My Visit to Zion NP (and why it's relevant to Bears Ears)

I will admit that we got a late start, but since it is the middle of the week, I didn't think parking would be an issue. We are now entering Springdale, the border-town to Zion National Park, and signs are warning that parking within the park is full!

Our only option is to park alongside the road in Springdale and take a complimentary shuttle into the park. We find a place to leave our car and pull all our packs and water bottles and other gear out of the vehicle, then walk up the sidewalk to the shuttle stop.

Our wait isn't too long, and within five minutes we are stepping onto a long white bus with other tourists like ourselves. They carry all their gear also, and some speak a foreign language. Many wear t-shirts that announce to everyone the places they've been like Jackson Hole, Yellowstone, Mount Vernon and Las Vegas.

Our ride to the park entrance is short, passing the lodges, diners, galleries and coffee shops. We get off the shuttle, walk to a little booth to pay our entrance fee, and then walk a short distance to wait in another line to catch another shuttle.

Now I am blown away! This line is long and doesn't appear to be moving. A park ranger walks past and advises us that the wait will only be 45 minutes!

To enter Zion National Park during summer, one must ride a shuttle.

Beginning in 1997, Zion National Park went to a shuttle system to handle the mass amount of tourists visiting the park. The shuttle runs during the summer and is the only way for the common visitor to enter the main canyon of the park (unless they would rather walk or ride a bike).

No one else in line seems to be as agitated as I am. For the tourists coming from Germany or France, what is another 45 minute delay? It is probably par for the course where they come from.

Finally—after waiting one hour—we step onto another shuttle, this one with a second coach pulled behind. It feels like we are cattle inside a stock car being hauled to the slaughter house.

Our driver is a local man, probably in his sixties. I can tell by his accent.

The shuttle wends through the canyon, halting at other stops to pick up passengers. The situation quickly becomes standing-room-only, each person grasping to their gear while clenching the railing. 

Forty minutes later we arrive at our destination and step off the shuttle. A large crowd disembarks with us. Today I am hiking the Zion Narrows with my two daughters, Kaitlyn and Jenna. Although I knew it would be crowded, there are some things in life that need to be experienced.

Large crowds enjoy The Narrows at Zion National Park.

The Zion Narrows are world-famous. To hike the entire length, a permit is required and only about 50 of them are issued every day. But to hike the lower three miles of the canyon, anyone can do that. That is what we are choosing to do today.

After a mile-long paved trail, the path disappears and gives way to the Virgin River. For the next three miles we hike in the river most of the time, always up to our knees, and sometimes up to our waists in water. I hand my walking sticks over to my daughters and enjoy watching them maneuver through the gentle rapids.

This hike is shared by literally hundreds of other hikers. There is never a time while in the main canyon that I am not in view of at least a dozen other travelers. Just as I am doing, the Asians, the Europeans, the Americans, all have their phones out taking selfies of themselves “hiking the narrows.”

Despite the crowds, it is a pleasant hike—a nice respite from the sweltering July heat. The constant cool water on my legs and the towering sheer cliffs create an enjoyable atmosphere.

A group of kids jump from a rock into a dormant pool in the bend of the river. Others stop to watch them. Jenna and Kaitlyn take a few minutes to swim in the deep water.

We stop and take a five minute break to eat trail mix and drink from our water bottles. I can't help but to ask myself a few questions about the masses: Where are they all going to flee if there is a flash flood? What about the bits of trash that is bound to be left or forgotten along the way? And most important, where are all these people going to be using the bathroom? They can't all be holding it! (I think the obvious answer is that they are peeing it in the river.)

The canyon eventually narrows up and the sandstone walls are so close together that they create a sort of eerie gloom. A funnel of wind cuts through the canyon as the temperature seems to drop a few degrees. We take a detour into Orderville Canyon. Although the crowds have lessened in this side canyon, we are still not alone.

On the canyon wall, about the level of my eyes, I notice graffiti etched into the rock. It is recent, having a date of 2016.

Graffiti in Orderville Canyon. 

During this entire trip to Zion National Park, I can't help but to constantly think of the Bears Ears in my beloved San Juan County, Utah. The area around the Bears Ears is very isolated and largely undiscovered. There are no crowds, no paved trails, no shuttle buses, no entrance fees. But if President Obama decides to use his executive power to create the “Bears Ears National Monument” later this year, all that could change.

I will admit that a comparison between Zion and the Bears Ears is a little harsh, as there are many differences between the two. Although I do not rule out the possibility that some day down the road there will be little difference from the Zion of today and the Bears Ears of tomorrow. It is a slippery slope.

One thing that will be certain is that the Bears Ears will receive far more visitors than it does now. This will happen from the monument designation alone. I remember when Bill Clinton designated the Grand Staircase Escalante as a National Monument in 1996 (this is a much fairer comparison with the Bears Ears). All of a sudden, people came from all over the country to see this “new” place. They reacted as if it never existed before. Magazines highlighted many of the hiking trails in the area and many of them are now world-famous. In 2014, the monument received an estimated 878,000 visitors.¹

Now I ask the question: Is this how we preserve the land? I promise you that if it were never made a National Monument, beautiful places like Coyote Gulch, Calf Creek Falls, Grosvenor Arch, and the Toadstools would be in a much more pristine state than they are now—because few people would ever go there!

Where does it end? Last year, Zion Nation Park received 3.6 million visitors. In the month of July alone (the month that I went), there were 599,961 visitors. Yet the tourism bureaus throughout the state and nation continue to vie for more tourists. The state of Utah spent 12 million dollars during the last three years to promote the state's “Mighty Five” National Parks to people both nationally and internationally.² I understand that it is a boon to the local economy and state coffers, but where do we draw the line? When St. George is as big as Las Vegas? Will we sell our birth-right for a mess of pottage?

The trail to Delicate Arch in Arches National Park.

Blanding and Monticello (the two towns closest to the proposed monument), do not want to become another Moab. Moab, which has boomed due to the tourism industry and its proximity to Arches National Park, is no longer the small town it once was. It is over-run by tourists, souvenir shops, and restaurants. I don't care to stop in Moab. There is nothing authentic about it. The demographics have completely changed from what it used to be. It has been hijacked by out-of-state environmentalists who are more in-line with San Francisco than old-time local residents.

Another scenario is that the tourists will come, but business will not. I recently met an old-time rancher from Boulder, Utah (a border-town to the Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument). You could tell he was the real thing from his button-up long-sleeved shirt and leathery face.

Without knowing his opinion on the subject, I asked him how the monument affected the community near Boulder. Instantly, his demeanor changed and a bitterness swept his face.

“It devastated the whole place,” he said. He went on to tell that he used to be a cattleman over in that area. He explained that there used to be fifteen of them, but now there are only three. “They didn't necessarily reduce the number of permits,” he went on to say, “but they put in so much red tape and regulations that you couldn't afford to stay in business.” Someone else bought him out.

“But they promised us that the jobs lost would be made up from tourism. That was a bunch of bull!” Now he became very sore. “Those hikers and mountain bikers come in and they don't spend anything. They might go in the store and buy a loaf of bread, or some hot water for their tea. Then they end up breaking the bathrooms because they try showering in the sink!”

The old man now lives in Cedar City, 150 miles from his hometown of Boulder.

[I fully understood what the man was saying when I recently went hiking in that same area (we camped out one night and therefore did not spend money on a hotel). On our way home we made only one stop and that was at a gas station in Escalante. We put only enough gas in the tank to make it to a cheaper town. I also spent 50¢ on a Pepsi, and we got a couple cups of free ice. We then went outside and made sandwiches from food we brought from home and ate on the tailgate.]

Delicate Arch has become iconic throughout the world.

With the proposed Bears Ears National Monument, much of the management lies with a coalition of Native American tribes, most of whom have no representation in the local area. I can't help but to notice the management of some of their own parks and wonder if the same thing will happen with ours.

Both Canyon de Chelly and Navajo National Monument lie within the Navajo Nation. Access to both is very limited. There are a few short trails that lead to view points of some of the key sites. In order to explore deeper into either canyon it is necessary to hire a Navajo Guide and pay for a half or full-day tour.

Havasupai Falls in the Grand Canyon is much more accommodating, but even they have allowed their plot of paradise to be over-run by hikers. The campsite eight miles down the canyon is the closest thing I've ever seen to Woodstock.  For almost a mile between Havasupai and Mooney Falls there are tents and hammocks and backpacks and laundry lines scattered throughout. 

Beautiful turquoise water runs between campsites at Havasupai Falls. (Russ Eyre photo)

The Hualapai have built a skywalk over their section of the Grand Canyon. To stroll over this glass walkway that juts over the rim, one must pay $76 for a Legacy Gold Package.  This deal also includes entrance into tribal lands, a meal, and free photos with Hualapai members. 

Monument Valley, world-famous from the days of John Wayne, is a circus of tourists. People come from all around the globe to witness the monolithic spires and wavy sand dunes. It costs $20 per vehicle (up to four people) to enter the park. At a view-point that overlooks the Navajo Mittens, one will find a visitor's center and restaurant. Try taking an unauthorized side-road and you will be immediately stopped. Monument Valley certainly is not preserved in it's former pristine state.  

A convoy of vehicles at Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park.

I don't intend to be derogatory toward the native cultures. I am very fascinated by them and am proud to be a neighbor to the Navajo. But what could their management mean to a Bears Ears National Monument? Will jeep tours into Arch Canyon be offered only by Navajo guides? Will access to the thousands of Anasazi ruins in the area be shut off, with a fine to anyone who violates this edict? Will a skywalk be built over the sheer walls of Mule Canyon? Will the Navajo and Ute have unlimited ability to hunt all the lands within the monument? Will the natives be allowed unlimited access to gather their herbs while the Anglo is forbidden to cut down a Christmas tree? Will there be booths along Highway 95 that sell turquoise necklaces and Navajo tacos?  The truth is, there is a lot about this monument we don' t know.

I mention all of this because the way to preserve something is NOT to designate it as a monument and put it on a map for all to see. We, the locals, want to preserve this land in a pristine state also. We don't want development on it (which is impossible since it is already all publicly owned). We aren't worried about any strip mines ravaging the landscape. That won't happen!  As far as other possible mining, let it be regulated in a responsible way that will insure the integrity of the land while also providing jobs.

A group of Japanese tourists visit with an American from Wyoming at the Grand Canyon.

Now it is three weeks later, and my family is making the loop over Elk Ridge via the Causeway, Round Mountain, Duck Lake, through the Bears Ears, and out on Highway 95. (If you're a local, you know exactly where I'm talking about. And for you non-local anglers, don't get too excited about Duck Lake. It's usually dry.)

Our entire drive is within the proposed National Monument boundaries. We take a detour and drive past the Glade Pit and toward Mormon Pasture where I tell my kids stories about their ancestors and some of the crazy things that happened here over the years.

At an unmarked place we pull the vehicle over and walk to a view point. Our feet crunch over pine cones and I can smell the pungent fragrance of ponderosa pine trees. We find a fallen log and sit down to eat a few sandwiches for lunch.

We drive for ninety miles before finally leaving the proposed boundary near the old Hite Marina. I have counted all the cars that we have seen, and there were only eight. I also counted all the oil rigs and uranium mines along the way, and there were none. I didn't see any off-road tracks made by four wheelers. Also, the looters must not be out today.

I am in full agreement that the Bears Ears area should be preserved for generations to come. The best way to do this is just to leave it alone. ♠

Notes

1. Bureau of Land Management. Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. Manager's Annual Report. FY 2014, p. 9.

2. David Demille, “Zion, Bryce Canyon Mark Record Visitation,” The Spectrum & Daily News, August 25, 2016, 1.

Outlaws, Greeks and Bartenders in a Utah Cemetery

The Price City Cemetery is perhaps the most ethnically diverse burial ground in Utah. Along with early Mormon settlers are immigrants from Greece, Italy, Japan, Austria, and many other places. Sprinkle in some cowboys and a Masonic section, and you have a ripe combination for a fascinating graveyard.

The first settler, Caleb Rhoades, came to Price in 1877, where he built himself a cabin. He later brought his family and soon others followed, many from Utah County.

The railroad would be completed just a few years later, drastically changing the character of the town. Coal mines opened up and thousands of immigrants poured into the valley. Most of the new citizens were non-Mormon, making Price a unique town in Utah, one that is still noted today in its demographic and political makeup.

A walk through the cemetery clearly displays this cultural peculiarity. Large sections of headstones display writing in Greek, Japanese, or Italian. Many grave markers make use of the cross or the Virgin Mary (both which are not used in typical Mormon symbolism). Also, especially in the Greek section, there are several mausoleums, even one containing four different people. This is also a feature not common in Utah.

A quick perusal of the cemetery database shows men and women born in places from all around the world: Yugoslavia, Spain, Austria, New Zealand, Denmark, Scotland. Within the United States I found people from Oklahoma, Arkansas, South Dakota, Alabama, Oklahoma, Massachusetts, and probably about every state in the Union. Occasionally I found Nauvoo, Illinois, or Winter Quarters, Nebraska, which is a tale-tale sign of a Mormon pioneer. All of these people brought their religion and customs, creating quite the ingredient list for a hodge-podge soup.

Perhaps the most notorious person buried in the Price Cemetery is outlaw, Matt Warner, best know for his alliance with Butch Cassidy. Born in 1864 in Ephraim, Utah as Willard Erastus Christiansen, he was raised in a typical Mormon family. While living on a farm they ran cattle and had a neighboring existence with the Indians.

At age thirteen, while living further north in Levan, Willard got into a fight with the town bully over a girl. After beating the daylights out of the boy and thinking he was dead, Willard saddled up in the middle of the night, said goodbye to his parents, and fled in the veil of darkness through canyons, over a cattle trail, across the Indian inhabited Strawberry Valley, and into Wyoming.

Young Willard Christiansen then took on many aliases, one of them being Matt Warner. He began a career in cattle rustling, bank robbing, and train heisting, and eventually met up with the likes of Butch Cassidy, Elza Lay, and Tom McCarty.

Matt Warner first met Butch Cassidy (then known as Roy Parker) at a saloon in Telluride, Colorado. Of Butch he said: “. . . I noticed a neat-dressed cowboy hanging around the bar like he wanted to talk to me. I liked his looks and sidled over to him, and we began to buy drinks for each other.”

Matt had brought to town a race horse that he hoped to race against the fastest horse in Telluride. When Roy Parker told him he would lose, Matt bristled up and said, “The hell you say. How much you got to bet on that?” Roy didn't have much, but would bet everything he had.

When race day came and the victor proclaimed, Roy Parker handed over his chaps, gun, spurs, and saddle to Matt Warner.

The two men partnered up and went to horse races all over southwestern Colorado, winning lots of money, and spending nearly everything they won. Eventually, they couldn't get their horse paired up for another race, leaving them in need of cash. That's when they conjured up the idea of a little bank robbery in Telluride.

Seven years later in 1896, a gunfight left two men dead and Matt Warner in prison. After serving a four year sentence, Matt decided to turn his life around and begin a new life within the law. He moved to Carbon County where he lived a respectable life and was eventually voted in as Justice of the Peace. 

Matt Warner died in 1938 and was buried in Price.  His headstone is modest and says nothing of his notorious life as an outlaw.  Instead, their is a simple drawing of a horse, an animal that Matt loved his whole life.

The Castle Gate Mine disaster was one of the most tragic events in all of Utah. On March 8, 1924, three separate explosions burst through the quiet morning air, coming from mine no. 2. The blast was so big that it ripped the steel entrance door of the mine off its hinges and hurled it across the canyon and into the mountain side.

A total of 172 men died that day, including one rescuer.

Fifty of the miners were Greek and because there was not enough room in the (Greek Orthodox) Assumption Church, funeral services were held in a public hall. The Salt Lake Tribune reported on March 13, 1924: “The caskets were laid side by side across the center of the floor, and were completely covered with floral offerings evidencing the deep sympathy felt for the bereaved.”

The church bought burial plots for the deceased miners, but the responsibility of grave markers was put on the families, and not all could afford them. Twenty-nine of the miners never received a headstone.

In 2005—eighty-one years after the disaster—a memorial was finally erected for the fallen miners. Money was raised after a conscientious citizen, Andrew Hillas, discovered the social injustice and decided to take matters into his own hands. The memorial is located in the Greek section of the cemetery.

For me, the Price Cemetery is a special place because I have many family members buried there, including two sets of great grandparents. They, like many of the citizens of Carbon County, came from other parts of the country. Hailing from Kansas, Earl and Garnette Lacy spent a few years in Palisade, Colorado before moving to Wellington (just six miles south of Price) where Earl worked in the Columbia Coal Mine.

Earl was a former professional wrestler in the Mid-west, making the circuit at carnivals and once wrestling for the light heavyweight championship of the world. He had slickly combed blonde hair, and the physique of a body builder. Although very kind and lovable, he rightfully had the reputation of a tough man.

Garnette was the solid partner in the relationship. She was smart and knew how to manage money. Patience and hard work made her a good mother to their four children.

The family lived on a farm for a while, then moved into town in 1949 where they ran a tavern. The bar had tables and a dance floor. In a back room, their son, Claude, would deal poker at an oak table that they had cut in half. They also had a punch board where people could pay to push out a piece of paper from the back of the board and possibly win a prize. All the gambling was in the back room.

As could be expected at a place with lots of drinking, there were plenty of fights at Lacy's Tavern. My favorite story is one that shows the “charitable” side of my great grandpa Earl.

Orval Rich frequented the bar, never drinking a lot, but tending to nurse a drink for a long time. He liked to play the punch board and visit with people. Orval had no legs, having lost them both in a mining accident. One day, a large, husky man came into the bar on the fight and started harassing Orval. Earl was tending bar and told him to leave him alone. Then, the rabble-rousing man pushed Orval off the stool.

Earl was out from behind the bar like a bullet! Within seconds, a no-holds barred fist fight was in full swing.

Earl's young daughter, Alice, watched the fight in horror, knowing that her dad was in his fifties, and that this man was much younger and much bigger than her father. She ran to their adjacent apartment where she found her mother mending a pair of pants.

“Mom,” she yelled in a panic, “Dad's in a fight with a great big guy!”

Garnette seemed unconcerned and continued her task. “Your father can take care of himself.”

“He's going to get killed, Mom!”

“Your father can take care of himself.”

When Alice returned to the bar, she found her brothers, Claude and Earl Jr., watching the fight with arms folded. I think all these people knew a little more about Earl Lacy than did young Alice.

Earl was having to swing upward because the guy was so much taller than him. Somehow they tripped, and the guy ended up in Earl's lap, where Earl continued to pummel him. Claude and Earl Jr. eventually pulled Earl off because they were worried that their dad would really hurt the guy. When they did, the man who chose to pick on Orval Rich couldn't see out of his right eye.

When they pulled him off, he kept saying, “I need to talk to that guy (referring to Earl).”

Claude told him, “You don't want to talk to him. He's the wrong guy for you to talk to.”

The Lacy's had other ventures in the area, including a sawmill that they owned near Schofield. Earl was also the town Marshall in Hiawatha, and then in Wellington.

Hard times eventually drove them from Carbon County, first to Wendover, Nevada, and then to Dugway Proving Grounds, a military facility, where Garnette had found a small job. Earl was at the age when he could soon start drawing social security. After getting all the paper work squared away, he was excited about getting his first check.

After supper one evening, Earl said he was feeling bloated and was going on a walk. He never returned. Garnette went out to look for him, and after getting help from the landlord, they found Earl in the camp trailer, fallen back from the edge of the bed, dead of a heart attack.

His first social security check came within a week. They had to send it back.

Earl's body was returned to Carbon County, to the place they called their home. He was buried in the Price City Cemetery, where he would be joined nineteen years later by his beautiful wife. ♠

A private mausoleum in the Price City Cemetery.

A headstone in the Masonic Section.

The use of crosses and other Catholic symbolism is less common in Utah. 

Headstone with Greek letters.

Sources

Barker, Alice Lacy. Interview by John Lacy, March 30, 2009.

Gorrell, Mike. "Greek miners get their due 81 years after their deaths." The Salt Lake Tribune 6 March 2005.

Warner, Matt, updated by Joyce Warner, and Steve Lacy. Last of the Bandit Riders...Revisited. Salt Lake City, Utah: Big Moon Traders, 2000.

Meditations

An Atheist friend recently told me he was taking an interest in Buddhism. The comment took me off-guard because the two beliefs appear to be contradicting. Although Buddhism doesn't believe in a deity, such as God, they do believe in reincarnation and a continuation of the soul (or mind) after death—at least until Nirvana.

Upon further inquiry, I learned that my friend felt like the belief in reincarnation was a matter of interpretation. Instead, he admired many of the concepts of Buddhism. The idea he liked most—and had actually practiced—was the act of meditation.

“So how do you meditate?” I asked him.

“I just cross my legs and keep my spine straight. Sometimes I go out in the hills and meditate there, but usually I just do it in my room.”

The conversation got me thinking about the idea of meditation, especially in an East vs. West context. I've seen this before where a person—especially of the younger generation—latches onto meditation as if they had never heard of it before, or that it didn't exist in Western Culture.

I will admit that the East has probably refined the art better than we have. In fact, the Buddha, as it is represented in statues, has  several different postures. There seems to be a technique, or even a science to it.

Eastern culture defines meditation a little differently than we do in the west. They focus on using concentration to develop mental awareness. We in the west tend to define it as pondering, or contemplating upon a specific subject. I think that both are useful, although slightly distinct.

But, in the west, we aren't really known for our meditating practices. With the story of my friend, it got me wondering if we really do meditate.

Going back in Western Culture, one of the more famous examples is the book Meditations by Roman Emperor, Marcus Aurelius. This is a collections of daily thoughts written down by the Roman leader, never intended to be published. Although not as concise as I would prefer, it is an interesting collection of personal thoughts from a powerful man. 

When I think of meditations, however, I usually think of it in the Judeo-Christian context. It is interesting that one of the earliest known recorded instances of meditation takes places in Western Culture, around the year 1900 B.C. : “And Isaac went out to meditate in the field at the eventide.” (Genesis 24:36)

The meditation that I am familiar with often involves prayer, and is used to heighten our relationship with God. We use quiet moments to ponder and contemplate scripture and how we can apply it to our lives: “This book of the law shall not depart out of thy mouth; but thou shalt meditate therein day and night, that thou mayest observe to do according to all that is written therein.” (Joshua 1:8)

My own Mormon faith gives several opportunities to contemplate our personal relationship with God. Every week during church we participate in the sacrament, which we believe is a continuation in theme of the Lord's Supper. We partake of bread and water and for fifteen minutes or so, the chapel is in relative silence as we spend that time pondering the covenants we have made and the atonement of Jesus Christ.

We are also encouraged to attend the temple, which for us is a sacred building where we make covenants. Inside the temple there is a very quiet and peaceful atmosphere and probably the best place we have to meditate on anything in life that needs attention. Every time I leave the temple, my mind and spirit feel cleansed.

If there were a “posture” that Mormons or Christians would use, it would have to be on their knees. Belief in the power of prayer is strong among us, and when possible, we pray on our knees. Some of the answers that I have sought have come while remaining on my knees after prayer, and there studying the matter over in my mind.

Outside of a religious setting, I think that a simple “walk” is a great way to clear the mind and to be able to think. This could be a walk around the block, or a hike in nature.

Some of my favorite places to meditate are high places, especially at the top of an isolated or rugged mountain peak. It is a time not only to marvel at the wonders of God, but to block out the chaos of the world and inhale crisp, pure air and to be grateful for being alive.

Back to my atheist friend, I think it is good that he has taken up meditation. I don't care if it is Buddhist, or that he disassociates it with deity. As much as I love technology, I also believe it has been a curse, constantly keeping us connected to this world of chaos, and also to trivial matters that mean nothing to our eternal well being. Meditation can be an escape from this.

Sogyal Rinpoche, a Tibetan Buddhist Master, said: “Despite major breakthroughs of recent years, especially in mind/body science and transpersonal psychology, the great majority of scientists continue to reduce the mind to no more than physical processes in the brain, which goes against the testimony of thousands of years of experience of mystics and meditations of all religions.”

The enlightened mind, the edified mind, the illuminated soul, come to those who take the time to quietly ponder the things that are of the greatest importance in life.

A phrase keeps returning to my mind: “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10) ♠

Lake Powell Thunderstorm

I was excited to be back. It was the first time in several years. This time my family was with me, including young kids who had never experienced Lake Powell. We parked on hot pavement, high above Halls Crossing Marina. Some changed in the van while others slipped their sandals on and undressed in a wooden bathroom at the edge of the parking lot.

With swimsuits on we carefully made our way down to the water. A long yellow lizard dashed quickly across the hot sandstone ground and hid behind a boulder. The water was dark blue, just as I had remembered, perhaps even better. We found a small cove. Not the same one that had been there when I was a kid; all of them had disappeared. The water level was much lower now, causing the contour of the lake to change. My old swimming spot was now a dry, chalky-white rock, above where we now stood.

I slipped off footwear, lifted my shirt over my head, and sat glasses on a small rock. Then I stepped into the cool water, inching further in until I was up to my knees, and then my thighs. When the water began to soak into my bathing suit, I stopped, paralyzed by the sudden frigidity that seized my skin. My feet remained motionless, not daring to venture further into the cold. I ran my fingers across the surface of the water, creating figure eights at my side. Then, in one big motion, I plunged downward, immersing my shoulders, face and head. When I felt satisfied that my entire body was wet, I shot back upward, reemerging from the water, dripping incessantly. My cupped hands slowly ran backward over my hair, wringing out the water, and then I wiped my eyes dry. Now that I was wet, the temperature of the water wasn't too bad.

I pushed off from the rock below my feet and crawled across the water on my belly, arms working like a windmill, reaching into the water and propelling myself forward. I did this for several strokes, then non-nonchalantly flipped to my back and lazily paddled myself along, making large angelic sweeps with my arms.

The kids enjoyed the water also. We made them wear life jackets, even the older ones, as Lake Powell was not your average benevolent body of water. We tied a rope to a giant inflatable fish and I pulled it across the cove while one of the kids rode like a horse.

We ate sandwiches and potato salad for lunch and then it was time to take the older kids to the “deep end,” which was around the corner and inside another cove.  

Not only was the land at a steep slope, but the moss that grew on the rock below the surface was slick. The kids liked that. Once they got the courage to jump into the water, they struggled to get out. Brittany would crawl up the rock like a giant amphibian, get two hands and a knee above the water, then swoosh, she would slip back in. She giggled and laughed at this.

They would float in the deep, cold water with their life jackets on and wait for the waves from the boats to come across the bay to where they were floating. Then they would bob up and down like buoys.

We found a good diving rock that was about eight feet above the water and I let them take turns diving in. I let Jordan take off his life jacket. He jumped off the rock, feet first, plunged several feet below the surface, then reemerged, and swam playfully back to shore.

After several hours, the breeze began to pick up and storm clouds appeared in the north, across the bay above Bullfrog. We gathered everything and climbed back up to the van.  I stopped and took a picture of lightning that shot across the bay.

Part of the purpose for this small trip to Lake Powell was nostalgia. When I was younger we used to come to this same cove to swim, and we fished for striped bass from a boat. At night we caught crawdads beneath rocks and during the day we went to the store at the marina and bought self-serve ice cream cones and piled them so high that they looked like the leaning tower of Pisa! This was our final plan before we left—to find the ice cream machine!

But things didn't look like they used to. Since the water level had dropped so drastically, the whole marina had shifted to another location about a mile away. In fact, the more I thought about it, I wasn't even sure if the ice cream machine was here at Hall's Crossing, or across the bay at Bullfrog.

We drove over to the marina, but didn't see anything resembling a store, so we turned around, but not before stopping on the hill for a few minutes to attempt to get some more pictures of the lightning across the bay. By now, the wind was picking up and there was no doubt that the storm was coming. We returned nearby the parking lot where we began and I stopped at a small gas station at the entrance of town.

“Is there another store around here?” I asked a young blonde lady that was tending the building.

“Yes,” she responded in a genuine English accent.

She pointed out that it was where we had just come, down a road marked “closed,” and then across the floating walkway, thus locating it in the middle of the lake. No wonder we didn't find it, I thought.

“Does it have a self-serve ice cream machine?” I had to ask.

“Yes, it does.”

I hurried back to the van and assured the family that we were going to have ice cream after all . But things were quickly changing as we made that mile-long ride back to the marina. We looked down across the lake and the entire bay—that was once a gentle dark blue—was now pock-marked with waves of white. Boats were scrambling to find refuge and the lines of vessels parked at the marina bobbed up and down and side to side.

We parked the van within forty yards of the water and knew that we had to hurry. The storm was coming fast, with gales quickly picking up dust and trash. Our entire family raced to the water's edge and it was there that I first saw the floating walkway and its long stretch to the marina store. The floating walkway was maybe eight feet wide with wooden planks and nothing at all for a side railing. What seemed like fifty yards to the store, also seemed very daunting. The long walkway undulated with the waves of the water and twisted it like a rubber band.

I gripped Jenna's hand tightly and together we stepped onto the floating causeway and walked across about fifteen planks. My feet swayed up, then down, as if I was on a surf board, or perhaps a bucking bull. The wind's gust took shots at us, trying to blast us into the water. I balanced myself out with my arms and looked side to side, being quickly reminded that there was nothing to grab onto. The only thing flanking our position was the deep water that rumbled in turbulence. This was crazy! Jenelle and I took one look at each other and knew we had to turn back.

We hadn't made it but a few steps from the floating walkway when the rain hit. Nothing was gradual, but quick, hard pelting drops pinged nearly horizontally from the sky. The air turned a wet white and in less than two seconds we were all drenched, only able to look down and run to where we knew the van to be. I stooped down and swept Jenna's into my arms, holding her face into my shoulder. A box flew into the air and mud ran off the hillside and onto the pavement.

I unlocked the van as fast as I could and within a few panic-struck moments, we were all inside the vehicle and breathing a sigh of relief. The rain continued to erupt all around, cascading across the windshield so thickly that we couldn't see a thing.

Instant relief infused my body, grateful that we decided to turn back when we did. Had we been further along the causeway, no doubt we would have been bucked into the water like a cowboy from a bronc.

We waited for ten minutes until deciding that the storm would not subside anytime soon. I turned the ignition and switched the wipers to rapid motion and we drove up the hill away from the water.

This is not how we planned to end the day.

The road out of Halls Crossing passes a couple parking lots, another small store, and a boat launch. We didn't notice any of this with the rain pounding all around and a low cloudy mist that almost touched the ground. There is a good view of the bay before you crest the hill, but that was behind us and we didn't bother to look.

The area around Glen Canyon is rugged and barren, yet majestically beautiful. Canyons and gulleys of Navajo Sandstone intricately run together, creating a funnel effect to any burst of water found beneath its breadth.

After cresting the hill, the road drops into Castle Wash, named by the Mormon pioneers who trudged through the same place and found Anasazi Indian ruins that resembled a castle. I clutched the steering wheel as the canyon road began to snake, and a sheet of water glazed the pavement.

As the rain began to subside, another marvel emerged. Streams of water flowed over the brows of the slick-rock like lava spilling from a volcano. Water overflowed everywhere, off every cliff, sending new cascades off ledges, and creating new rivers down formerly dry canyon beds.

It was one of the most amazing sights we had ever beheld!

Even when the rain ceased to fall from the sky, it continued to tumble from the rocks. We stopped at a few places along the road to snap pictures and admire the power of nature. At Castle Ruin, the same ancient relic that the pioneers passed by one hundred and thirty years earlier, we pulled over and witnessed brown, murky water passing over the top of the alcove where the fortress lay. The ruin sat protected beneath the overhang of rock, behind a sheet of gushing water.

At the top of Clay Hill Pass, the narrow canyon widens its span and many of the raging rivers now subsided into rivulets. Red clay appeared as a bright color of ocher and the greens of rabbit and sage brush became more vibrant.

The rain had disappeared, but the strong misty smell of wet earth was everywhere. ♠