of the early 1960’s. God knows that girl had a 45 collection that was the envy of all her friends and neighbors.
Was it worth the long drive from St. George and the expense of over $400 for one day’s fun? Empathetically, “Yes, it was a bargain!” We had had an excursion to remember and it had seemed like we taken a two week vacation wrapped around a 72 hour period. The change of scenery, the wonderful company and the marvelous, never ending vistas of Utah played out before us like one long epic motion picture.
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