JFRCalifornia
Keeper of San Juan Secrets
Summary. There is excellent hiking access potential at nearly any lake level, as it is possible to land a skiboat or kayak at the end with minimal difficulty, except perhaps some shallow water or grasses to wade through for a short time. It is possible to hike all the way to Hole in the Rock Road. Along the way, one would pass small waterfalls, large alcoves, Bement Arch, and the remnants of a corral that was the last known location of Everett Ruess. At lake levels above 3605, a skiboat could pass at least the front side of LaGorce Arch. It is possible to pass the backside above 3612. Up until 3620, two small waterfalls are visible where the lake ends. These both disappear at 3640. To get around the waterfall, hike to the right, backtrack a bit and hike into and through a cave high above, before returning to the stream. From there, follow the willow-choked stream for about 0.5 miles before climbing up onto the slickrock bench on the right, following the most obvious paths along the way.
Notes from Past Experience. What follows are two accounts of hikes at lower lake levels, from 2003 and 2013.
August 30, 2003
Lake Elevation: 3605’
It’s Labor Day weekend, but you’d never guess by the mostly empty spaces on, in and around the lake. No complaints: this is paradise. The Escalante River is a particularly nice version of Paradise, and with the lower water levels, Davis Gulch across the channel promises to reveal some of its treasures that have been until recently available only in print.
Davis changes dramatically when you drain it. Well, again not to overstate, the lower part of Davis Gulch remains underwater. But it’s not long till you pass the triangular window of LaGorce Arch where the lake gives way to brief mudflats and steady little Davis Creek. The boats are out in force in this inlet, including one motorboat trolling just ahead of us. But the mudflat shallows at the end turn them (and all others) away, leaving the field wide open to us. We park, maneuvering toward the left or eastern wall, where we tie to a boulder. From there it’s a quick scramble over and into a little brown stream inviting us on around a shadowy corner. So we oblige.
A walk up Davis now is revealing in so many ways. Obviously with lower lake levels, there’s more canyon to see, and higher sandstone walls too. But on the ground, in the cool shadows of a desert morning, green grasses form fields along the inside streambends, as the descending chime of canyon wrens echo against the pink stone walls. The birds themselves flit above the alcoves, even through LaGorce Arch itself, winking at us from 120 feet above. The creek works its steady toil, carving its old path on the canyon floor—it doesn’t seem to have forgotten the way—reflecting the walls and sky and grass in technicolor hues, filtered through the soft tan silt palette, which shines wet like caramel pudding. It’s lovely and relaxing, even uplifting. And apart from the happy song of the wrens, quiet. It’s impossible to imagine bad thoughts here.
After a couple hours of steady upstream walking, across quicksand patches and old silt beach deposits, the three of us decide to return to reality, and rescue Khawer. None of us really mind; we’re already rejuvenated. Besides, Chuck can download his photos onboard as soon as we’re back, if he really wants to relive this place.
August 28, 2013
Lake Elevation: 3590’
Chuck had found a great spot far up Davis Gulch, several miles up the Escalante. He hovered and waited until we showed up 30 minutes later. Not a boat came by to challenge him for the small beach about a half a mile in, and that surprised me. It was one of the only spots in Davis Gulch, and easily the best—a sandy edge to a rockfall against the vertical Navajo Sandstone. Here the gulch might be 300 feet wide, perhaps 250 feet high. It was a great find, in one of the better tributaries of the Escalante.
But to the casual boater, it’s not obvious why this might be a “better” canyon than any other. They all kind of look the same. They’ve got the smooth red rock, are moderately narrow, and feature a winding path of still water. So what makes Davis special? In truth, it isn’t any
more special than the others if you just stay in the boat. You’d wind your way a couple of miles, as many do, see the walls get closer and closer to one another, and get more nervous around every turn. Can I get back out? At some point, when the water surface develops a murky brown film, dead tree skeletons protrude, and driftwood clogs the way, most people turn around. That’s their experience. Not a bad one, and certainly different than almost anywhere else in the world, but what’s lost is feeling the essential nature of the canyon.
To see one of these canyons—to really see it—it’s all about looking down, not up.
From a boat, there is only up: the red canyon walls, the blue sky above. The water is a monolithic dark green, streaked with lighter shades as it becomes shallower. In a boat, there is no reason to look down (except to avoid hitting a submerged rock because you’re going too fast). As for sounds, you’d never hear anything over the whine of the motor and splashing of the lakewater. Never mind scents, except the fumes from the engine. It’s a sterile sensory experience. Now many of these problems are remedied in a kayak—and that’s the beauty of the kayak—but even floating in a kayak can’t address the essential issue: what lies beneath?
When the lake is full, boaters can glide far up Davis, past triangular LaGorce Arch, a real treat because not only is the arch just above water level, you can actually boat around to the other side and see it from the back! It’s a highlight for many, easily reached, worth a photo or two before getting back to the jet skis and grilling steaks. The water snakes far beyond the arch, into an ever-deepening canyon, the flat water flanked by smooth vertical walls. That’s when it’s full.
In 2013, it’s not full. In fact it’s a low as it’s been since 2005. Before that, you had to look back to 1970 to see a water level of 3,590 feet above sea level. That’s 110 feet short of full. For many boaters here, it’s a source of concern. How far can I boat? Will there even be enough water at all? Some people actually cancel their plans based on the low lake level. The reality is that the lake has lots of water—10 million acre-feet. And even though it’s less than half full by volume, much of its 2,000-mile shoreline remains. Maybe 75% of it, if I had to guess. But there’s no denying you can’t get nearly as far into side canyons like Davis. Here, the full pool might be a meandering mile or two past the current water level.
But in these two miles, much the heart of Davis Gulch has re-emerged. Not all of it, but enough to paint a picture of what was lost—or what can be rediscovered, with a little effort. After we tied up the motorboat at the navigable end, having bumped a sandbar or submerged log along the way, the canyon presented a surprisingly convenient raised mud bar along the left wall to begin the hike. They don’t always do that. Some end in a long slog of wall-to-wall quicksand goo, or a nasty brew of slime, driftwood, oil, and cow pies. This would be easy by comparison.
As I started to walk to join the others who’d already gone up ahead, having snapped a few shots of the landing site for future reference, a high whine grew louder, echoing through the canyon. Around the corner, a jet ski emerged still doing a fairly high speed, three kids on it. They were oblivious to the debris just beneath, and apparently to anything else. But they stopped just short of where the water turned opaque, with its light colored frappacinino swirls. I heard them talking among themselves, trying to figure out what to do next. They seemed uncertain. The girl in the front must have known something about this canyon, because she wondered where the arch was.
“Up there,” I said, pointing high on the wall in front of them, just around the next bend. The lake didn’t extend quite that far.
There was the broad triangle of LaGorce Arch, just over the high water mark, maybe 120 feet from the ground, each side maybe about 40 feet or so. If the lake were full, you could almost boat right through it. But now, you’d have to walk to see the other side.
The girl was disappointed. She thought they might get to cruise right by it.
“Hmm,” she began, considering what to do next. “It’s okay, but not as impressive as I thought it would be.”
One of the other kids wondered if they should continue on foot, but after a short conference, they decided it was better not to. That mud ahead looked pretty gross. Probably nothing to see anyway. So they quickly turned around and buzzed away. The thin brown line had stopped them. But I walked on, joining Chuck and Shubber up ahead, in the wide meandering stream beyond the mud, back in the old Davis Gulch, among the canyon wrens and shimmering cottonwoods.
There are two worlds at Glen Canyon, and they co-exist uneasily. They rarely mix. The one in the lake is populated by boaters, with a picture-perfect postcard as a backdrop. It extends into the side canyons—all 96 of them—as far as the water will take them. Not very many venture into these places, and when they do, 99% of them do exactly what the jet-ski kids did. They pause for a moment, consider the barrier in front of them, and turn around.
There’s another world on the other side of that barrier. It’s the place Glen Canyon used to be. In Davis Gulch, this means 500-foot walls framing a meandering stream winding through a grassy field. Hidden alcoves containing cold freshwater springs dripping among the ferns. Small pools with frogs, crayfish, larval catfish. Waterfalls, large and small, dropping into ponds. The sounds of happy babbling. The scent of sage on the sandstone benches. Willows. The breeze rustling through the spade-shaped cottonwood leaves. It all leads you on, around the next bend, piling wonder upon wonder
And nobody is there. Almost nobody.
Even before the lake, almost nobody came. A few intrepid souls, mostly cattlemen and their cows. One of their fences still stands, the remnants of a small corral, with steps carved out leading the way up and out of the canyon. It was here at this corral where two mules belonging to young Everett Ruess were found in late 1934. This is the last place he was known to have been, the last trace before he dissolved into a mystery. We looked around. There’s a large grassy benchland, with attractive campsites spread out among the cottonwoods, 20 feet or so above the creek below. It’s where I would have taken the mules. It would be a good place to die. But Ruess likely didn’t die here, he just disappeared. He probably followed those same steps to get out of the canyon. But why leave the mules? Why go on foot? The town of Escalante is 50 miles away, the nearest inhabited place. The mules would have helped him. Or did someone kill him elsewhere and take his mules here? If they did, where were these people? Why would they leave the mules behind?
There’s no way to know. The canyon is quiet.
We followed the steps of Everett Ruess up and out; maybe there’d be a clue. But there was just rocks and sky, and a view below into the gulch. Soon we were on top of the canyon edge, looking out across the Escalante wilderness. No one for miles. But a great place for lunch. Popping peanuts and a tangerine, it occurred to me that this is probably what Everett Ruess was looking for. He would be just over 100 today, but he could still be out there somewhere. Maybe in a rest home in L.A. under an assumed name. Or maybe just in our heads.
A mystery? A myth? What’s the difference? We’re telling a story. That’s the reality.
On the way back we were surprised to encounter a family of five, barefoot and not really geared for a long hike, but obviously enjoying the awesome sights above them on the backside of LaGorce Arch. We passed and barely said hello, not wanting to disturb each other’s peace.
Around the last bend, we returned to the wide muddy creek, the first sign we were nearly back to the lake. Between the two worlds—the vibrant old Glen Canyon wilderness above, and the sterile waters of Lake Powell below, there’s a no man’s land. It’s in every canyon. It varies in form from canyon to canyon, but it’s usually about 200 yards wide. On the lake edge, it can be a pond scum, brown, smelly, and pocked with driftwood or other hazards. From the inland side, it’s mudflats and quicksand, and the place where the creek stops flowing. To the hiker coming from upstream, it’s the death of the canyon experience. To the boater, it’s the end of the road. Nobody from either side wants to cross the line, a DMZ of sorts—all you need is watchtowers, and you’d have the edge between the two Koreas. It’s a real barrier, both physical and psychological. The jet skiers and hikers will never meet, never see eye to eye. They can’t. All they will ever see is the narrow band of scum that lies between them, and think it continues forever on the other side.
Is this still Glen Canyon? Or is it Lake Powell? Or both? Should one disappear at the expense of the other? Should the boundary between them be moved? Should this place be preserved as a playground for people with money? Or as a sanctuary for anyone with a strong back, a place to seek peace of mind, not with money, but with blistered feet? Either way, somebody is left behind.
What would the Colorado River have to say about this? Who speaks for the river?
The thousands of ants on board our houseboat have already spoken. They like our jar of honey. It’s more than just their playground—to them it’s something sacred. They’re not only swimming in the jar, some have even drowned in it. Now that’s real passion. They might live for honey, but it’s clear they'll die for it, too. And they don’t have any cash.
Notes from Past Experience. What follows are two accounts of hikes at lower lake levels, from 2003 and 2013.
August 30, 2003
Lake Elevation: 3605’
Davis changes dramatically when you drain it. Well, again not to overstate, the lower part of Davis Gulch remains underwater. But it’s not long till you pass the triangular window of LaGorce Arch where the lake gives way to brief mudflats and steady little Davis Creek. The boats are out in force in this inlet, including one motorboat trolling just ahead of us. But the mudflat shallows at the end turn them (and all others) away, leaving the field wide open to us. We park, maneuvering toward the left or eastern wall, where we tie to a boulder. From there it’s a quick scramble over and into a little brown stream inviting us on around a shadowy corner. So we oblige.
After a couple hours of steady upstream walking, across quicksand patches and old silt beach deposits, the three of us decide to return to reality, and rescue Khawer. None of us really mind; we’re already rejuvenated. Besides, Chuck can download his photos onboard as soon as we’re back, if he really wants to relive this place.
August 28, 2013
Lake Elevation: 3590’
Chuck had found a great spot far up Davis Gulch, several miles up the Escalante. He hovered and waited until we showed up 30 minutes later. Not a boat came by to challenge him for the small beach about a half a mile in, and that surprised me. It was one of the only spots in Davis Gulch, and easily the best—a sandy edge to a rockfall against the vertical Navajo Sandstone. Here the gulch might be 300 feet wide, perhaps 250 feet high. It was a great find, in one of the better tributaries of the Escalante.
But to the casual boater, it’s not obvious why this might be a “better” canyon than any other. They all kind of look the same. They’ve got the smooth red rock, are moderately narrow, and feature a winding path of still water. So what makes Davis special? In truth, it isn’t any
To see one of these canyons—to really see it—it’s all about looking down, not up.
From a boat, there is only up: the red canyon walls, the blue sky above. The water is a monolithic dark green, streaked with lighter shades as it becomes shallower. In a boat, there is no reason to look down (except to avoid hitting a submerged rock because you’re going too fast). As for sounds, you’d never hear anything over the whine of the motor and splashing of the lakewater. Never mind scents, except the fumes from the engine. It’s a sterile sensory experience. Now many of these problems are remedied in a kayak—and that’s the beauty of the kayak—but even floating in a kayak can’t address the essential issue: what lies beneath?
When the lake is full, boaters can glide far up Davis, past triangular LaGorce Arch, a real treat because not only is the arch just above water level, you can actually boat around to the other side and see it from the back! It’s a highlight for many, easily reached, worth a photo or two before getting back to the jet skis and grilling steaks. The water snakes far beyond the arch, into an ever-deepening canyon, the flat water flanked by smooth vertical walls. That’s when it’s full.
In 2013, it’s not full. In fact it’s a low as it’s been since 2005. Before that, you had to look back to 1970 to see a water level of 3,590 feet above sea level. That’s 110 feet short of full. For many boaters here, it’s a source of concern. How far can I boat? Will there even be enough water at all? Some people actually cancel their plans based on the low lake level. The reality is that the lake has lots of water—10 million acre-feet. And even though it’s less than half full by volume, much of its 2,000-mile shoreline remains. Maybe 75% of it, if I had to guess. But there’s no denying you can’t get nearly as far into side canyons like Davis. Here, the full pool might be a meandering mile or two past the current water level.
But in these two miles, much the heart of Davis Gulch has re-emerged. Not all of it, but enough to paint a picture of what was lost—or what can be rediscovered, with a little effort. After we tied up the motorboat at the navigable end, having bumped a sandbar or submerged log along the way, the canyon presented a surprisingly convenient raised mud bar along the left wall to begin the hike. They don’t always do that. Some end in a long slog of wall-to-wall quicksand goo, or a nasty brew of slime, driftwood, oil, and cow pies. This would be easy by comparison.
As I started to walk to join the others who’d already gone up ahead, having snapped a few shots of the landing site for future reference, a high whine grew louder, echoing through the canyon. Around the corner, a jet ski emerged still doing a fairly high speed, three kids on it. They were oblivious to the debris just beneath, and apparently to anything else. But they stopped just short of where the water turned opaque, with its light colored frappacinino swirls. I heard them talking among themselves, trying to figure out what to do next. They seemed uncertain. The girl in the front must have known something about this canyon, because she wondered where the arch was.
“Up there,” I said, pointing high on the wall in front of them, just around the next bend. The lake didn’t extend quite that far.
There was the broad triangle of LaGorce Arch, just over the high water mark, maybe 120 feet from the ground, each side maybe about 40 feet or so. If the lake were full, you could almost boat right through it. But now, you’d have to walk to see the other side.
The girl was disappointed. She thought they might get to cruise right by it.
“Hmm,” she began, considering what to do next. “It’s okay, but not as impressive as I thought it would be.”
One of the other kids wondered if they should continue on foot, but after a short conference, they decided it was better not to. That mud ahead looked pretty gross. Probably nothing to see anyway. So they quickly turned around and buzzed away. The thin brown line had stopped them. But I walked on, joining Chuck and Shubber up ahead, in the wide meandering stream beyond the mud, back in the old Davis Gulch, among the canyon wrens and shimmering cottonwoods.
There are two worlds at Glen Canyon, and they co-exist uneasily. They rarely mix. The one in the lake is populated by boaters, with a picture-perfect postcard as a backdrop. It extends into the side canyons—all 96 of them—as far as the water will take them. Not very many venture into these places, and when they do, 99% of them do exactly what the jet-ski kids did. They pause for a moment, consider the barrier in front of them, and turn around.
And nobody is there. Almost nobody.
Even before the lake, almost nobody came. A few intrepid souls, mostly cattlemen and their cows. One of their fences still stands, the remnants of a small corral, with steps carved out leading the way up and out of the canyon. It was here at this corral where two mules belonging to young Everett Ruess were found in late 1934. This is the last place he was known to have been, the last trace before he dissolved into a mystery. We looked around. There’s a large grassy benchland, with attractive campsites spread out among the cottonwoods, 20 feet or so above the creek below. It’s where I would have taken the mules. It would be a good place to die. But Ruess likely didn’t die here, he just disappeared. He probably followed those same steps to get out of the canyon. But why leave the mules? Why go on foot? The town of Escalante is 50 miles away, the nearest inhabited place. The mules would have helped him. Or did someone kill him elsewhere and take his mules here? If they did, where were these people? Why would they leave the mules behind?
There’s no way to know. The canyon is quiet.
We followed the steps of Everett Ruess up and out; maybe there’d be a clue. But there was just rocks and sky, and a view below into the gulch. Soon we were on top of the canyon edge, looking out across the Escalante wilderness. No one for miles. But a great place for lunch. Popping peanuts and a tangerine, it occurred to me that this is probably what Everett Ruess was looking for. He would be just over 100 today, but he could still be out there somewhere. Maybe in a rest home in L.A. under an assumed name. Or maybe just in our heads.
A mystery? A myth? What’s the difference? We’re telling a story. That’s the reality.
Is this still Glen Canyon? Or is it Lake Powell? Or both? Should one disappear at the expense of the other? Should the boundary between them be moved? Should this place be preserved as a playground for people with money? Or as a sanctuary for anyone with a strong back, a place to seek peace of mind, not with money, but with blistered feet? Either way, somebody is left behind.
What would the Colorado River have to say about this? Who speaks for the river?
The thousands of ants on board our houseboat have already spoken. They like our jar of honey. It’s more than just their playground—to them it’s something sacred. They’re not only swimming in the jar, some have even drowned in it. Now that’s real passion. They might live for honey, but it’s clear they'll die for it, too. And they don’t have any cash.
