The Last Outposts: Marinas are the Staging Grounds for Great Lake Powell Family Adventures

She was just a little girl. Five, six years old, probably. She scrunched down farther into the bedroll, drew up her legs seeking more warmth, and moved the fat pigtail from beneath her cheek. Her eyes closed tight against night shadows, and she cupped a chubby fist over one ear, partially shutting out unfamiliar sounds. Tsé'naa Na'ní'áhi. The words repeated themselves, running a musical scale through her mind, just as they had all afternoon. Tsé'naa Na'ní'áhí. Tsé'naa Na'ní'áhí. She peeked her eyes open and stared into the darkness beyond the blanket's edge.

The mules snuffled at their tether and suggested that dramatic, long-suffering sigh that still worried her but seemed only to amuse the cowboys who had urged the critters down the trail during the long trip from Rainbow Lodge that afternoon. Tsé'naa Na'ní'áhí. Sing-song. The way the Navajo had said it.

"Look, honey. There's the moon."

She turned onto her back. It was a great white moon, coming over the wall of stone on the other side of the canyon. The sky above her had been pale and narrow,

squeezed between high sandstone walls. But just like that! - she mentally snapped her fingers-it had widened and brightened, and the great stone arch stood in bold relief against the autumn moon. Tsé'naa Na'ní'áhí. The arch, they had told her. Rainbow Bridge.

Time can be long between the simple impressions of childhood and the complex, sophisticated adventure of later years.

Return to Rainbow Bridge. Recapture, perhaps, the old sense of discovery. But, gone are the patient mules, the soft-voiced Navajo, the dusty, sun-browned cowboys. Even the canyons - steep, rocky, achingly beautiful even to a six year old - are changed.

They're changed, all right. More accessible. Startling. Marvelous. And all the other superlatives.

Glen Canyon, in the later years of a small girl's growing up, became Lake Powell.

It still is a mysterious maze of a place, riddled with remnants of Western lore and such romantic stuff as movies and pulpy novels are made.

It is a place of unabashed sentimentality, where fantasy and history become reality, and every butte or cove or sunrise is as intimate as a small girl's dreams.

But Lake Powell became synonymous with a new variety of adventure.

Now, tour buses, private planes, RVs, and boats bring a few million visitors to

literally eat it up, soak it up, drink it up, and whoop it up each year through the 96 canyons branching off 186 miles of lake. Tucked away in its gorges and inlets and along the 1900 miles of shoreline are surprises enough to convert the worldliest savant into a saucer-eyed buff of the beautiful life. And to aid in this quest are five of the busiest, friendliest, most completely equipped marinas you'd hope to find on any body of water.

Superlatives. They abound at Powell, whether they refer to its size, the scenery, the people offering the services, the accommodations, or to the unique location of each marina.

Wahweap, Rainbow, Bullfrog, Hall's Crossing, Hite. They are a real variety, and each marina offers its own specialty and its particular scenic enticement.

They consider themselves outposts. Outposts to adventure. In the best Western tradition, they are the sportsman's last chance, the final link, the unraveled tie to all that is "store bought comfort." From this point on, it's up to him.

Wahweap, located about six miles from Page, on the Arizona end of the lake, claims the distinction of being the granddaddy of them all.

Back in the early '30s, Art Greene took small groups out of Marble Canyon up to Rainbow Bridge. They made the sixhour trip up the unpredictable Colorado River in flat-bottomed boats, hiked the

Outposts

rough trail to the bridge, and counted on their own stout constitutions and Art Greene's enthusiasm and know-how to get them there and back.

Today, Art's grandson, John Schopp-mann, sees to the comforts of his visitors at Wahweap Lodge and Marina. And he has more to offer his guests than a haz-ardous ride in a flat-bottomed boat and his mother's and sisters' good cooking.At least five tour buses roll into the drive at Wahweap each day to discharge loads of tourists wearied of long stretches of desert scenery and ready to be diverted by a few hours on one of the world's most beautiful lakes. Here they find entirely modern and luxurious lodge and motel rooms, Ron Deeb's dining room and cock-ntail lounge serving the finest fare, and Kathy Parson's gift shop offering an in-teresting array of choices-everything from Lake Powell T-shirts and coffee mugs to the finest Indian jewelry and pottery. More than a few wayfarers find the hotel pool and patio a welcomed oasis; others make a beeline for the maze of docks down the hill at the marina.

Wahweap Marina counts itself respon-sible for the comforts and outfitting of just about two million guests each year,whether they check into the lodge, use the RV park and campground, rent a slip or buoy for their private craft, take one of the 78 rental houseboats, try one of the available ski boats, or merely use the pub-lic boat ramp to get their own craft off for a good time. Three hundred and fifty sea-sonal employees see to the needs of guests in a variety of services, and during the off-season-November through March -150 permanent folks carry out the spe-cial requests of a great number of charter services.

It's out of Wahweap, too, that all the tour boats run. Nine boats, under the managership of Ray Watton, scoot down to the dam and back, sashay up the blue waters of the lake, and forage through side canyons looking for the most incred-ible changes of scenery for passengers on runs taking anywhere from an hour to a full day to complete.

"The most popular destination, of course, is Rainbow Bridge," said Lee Bellar, piloting the 49-passenger Ethel G on the 135-mile all-day cruise. "Most of the tours make it up there at one point during their trip. He talked about the side canyons -

Navajo, Anasazi, Forbidding, Cathedral,

Gunsight-telling how each offers a unique aspect of the tour package. He spoke of his own years on the lake and the combination of interests that had brought him permanently to stay six years ago. And he answered a respectful "Yes, ma'am" to the lady from France when, as the boat inched its way to the narrowest end of Anasazi Canyon, she asked, "Do we have to go back the same way we came in?"

He watched his first mate, Larry Justice - sophomore at BYU, master of five languages-talk to eight-year-old Joe from L.A. about starting back to school next week, then explain to the large group from France how the dam was begun in '56 and Lake Powell was in the making, make ready the cold drinks and sack lunches, and offer fishing information to an electrician from Phoenix.

The Ethel G, her sleek white hull slicing the morning-blue water and sculpting a high white plume in her wake, approached one of the largest and one of the oddestlooking crafts on the lake.

Chevron, a black and white 42-ton tanker with great grey shark's teeth painted below her bow, hauls 9200 gallons of fuel on alternate days from Wahweap to Rainbow marina, towing empty trash barges

on the first half of the 13-hour trip and full ones on the return leg. At her wheel, surrounded by the pounding and grind ing noises of the diesels, sits Frank Smith, Texan, clad in well-worn Stetson, Levi's and rodeo shirt, and sporting more silver and turquoise than one usually sees on a fuel tanker.

Frank came to Page with his wife, Mary, in 1960 to work on the dam, and they grew to like it so much they decided to stay.

"I sure like it up here. Watching how the land changes the people. We've had births, deaths, marriages - everything out on this lake."

Frank and his one-man crew, Mike Douglas, make between 85 and 92 trips to Rainbow each year.

A lot of fuel? You bet!

But, Lloyd Minnard, manager of the only completely floating marina on the lake, figures they pumped just about 900,000 gallons of fuel at Rainbow last year, and it's up to Frank Smith and his tanker to get it there.

Speak of Rainbow Marina and reach for another superlative. Up there, they call it "the most unique marina on the lake," for it's 50 miles in any direction

from a land base, and logistics is the inherent problem-

Logistics for both people and commodities. But their services are broad, and the demand for them is great.

"Fishing charters come in," says Lloyd Minnard, "then fish out of here with or without guides. We feed 'em and give complete service year 'round-complete VIP service."

They can accommodate 30 employees in the floating residences, and Clyde Rog ers, fuel attendant and fireman for three years at the marina, can attest to the fact that they pump gas "roughly from sunup to sunset every day."

An average of 60 to 70 houseboats use the pumping station each day, then chug on around the bend to tie up at the small dock at the end of the trail leading to the

world's finest natural bridge.

"We're right in the middle of the most fantastic place in the world." Lloyd waves a can of Coke toward the opposite wall of sandstone. "Every canyon is different on this lake, and they change constantly. I take my four-week vacation right here on the lake every year."

The night sky seems blacker up there in that small, intimate canyon, and the stars are bigger and bloom like a celebration of all that is luminous.

And the moon...ah, when the moon tops the wall of pink stone and you know the massive bridge is just on the other side where that small girl once saw it a long time ago, a warm mystique blankets the evening with the same softness a sego lily uses to cup the sun.

Then morning brings a brilliance to the red canyon walls, the blue waters are star tling with an explosion of diamonds, and the edges of last night's mystique fade into memory.

The boat, a Bertram 25, moves into the main channel and roars north toward Bull frog Marina, some 90 lake miles from its home slip at Wahweap. Rain clouds fol low up the lake, black and moving fast, but the sun holds long enough for side trips to La Gorce Arch, Cathedral Canyon, and a few miles up on the crooked San Juan River. Red sandstone cliffs give way to a gentler landscape of low, rounded hills. The red earth, fringed with dark green tumbleweed and tamarisk, makes a startling contrast to the precise rows of white mobile homes undulating across the flow of land to the water's edge at Bullfrog Marina.

Outposts

Outdoorsmen from Colorado, Utah, and California drive or fly to Bullfrog, where fishing and houseboating are the biggest draws, although the marina can furnish just about anything anyone wants to put on the lake. There's a young crowd up there, geared to using the shoreline for camping-90 percent of which is sandy beach - bringing in their trailers and RVs, and taking ad-

vantage of the general store, the service station, the boat and gift shops, the liquor store, the public showers and laundry, and the "finest boat repair shop in Utah," says Ernie Gnauck, marina manager. "It's the largest one, too." Ron Murri, a quiet fellow from Jackson Hole, Wyo-ming, is quick to ballyhoo the place he's called home for the past six years. He fussed with the rigging of the catamaran,

helped his wife, Chris, with a line, and explained why the wind action on Lake Powell makes it not a very popular lake for sails. Bullfrog handles around 4000 people on an average day, with traffic soaring to

10,000 on Memorial Day weekend and to 15,000 on that last shot before school takes over in the fall: Labor Day. Motel units and bedrooms housed in the neat rows of trailers are available for over-nighters, and Tom Jensen manages one of the best restaurants on Lake Powell.

No wonder the Western States Bass Club prefers to angle out of Bullfrog. Fishing is great, supplies are top-notch, rooms are comfortable, and Katie Gnauck serves the best cowboy beans with her barbeque beef-if you can wangle an invitation to Sunday night dinner.

They're friendly and efficient people up there. Jody Muths at the marina, Terry Altland keeping things straight at the store, Jim Culp providing rental boats of all sizes, and his wife, Wanda, who will sell anything from the shelves of the giftshop - providing you have an affinity for bull-frogs. Bullfrogs decorate everything. People come from everywhere to work on Lake Powell. Take Farina McCarthy, 10 minutes across Bullfrog Bay at Hall's Crossing, for instance. Farina's from New Zealand. She's part of the seasonal staff. Teaches school at Montezuma Creek the rest of the year. She's not only part of the

staff; she could be considered a good example of the logo and reputation for the marina, for they like to think of it as "the smiling marina," and Farina has one of the nicest, widest, friendliest smiles on the lake...speaking of more superlatives. They're building at Hall's Crossing. More RV facilities, the largest store on the lake, both covered and open slips and buoys, seven housekeeping units, show-

ers and laundry, service station and, like the other marinas, an airstrip. They also boast the only floating drive-in boat repair service. Like Wahweap and Bullfrog, Hall's Crossing has houseboat and small boat rentals. And, "the newest, most mod-

Even, most efficient and elaborate gas pump-ing facilities on the water," according to Pete Peterson, marina manager. Stubb Miller runs that big general store and sets up the six bass derbies every year. The Four-Corners Bass Club comes up to Hall's for walleye, striper, and bigmouth tournaments each spring and fall. Keep moving. Take the Bertram on up to Hite at the extreme north end of Lake Powell, 186 miles from Wahweap, where the landscape becomes rugged and for-bidding, the channel of the lake narrows drastically, and contrasts are vivid. The remnants of cottonwood forests

March up the folds of canyon walls, much low greenery tantalizes from atop ironbrown rock, an elusive sailboat flutters in the dying breeze at the entrance to Good Hope Bay, and many houseboats ply the dark waters into the mouth of the Dirty Devil River, or cruise straight ahead into the swifter current of the Colorado. The land is harder and camping is more primitive at Hite Marina. "But that's the attraction up here," grins Budd Finch, marina manager. "People who come here want to do their camping in the old tradition. They come here to fish, to backpack to the Indian ruins and the old uranium mines and caves. This is the end point for river rafts out of Moab and Green River, and we pick up about five Outward Bound raft trips every week." Hite Marina is small. They're about a hundred miles from any supply source, and you have the idea it can be a place to "get away from it all." Or, maybe to find

the all-around mechanic. It may be said that "a lake is a lake is a lake." Carry that a step or two farther and toss out the thought that one marina can be likened to any other, and the folks who work thereon are like any other folks who hanker after another life-style - a place away from "city life."

Then, go to Lake Powell. Stop for gas or beer or vittles, or ask directions, or merely sit down on a milk crate to pass the time of day. It is then, in the presence of so many friendly marina employees and National Park Service peo-

ple, that the place itself takes on another dimension. Those folks, eager to share what they have found, offer the feeling that they have nothing more important to do than to turn away from the task at hand and visit.

Their general enthusiasm ranges far from "P.R." palaver, for they're eager to talk not only about the stupendous scenery, the great fishing, the full line of services offered, but they'll tell you friendly or funny stories of their own adventures on the lake or in the surrounding country.

And it won't stop there. They'll want to know about you. Where you're from. How long you've been on the lake. Details of your stay. Somewhere along in the conversation, an expression of far-away reflection slips behind their smiles and the direct warmth of friendship in their eyes, and you know what's coming: "It's sure beautiful today, all right, but you really should be here when..." Or, "You ought to see the lake when..."

Then you go away with the distinct impression that you've become special and have been issued a personal invitation to return, to share again the magic they've found for themselves. It's people like Ouida Ball down at

Wahweap, hostessing tour parties on Captain Clint Rupp's paddlewheeler, Canyon King; and Ruth Anne Fuller coordinating daily tour activities; and Nan Gamache who "does the chores no one else likes to do" in the office; and Della and Sharon at

the trailer village; and folks like Dan Weed who came from Tucson to oversee engineering

(Left) Hite Marina at the north end of Lake Powell. “The land is harder and camping is more primitive up here,” says Marina Manager Budd Finch, “But that's the attraction.” Busy little Hite is home to people who like to fish and backpack the rugged terrain.

(Below) Outdoorsmen from Colorado, Utah, and California drive or fly to Bullfrog Marina, where fishing and houseboating are the big attractions. The marina, run by Ernie Gnauck, prides itself on being able to furnish just about anything anyone wants to put on the lake. Josef Muench

(Back cover) Water in a marvelously different form cascades off an eroded sandstone monolith at Lake Powell, following a summer rain shower.