Kayakers Explore the 'Re-emerging' Glen Canyon

Canyon's Ghost

Each of us pilots a shard of color—a sea kayak of red, blue, green or yellow. With no noise of engine and no fog of exhaust, nothing separates us from the envelope of rock, water and sky. Paddling single file, we maneuver down a channel too tight to allow a turn and retreat. Smooth rock walls rise from the water's edge, undulating upward toward a sinuous slice of sky. As the sandstone walls press closer, the daylight gradually dims. Finally we come to a tiny beach. Climbing out of our boats, we pull them up on the sand and begin exploring upstream in a canyon as dark as a dungeon.

I've joined these boaters, in a tour sponsored by Hidden Canyon Kayak company, to explore a tangle of Lake Powell tributaries in the Navajo Mountain area of Utah, just north of the Arizona border. We'll be on the water for five days, paddling into canyons then exploring beyond the reach of the lake on foot. Trip leaders Les Hibbert and John Stears will lead the way into the sandstone labyrinths.

just north of the Arizona border. We'll be on the water for five days, paddling into canyons then exploring beyond the reach of the lake on foot. Trip leaders Les Hibbert and John Stears will lead the way into the sandstone labyrinths.

I've been here in Oak Canyon many times before. More accurately, I've floated here in a boat a hundred feet higher in elevation than now. But this is the first time I've stood on sand and cobbles where once I floated, wondering exactly what was below. The answer is... golf balls.

There are tens of thousands of golf balls in Lake Powell, balls whacked by boaters who, I guess, take their clubs along on every vacation, turf optional. The golf balls are just part of a hoard of debris sitting on the former floor of Lake Powell, including mother lodes of sunglasses, fishing poles, plastic chairs, kitchen utensils, pliers and screwdrivers, anchors, propellers, watches, swimsuits and beach towels. More than once, we find entire speedboats.

The Lake Powell of the late 1990s, which was then brimming full and corkscrewing deep into the surrounding slickrock, has gone absent without leave. Where once there were beaches, now there are cliffs. Where once there were cliffs, now there are sandy slopes, alcoves and stairstep ledges. Where once there werebright, open bays, now there are dark, twisting canyons. The lake is down by about 100 feet, the result of a nearly 6-year drought that's strangled the flow of the Colorado River, feeding the reservoir only half its normal ration. To those who have known it for decades, visiting the altered lake is like running into an old buddy sporting a fresh facelift. You might greet him with, "Wow, you look great!" but you're really thinking, "Holy cow, this is going to take some getting used to."

On our trek up Oak Canyon, we eventually come to the remotest and faintest fingerprints of the once-full lake. Beyond this point the canyon broadens and we find only the artifacts of

Low-water levels (shown here at 129 feet below full) allow hikers to reach the junction of Lehi and Anasazi canyons and to marvel at two natural bridges revealed for the first time in 40 years.

Kayaks skim through the glistening afternoon sunlight in Driftwood Canyon. The Hidden Canyon Kayak crew (below) takes a break in Mystery Canyon, floating hundreds of feet above ancient footholds made prior to the creation of Lake Powell.

(Continued from page 19) nature-porcupine tracks, clumps of ricegrass, cryptogamic soil and curving panels of des-ert varnish. We explore and examine, sit awhile, then turn back toward our kayaks. Dinnertime is at hand. Despite the drought, about 10.4 million acre-feet of water still sit in Lake Powell, which backs up from Glen Canyon Dam near Page. (An acre-foot equals 326,000 gallons of water, enough to fill a football field with 1 foot of water.) It's still 130 miles long, and the water depth at the dam exceeds 400 feet. So the lake has not shrunk to a muddy puddle-yet. But the low water has relocated the tour boat route to Rainbow Bridge, reduced hydroelec-tric power production, revealed new navigation hazards and closed some launch ramps. The reconstituted lake demands extra caution by boaters, but it offers the delight of exploring new shores. Our lake trip began earlier in the day when we loaded our gear onto a shuttle boat at Wahweap Marina north of Page and motored up the lake to establish a camp in Oak Bay. Out of the hatches came tables, stoves, chairs and propane tanks. Off the roof came the kayaks. Out of the coolers came lunch and cold drinks. In a flurry of activity, tents popped up on the perimeter of the beach and Oscar-the portable toilet-made his debut. Kayak instruction came next. Soon we were afloat in the shallow, green waters in front of camp, practicing. Novice kayaker Emi Dickson quickly tested the stability of her craft beyond its limits: our first capsize. For the next week, through wind waves and powerboat wakes, miscalculations and horsing around, no one flipped again.

The next morning, after eating breakfast, we paddle across the main channel into Twilight Canyon. This cleft, unlike Oak, is relatively wide. On foot when the water ends, we explore both arms beyond the limits of the lake until frustrated by chockstones and impassable dry falls. These up-canyon hiking explorations begin as easy strolls on silt beds deposited when the lake was flush and recently graded flat by summer's monsoon floods. The original pre-lake bedrock lies dozens of feet below these sandy beds. The farther we walk, the tighter and more intricate the canyon becomes. Eventually, stream cobbles appear-a sign that we're close to the original floor of the canyon. Where the walls stand a few feet apart, boulders hang between them, wedged tight, their mass blocking the way. Over these chockstones we wiggle and monkey, using a combination of feet, hands, posterior, elbows and knees. Twilight Canyon administers the first test of our gym-

The lake and the land are locked in a silent but titanic war. Each heavy rainfall bombards the tributaries with boulders and sand. The lake counterattacks in the spring to rise and inundate the sands.

With the lake level at 144 feet below full, hikers must tread a muddy mile across Davis Gulch's sedimentary floor to get a glimpse of 100-foot-wide, 75-foot-tall La Gorce Arch. Once boaters could go straight to the arch.

Gymnastic abilities. Each climb is half fun and half exasperation, offering cheap laughs for the onlookers. The walls and boulders are sandpaper-rough. Knees, elbows and forearms accumulate

(Text continued on page 26)

At the mouth of the Lehi branch of Mystery Canyon, we slip beneath a double stone bridge. The lower bridge arcs overhead with just enough room for a tall kayaker, while the water beneath is so shallow that my paddle stirs up clouds of silt. Within a year, these two bridges could hang 30 feet above dry ground, the lake having withdrawn still farther and the sand beneath the bridges having been swept away by canyon floods.

The lake and the land are locked in a silent but titanic war. Each heavy rainfall bombards the tributaries with boulders and sand. The lake counterattacks in the spring to rise and inundate the sands.

Alien invaders-non-native plants-storm the beaches as the lake retreats, only to be routed by the lake's annual rise. Islands surrender to the water, break free, then suffer recapture. Natural bridges appear, and then vanish under water for decades.

In the ensuing days, we explore a twisting medley of canyons-Cascade Canyon, Cathedral Canyon and Driftwood Canyon. Sometimes we're stopped by boulders, sometimes by mere fatigue. More hide is lost in the effort and Hibbert seems pleased. We also head up Bridge Canyon toward Rainbow Bridge. At high water, the lake extends beneath the great sandstone arc, but we hike for half an hour.

But for us, the bridge is not so much a goal as a gateway to the wild sandstone country beyond the reach of Lake Powell.

Our final exploration takes us into Mountain Sheep Canyon where Hibbert's thirst for trauma is made fully manifest. We hike far beyond the lake this time as the canyon narrows to a convoluted slit. Occasionally we come to flooded bedrock bowls. We wade across them, splashing water up on the walls-ankle deep, knee deep, waist deep-deep in the shadow of the cliff and excruciatingly cold.

At the edge of a bottomless black hole, we whimper and deliberate. Finally, Hibbert, chuckling with glee, slides down into the pool. Swimming and grinning, he vanishes around a bend. His voice floats back, "It's not so bad, come on across. Embrace the experience!"

Facing shame and ridicule, one by timid one, we all drop into the icy depths. The resulting torment is wickedly fine; the canyon beyond is lovely. And Hibbert is satisfied with his flock of shivering initiates. Later, after crossing the Pool of Pain, we return to our boat for the return to Wahweap Marina and the comforts of Arizona.

Gliding along on the surface of this huge body of water, it seems less that the lake has fallen than that the buttes have risen. Wahweap Lodge itself seems to now sit on the rim of a high cliff. More alcoves, chambers and slot canyons are revealed with the passing of each dry month. Glen Canyon is coming up for air.

The drought, however, won't last forever. Already, we've had a much wetter year. Meanwhile, this is a chance to see a transformed Lake Powell and long-hidden stretches of the old Glen Canyon.

And, of course, the low-water lake offers one final blandishment: free golf balls-and the world's most fiendish water hazard. All Gary Ladd lives in Page, next to the lake, but can't seem to find enough time to explore the approximately 300 acres of dry land exposed with each 1-foot loss of lake elevation, although he once rowed the length of Lake Powell alone in a dory (see Arizona Highways, May 1977).