All indications were that my planned destination would be okay.
The eastern end of Lake Powell, in southeast Utah, should be just
right. At 5000 feet, snows wouldn't be a problem and I have not
experienced biting bugs there on past visits. Only one problem
remained. The Spring winds in the west seemed to be over. They
usually occur in late February and March, or April at the very
latest.
This year those winds barely materialized. It was very unusual not to have six weeks of 30 to 40 knot winds, the kind that move Arizona and Utah grit and dust across New Mexico, picking up last year's tumbleweed and moving it toward Texas. So far this year we'd escaped the winds. Right?
Lake Powell is a magnificent place, an enormous body of water created on the Colorado river by Glen Canyon Dam. It's just north of the red rock Monument Valley in northeastern Arizona, extending about 100 miles on up into Utah. The shores of that man-made lake are lined with steep cliffs and jagged rocks. Waters filled once-dry canyons of sandstone, limestone, clay, and even basalt. Lofty mesas and buttes ring the lake affording few beaches or gentle slopes suitable for boat launching or shoreline camping. In the hundreds of miles of rugged coastline there are perhaps only 25 miles in small segments where easy access is possible. Three such places exist at the upper northeastern end where Utah highway 95 loops around the lake between Blanding and Hanksville.
The 400 mile drive from Albuquerque is pleasant. Roads are good. The high desert and mountains of the southwest are delightful. Heavy smoke and haze from Old Mexico's forest fires greatly reduced visibility in the Rio Grande valley to but ten miles. That's unusual, for out here we expect to be able to see mountains 70 miles away. Not this time. Even the sunrise is a hazy red.
North and west Route 44 takes you through Apache country and then into the high desert of the Navajo nations. There's still smoke in the air as you approach Farmington and Shiprock. But by the time you get to the Four Corners (AZ, NM, UT, CO) and into Ute Indian territory, visibility improves and the scenery becomes breath-taking. At Blanding, Utah you head west on Highway 95. It's almost like traveling back in time, for you are now in beautiful country like Monument Valley to the south used to be. It was all ocean bottom millions of years ago. Today there are only a few monoliths standing, small vestiges of once enormous buttes and mesas like those here to the north. This is what Monument Valley might have been.
Route 95 to the upper end of Lake Powell is 75 miles of pure delight.
Up and down every rise in the road, around every bend and on both
sides of the highway you are treated to vistas of absolute beauty.
Sheer cliffs of layered red and white rock rise to one side and
then another, some covered with sagebrush, a few pinon pine and
lots of smokebush. Now and then a lowland valley appears, a stream
threading through the freshly greened cottonwoods or perhaps a stand
of aspen to afford a contrast in color. On the road maps this route
is shown with a line of dots, indicating a scenic highway. What an
understatement that is. Few places in the whole USA are more
delightful. It's one of my favorite roads.
I arrive at the Lake around 5:00 PM and head for a place I'd seen before, one that always comes to mind when I consider a place to camp and kayak. Dirt roads lead off the highway to the shoreline, where large flat ledges of solid white rock often accommodate campers and motorhomes. People like it because it's right down on the water's edge, yet seldom flooded or unstable. Others had beaten me to the place, some half dozen pickup trucks and a small trailer right in the place I wanted for myself.
There was one spot left that seemed suitable, right at the shore where I could launch my kayak, yet accessible even for my ordinary sedan and not just by a truck or four-wheel drive vehicle. I started down a steep incline and was about to make a turn to the selected spot, when I realized that I'd better walk the route first. I parked the car and strolled down to get a closer look. While it looked ideal and the road passable, it was pretty exposed to the now freshening winds. No, this was beyond breezy. It was blowing enough to make whitecaps on the lake and surely too much to try pitching a tent. I had to find a more sheltered spot.
I returned to the car and headed east, backtracking to the second of three possible places to camp close enough to the water. Hite's Landing is a full-service marina, the only one for miles, and located some five miles off the highway. The access road slopes down a long gradual hillside to the water's edge. To the southeast are high mesas not providing any protection from the winds. There is a campground, of sorts, not far from the boat ramp. It's just a sand and gravel parking area, with no hookups. Three small travel trailers and a motor home were parked there, but no tents at all and I could tell why. The winds here were no calmer than at the other place, and there were no trees or scrub brush to hide behind. I'd have to try the last option.
The third, and final lakeside choice, was an unimproved camping area a few miles back to the east. Down a bumpy gravel road about three miles there is a fairly flat place to camp, and it has good water access. But best of all, it has some bushes and small trees to offer a bit of shelter from the winds. It was blowing at least 35 miles per hour at this hour, about 5:30. I was too tired to go anywhere else so I picked out a vacant spot on a small peninsula. Off to my right some 200 yards was a travel trailer, with two parents and two kids. To the left was a pickup camper, about the same distance away, with just one man in sight.
Though it was still windy, I began to set up my tent on the lee side of the car. I placed it up close to get maximum protection and that seemed to be okay. The tent shook and fluttered a bit, and it looked like I'd manage all right. I considered setting up my folding table and getting out some pots, pans and my butane camp stove, but it was obvious that I'd never be able to keep a flame going or even started. I was even unsure that the table would stay put, much less anything placed upon it. Supper tonight will be merely a sandwich and a drink.
About the time that I started making a cheese sandwich and opening a bottle of water, the rains started. I'd not paid that much attention to the clouds and didn't expect the rain. Concern about the winds was paramount ... until now. I sought shelter in my tent and started to munch on that sandwich. I was hungrier than I'd realized.
Just about the time that I finished my sandwich supper and began to rummage in my cooler chest for an apple, I felt the tent start to flap and shudder more vigorously. Winds now were approaching 40 to 50 knots, but at least the car afforded enough protection. I decided to tie some cords to the tent and car, just in case. The rain was coming down in buckets, but at least my tent was dry.
After dark the winds shifted. I discovered that my tent was no longer on the lee side of the car. I was lying on my back and holding tightly onto the frame tubes of my tent to keep it from blowing away. The walls of the tent were bowed in under the pressure of that wind and pelting rain. Only my firm grip on the tent frame, on both sides, kept it from collapsing. This was fast becoming a serious problem.
After 45 to 50 minutes of tightly gripping the tent frame, holding things from blowing away, my arms got tired. I hoped that the rainstorm would pass over and the winds would abate, but they didn't. Wind gusts to 50 knots or better continued. And soon I began to realize that water was dripping down from corner seams of the tent. Boy, I hope it let's up soon, for I do not want to spend the night like this.
I realized that this was a losing cause. The storm was winning and my flapping tent and tiring arms were not up to the task. I had to consider moving to the car as a more substantial and dryer place to wait out the storm. But I had a dilemma, a different one. If I let go of the tent frame to unzip the door flap, the whole thing might fall over. Yet I had little choice. It was dark now. My tent was not as dry as it was in the beginning, and I did not want to spend the night holding my tent up. Yet I knew what would surely happen if I let go.
Well, I did. It did, collapse, that is. And I headed for the car, grabbing my sleeping bag, a small pillow and my shoes just as the tent collapsed around me. It was down completely, fluttering in the wind and still tied to the car. Well, at least it won't blow away, I thought. Though the rains were still coming down hard, I managed the transfer without getting soaked. Just dumb luck.
Once safe and dry within the car, a four-door sedan, I began to move stuff about to make room for me to spend the night. For even if the winds suddenly quit, I had no intention of sleeping in that now drenched tent and camp cot. The passenger side seat in the front has a back rest that tilts back about 70 degrees. There's a lot more room there than on the driver's side, so I cleared a space for me to stretch out a bit and recline. It was now about 9:30 PM and the winds howled.
My kayak, still tied atop the car in it's cradle, seemed to ride out the winds nicely. It didn't move about or seem to be in any danger of blowing off. That was a relief. Though the car was buffeted by stronger wind gusts, everything seemed to be secure, save that downed tent out there in the drenching rain.
I chuckled to myself and the prospects of what my wife might say about all this. She suggested that I bring along a Sears-Roebuck 10'x10' umbrella tent, as a back-up for my home-made one out fluttering in the wind. But I know she would have given me one of her all-knowing looks and an "I told you so" comment. Well she just couldn't know how bad it was out there. Even Sears' best couldn't survive these condition. No tent could.
I was still awake at midnight, and so was the storm. It just wasn't going to let up. Rain pelted the windows and winds continued to shake the car. I wasn't cold though, for just a sweater kept me quit comfortable, temperature-wise. Otherwise I was in no way comfortable. I twisted, turned and wriggled from one position to another. Feet stretched out, legs folded up or moving from left to right side didn't help. This was going to be a long night.
It was a long and mostly sleepless night. At 5:00 AM I noticed that the winds and rain had both stopped. Even a few stars peeked down through holes in the clouds. A small sliver of a moon rose tentatively in the eastern sky. Twilight soon arrived and I could see the dark outline of the hills on both sides. It was indeed pretty, but I was too tired to fully appreciate how great it was.
Soon I could see that the lake was almost calm. Few waves ruffled the nearly smooth waters. This would be a fine time to paddle, perhaps to view a sunrise from out on the lake. I thought about it as I got out of the car. I stretched, shook out my stiff arms and legs and seriously considered untying my kayak and taking it down to the lake. But I quickly realized that I was too tired, too stiff and too sore to take on that chore. The winds, the rains and the car seats had won. This would not be a kayaking trip after all. But on the good side, I had to admit that there were no bugs to make things miserable.
What bugs there might have been in the area were probably still clinging for dear life to the undersides of sagebrush and other foliage. Seeking warm blood was probably not on their minds yet, as the skies lightened and dawn broke.
I tuned my little pocket radio to a Durango, Colorado station to get the news and a weather report for southeastern Utah and northern Arizona. The reports were not encouraging. Winds were forecast to rise again my mid-day. and though no rain was mentioned, I knew that paddling on the lake would be severely limited. Re-setting my tent in the face of returning winds was not an attractive prospect. I had to admit it, my trip was over. Paddling on Lake Powell was not in the cards this time.
By 6:00 AM I'd wrung most of the water out of my tent, stuffed the fabric into a plastic bag and returned the surprisingly undamaged tent poles to their case. I loaded the whole wet mess into the trunk of the car and decided to head east, east as far as a small lake along the Colorado-Utah border. Maybe I can dry out, re-establish camp along the shores of Lake McPhee and salvage my Spring trip after all. Or maybe not.
I headed back east toward Blanding, back the way I'd come yesterday. About 52 miles from town I came upon Fry Canyon Lodge, a remote resort at the edge of a wide opening in the high mountains. Jean and I had stopped there some time back for morning coffee. It was the only place for miles.
Fry Canyon Lodge is a typical western waystop. It has a cafe, bar and gas pump. And there are a few motel units there and more a-building. It is rough hewn and far from being a 5-star vacation spot. What it does have is a 10-star setting, with million dollar views in all directions. The place is delightful.
A man was seated in a lawn chair on the front porch as I pulled up and stopped. I could tell that he was intrigued by my kayak. But I was more intrigued by the cup of coffee he was holding. We exchanged "Howdy's" as I stepped up on the porch.
"Well, I see the coffee pot's on," I began in greeting.
"Yup, shore is. Nice boat you've got there. Been down to the lake?" he responded.
A 'NO Vacancy' neon sign in the window surprised me, but then all I really wanted was some hot coffee and maybe some breakfast. I opened the squeaking screen door and stepped inside. Off to my left was a counter, some bar stools and a restaurant-style coffee maker. It was dimly lit, at this 6:30 morning hour, though light beamed down through a skylight over a pool table.
Three or four men were leaning on the counter, some sipping coffee and others hungrily wolfing down their breakfast of eggs and bacon.
"Coffee, mister?" the lady behind the counter inquired. I barely saw her for the dimness of the light. She was a graying woman, somewhat hunched over with the tell-tale signs of both age and osteoporosis. He short hair was straight and almost in a Dutch cut.
"Yes, please. Coffee would be great," I responded, while sliding onto the first of two vacant bar stools. "Bacon and eggs over medium would be nice too," I added.
She poured my coffee, the real stuff and not decaf. And while filling the cup asked, "What kind of toast do you want? Whole wheat all right?"
"Whole wheat's just fine," I replied while stirring some sugar in my coffee. Soon I sipped what had to be the best coffee I could have hoped for. Mmmm was that good. Just what I needed.
The fellow who'd been on the porch soon came in to re-fill his cup. "I done some kayaking too," he declared. "Yup. Paddled the whole length of the Lake. Took three days."
"I'll bet it wasn't as windy as last night. Was it?"
"No sir, not that windy at all. Me and another fellow did that a couple years back. But we don't have one of your sea kayaks. We did it in whitewater ones," he continued.
For several minutes we chatted about kayaks, the lake and the weather. He turned out to be the owner of Fry Canyon Lodge. I learned that they were so far from civilization that the power lines didn't come way out there. They had a generator to run the lights, water pump and keep the refrigerator going. I guessed that was why it was so dimly lit here at the counter.
The No Vacancy sign reflected the fact that a crew of a half dozen men were housed there, the construction crew building a seven room motel addition. These were the guys eating breakfast at the counter.
"Hope to have these units finished in six or seven weeks," the owner explained. He also told me that the place wasn't really open for the season yet. Just the cafe and gas pumps were the only services available now. And I was sure glad I didn't need gas, for the pump price for regular unleaded is $1.69 per gallon.
The smell of my bacon sizzling on the grill was inviting. In a small frying pan my lady chef was making my eggs 'over medium'. And just as the toaster popped up with my whole wheat bread nicely browned, she plopped those eggs onto a plate and scooped up my four strips of bacon.
"Here you go, mister. More coffee?"
I savored that hot meal, thoroughly enjoyed the coffee and gradually forgot, for a while, my uncomfortable night in the car. It's amazing what a hot meal does for your spirits.
The drive back to Blanding was just as beautiful going the other way. Low sun angles and crisp clear morning air made it seem terrific. Boy .. do I love this part of Utah!!
I had two choices at Blanding. I could go north to Monticello (some 30 miles) and turn east and south down US 666, or I could take the backroads I'd come up yesterday from Shiprock and turn east to Cortez, Colorado. I opted to head north, for I'd never been on that stretch between Blanding and Monticello, though I'd been to both towns before.
North was a good choice. That's really pretty and I was surprised and delighted to pass along the end of a beautiful mountain lake just eight miles north of Blanding. It's not on my roadmap, but is truly nice. The lake is small, barely a mile long and a little less wide. It obviously fills from the snowmelt and run-off from the big mountain just west of Monticello. It's lined with pines and has a campground, if you believe signs. I made a mental note to come back one day, under less windy conditions to be sure.
My new destination of Lake McPhee, in the Delores/Cortez, Colorado area became less appealing as I heard new weather reports on the car radio. Winds there too were supposed to be strong. Arrghh! It was a conspiracy to keep me from paddling.
On arriving in Cortez, that southwestern Colorado town near the fascinating Mesa Verde Park, two things suddenly overwhelmed me. As the winds started getting stronger and stronger out of the south, my eyelids got heavier and heavier. Fatigue was setting in and it was time for me to find a place to sleep, a place definitely not including my tent in the wind.
It was 10:00 AM when I noticed a clean, low-end motel on the west side of Cortez. The bold black-on-yellow sign proclaimed "Motel 9". Well now, I've certainly seen Motel-6's, numerous Motel-8's and even, in Albuquerque, a Motel-1. But this was the first Motel-9 I'd ever seen. Kinda makes you wonder what happened to 2,3,4,5 and 7, doesn't it?
Motel-9 in Cortez is okay, really clean and nice. It was a pleasant surprise. But it being the start of the Memorial Day weekend, I was sure that summer rates would be in effect. I was not likely to get a low-priced room, simply a place to sleep for a while.
The lady behind the counter was so bemused by my tale of sleeplessness and spending the night in my car during the storm at Lake Powell that she said she'd ignore the summer rate of $68 for a single and let me stay for just $39. Furthermore, she said I could take a brand new unit in the recently completed building at the rear of the complex. It would be quiet and even the maids would not be vacuuming over there today. I could get my much-needed sleep. I was truly impressed by her concern and willingness to give me a break. And I was even more impressed with how nice my accommodations turned out to be. My luck was improving.
By 10:30 I was fast asleep and didn't awaken until 3:30 that afternoon. My back kinks, aching legs and fatigue had faded away. Amazing what a few Z's will do to improve one's outlook.
It was still seven hours of driving from Cortez to Albuquerque. Should I attempt the drive that afternoon, knowing I'd arrive at 9:00 or 9:30 PM? ... or should I take advantage of my already paid-for room and stay the night? One peek outside my room at the now-gusting and very strong winds convinced me to stay the night and await the dawn's calmer conditions. Why fight those winds? And besides, I wasn't expected home until the 'morrow anyway.
So now, dear reader, you know the details of my aborted camping and kayaking trip. Am I getting too old to "rough it" any more? Was I spoiled all those years by having a travel trailer to sleep in in weather good or bad? Yes, I guess so. And it doesn't help to know that in a week or ten days from now I'll hit my 66th birthday. You tell me.
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About 3900 words. Thank you, patient reader, for hanging in there. Hope you got a chuckle, or at least an appreciation for this wonderful part of the world.