holiday travel

THANKSGIVING ON GUNSIGHT BAY

TEXT BY DOUGLAS KRUETZ PHOTOGRAPHS BY DAVID ELMS JR.

THE TRANQUIL WATERS OF Gunsight Bay lapped gently against the hull of our houseboat as we pulled the big bird from the oven. We had navigated, 13 of us on a 59-foot luxury craft, across vast expanses of Lake Powell into this idyllic secluded inlet on a splendid mission: to celebrate Thanksgiving Day together amid some of the most spectacular surroundings on Earth.

Now, as afternoon sunlight gilded Gunsight Butte and its flanking mesas, we set up a grand turkey buffet on the beach and gave thanks for family, friends, food, and the privilege of spending the special day in such an unforgettable place.

"It's a blessing just to be here, in the middle of all this beauty," said Tad Greener as he held his four-year-old daughter, Katie, and watched his wife, Debbie, tend to 16-month-old Kelly.

"This trip has helped me appreciate what my family means to me, and how fortunate we are to have places like this to visit," Tad said.

The rest of us agreed.

Our feast of turkey and all the trimmings, prepared in the houseboat's well-equipped kitchen, climaxed several exhilarating days of exploration and relaxation on the lake, which straddles the Arizona-Utah border north of Page.

WE WERE AN ECLECTIC CREW of aquatic adventurers. The Greeners, residents of Las Vegas, Nevada, had arrived at Lake Powell's Wahweap Marina the weekend before Thanksgiving. There, they met their longtime friends: Phoenix photographer David Elms, David's wife, Liz, and their three-year-old daughter, Audrey. The Greener and Elms families, veterans of previous Lake Powell voyages, spent several days exploring scenic slot canyons in hidden niches along the lake's 1,960-miles of shoreline. On Monday, Arizona Highways Photography Director Peter Ensenberger along with his daughters Sara, 14, Erin, 12, and Jessie, six drove from Phoenix to Wahweap. They rented a small outboard runabout and rendezvoused with the houseboat at its anchorage for that night in Wetherill Canyon about 40 miles up the lake from Wahweap Marina. The following day, my wife, Donna, and I traveled from Tucson to join the group. Peter picked us up in the runabout and shuttled us out to the mother ship in time for supper. Later in the evening, we settled in the living room of the houseboat to plan our pre-Thanksgiving gambols around the lake. Itinerary planning is a humbling task for many Lake Powell visitors. Powell is a lake in the way that the Amazon is a river or Everest is a mountain. It's huge. uge. It's complex. It's impossible to explore completely in a lifetime, much less in a week.

Comprising the fluid heart of the Glen Canyon National Recreation Area, Lake Powell began filling in 1963 when Glen Canyon Dam corralled the waters of the Colorado River as a source of hydroelectric power. The gargantuan dam, which created a lake that is more than 180 miles long and can contain more than 72.9 million acre feet of water, was the center of bitter controversy when it was built and remains so in some quarters today. This is because the dam resulted in the submersion of much of Glen Canyon, revered by many for its superlative cliffand-chasm landscapes and abundance of ancient Indian cultural sites. While some environmental activists abhor the dam and even call for draining Lake Powell, legions of boaters, campers, and other recreation enthusiasts view it as a magnificent by-product of a power-generating water-storage project.

Like many who motor across the lake's blue waters, members of our party could see both sides of the argument. Much, undeniably, was lost in the depths. But equally certain was the fact that the lake opened the still-exposed upper reaches of the canyon to thousands of people who otherwise might never venture into such country. For now, we were here. And we were raring to venture.

After a good night's rest in one of the big boat's four sleeping areas and quick showers, Donna and I set out for a scramble up the slickrock of Wetherill Canyon. We ventured into one of those lateNovember mornings that has the power to make a person fall suddenly, deeply, and forever in love with the Southwest.

Under a cloudless and deep-cobalt sky, the calm waters of the lake played back the theme in a lighter shade of blue. The air was just cool enough for a light fleece sweatshirt and that silly beret I'd been longing to wear since the demise of summer. Rounded domes and sheer walls of buff and salmon sandstone drew us southeast and upward into the stony redoubt of Wetherill Canyon, which was named for John Wetherill, one of the first white men to see the nearby natural wonder known as Rainbow Bridge.

Our rubber-soled running shoes gripped the gritty rock reassuringly as we worked our way a few hundred feet above the lake. With each bit of altitude gained, we could see farther up the maze of water-filled canyons that lead, eventually, to Hite Marina at the northeastern end of the lake. We would navigate nowhere near Hite on this trip, but we took pleasure in imagining a long summer water journey from one end of Powell to the other.

Not that we longed for summer. One of the special attractions of our Thanksgiving week excursion was that it came during the off-season on the lake. Unlike in the summertime, when boaters must often share the delights of Powell with an armada of fellow voyagers, we enjoyed exclusive occupancy of each of our anchorage coves, and we often cruised in open water without another boat in sight.

While Donna and I prowled the slickrock in search of big vistas and narrow slot side canyons, David hopped into a runabout to scout locations for his landscape photographs. Tad tried his hand at fishing, angling for a catch of the lake's abundant bass and walleyes. (Common decency would prevent me from reporting that we did not dine even once on fresh fish in the course of our trip.) Meanwhile, Liz, who served as chief cook, and Debbie began preliminary preparations for our upcoming Thanksgiving feast.

Peter, along with his daughters, took our second runabout boat for a visit to Rainbow Bridge, tucked away in another side canyon a few miles up the lake. What they saw is the largest natural bridge on the planet, with a span of 275 feet and a height of 290 feet. The top is 42 feet thick and 33 feet wide.

Formed by flowing waters that slowly carved their way through a wall of Navajo sandstone, the landmark has been considered a sacred place by some Indians. After being "discovered" by self-taught archaeologist Wetherill and members of an archaeological survey party in 1909, the bridge was designated as a national monument in 1910.

Today visitors may approach the bridge by hiking lengthy trails across rough canyon country or, thanks to Lake Powell, by boating to within a half mile of the site.

For most of this century, visitors were permitted to approach Rainbow Bridge and walk under it. But recently, noting that Indians recite special prayers before passing beneath the stone span, the National Park Service directed that casual visitors should neither go beyond a designated viewing area nor walk under the bridge.

"Approach and visit Rainbow Bridge as you would a church," advises a Park Service pamphlet. "Please respect the beliefs of the Indians for Rainbow Bridge."

After reconvening at our "Winnebago of the Water," as Donna dubbed the houseboat, we set off Wednesday afternoon for our next "port," a secluded and comely bay in a northerly finger of the lake called Gunsight Canyon.

As we motored through Lake Powell's main channel on the way from Wetherill to Gunsight, I got my first opportunity to pilot the boat. With some tutelage from old hands David and Liz, I learned how to keep the craft on a true course between marker buoys and how to carve gentle turns when necessary. Along the way, we savored views of snow-covered Navajo Mountain, which dominated the horizon to the southeast, and countless towering buttes and broad mesas along the lake.

David expertly landed the boat on a beach near the end of the inlet of Gunsight Canyon, and we busied ourselves with securing our floating home to shore with lines and anchors.

Later, several of us set off on sunset treks in the now-familiar terrain of sandy canyon bottoms, sandstone domes, sheer cliffs, and flat-topped mesas.

After an end-of-day light show featuring golden sun rays on golden rock, followed by a brilliant red afterglow, we gathered in the boat's dining room for lasagna and conversation.

The kids served cookies they had helped the moms prepare, and then we all headed out to the beach to enjoy a campfire Tad built with wood we'd brought along on the boat. By bedtime the fire had faded to embers, and the bright white smear of the Milky Way drew our eyes to the sky.

Thanksgiving morning, even as it is in less exotic locales, was a time of taking care of housekeeping detailsLake Powell is about 280 miles north of Phoenix via Interstate 17 and U.S. Route 89.

WHEN YOU GO

For information on boating regulations, campsites, weather, fees, and other matters pertaining to Lake Powell, contact the Superintendent, Glen Canyon National Recreation Area, P.O. Box 1507, Page, AZ 86040; (520) 608-6404.

Lake Powell's five marinas - Wahweap, Dangling Rope, Hall's Crossing, Bullfrog, and Hite - are operated by ARAMARK Leisure Services, 2233 W. Dunlap, Suite 400, Phoenix, AZ 85021. Information on boat rentals, lake cruises, and accommodations at Wahweap Lodge, which is six miles northwest of Page, is available by calling ARAMARK toll-free at (800) 528-6154.

and preparing our abode for a happy siege of slicing, dicing, mashing, and cooking.

The turkey weighed 18 pounds and was only the beginning. Its costars included stuffing and gravy, relishes, sweet potatoes, cranberries, a delicious dish of corn and red peppers, freshbaked rolls, red and white wines, pumpkin pie, and coffee.

The feast was cooked. The feast was photographed. The feast was consumed. All on a day as gloriously blue as any of us could remember.

Little did we know that this balmy day of thanks was, essentially, the last hurrah of autumn never mind the calendar in Lake Powell country.

Early in the morning of the day after Thanksgiving, I noticed the sound of rain on the roof of the boat. Later, after first light, silence returned.

The rain had turned to snow.

And so we "set sail" for Wahweap Marina, half-expecting to hear Jingle Bells as we houseboated homeward beneath canyon walls freshly dressed for winter in a cloak of white.