Llewellyn Gulch - 2000 and 2010

Status
Not open for further replies.

JFRCalifornia

Keeper of San Juan Secrets
September 14, 2000
Lake Elevation: 3679’


Llewellyn is a Welsh name. It must be, judging by all those “L”s. Who was Llewellyn, and why is he immortalized here? Dad would say to look it up, and so I do. But nothing comes of it in a cursory scan of our small library of books. It remains a mystery for now.

A carp glides by our parked boat, 18 inches of green scavenging scales and bony fins, cruising for errant beef jerky scraps we might have previously tossed off the starboard bow. It sucks the bottom like a slow-moving home swimming pool vacuum sweeper.

The boating charts indicate a landslide—a major one—crashed in Llewellyn’s upper inlet years ago, closing it to boaters. The slide apparently dammed the year-round creek that flows within, forming an unstable lake above it, ready to give way once the temporary rock wall was breached, a danger to anyone below the dam. And after the dam eventually gave out, the canyon was reopened to foot traffic. I’m curious to see the canyon’s wrath firsthand. I’ll head up later this morning, even with my sore feet.

I might be going alone, here on the last full day on the lake. The sun once again has risen high and strong in the east, illuminating the deep blue toes of Navajo Mountain’s distant north face, mostly obscured from our position just inside the mouth of the canyon.

Chuck lies on the front air mattress, in the boat’s main compartment. He’s reading The Terrible Hours, a true account of a U.S. Navy submarine rescue in 1939. Khawer says the title really refers to that uncomfortable period of too much cheese, too little liquid, and the wait for a result that just won’t come. He speaks to his own truth.

Llewellyn Gulch was most interesting, full of history and subtle beauty. Once past the requisite half-dozen houseboats, I glided the motorboat into the wide mudflat at the lake’s end, to continue upstream by myself on foot. Right away I was surprised there was a flowing stream, only a few inches deep, but moving strongly across the deep red silt and occasional boulder barriers. The gulch is an historic cattle route, and there are several very well-defined stock trails to follow. Cows, more out of laziness than intelligence, pick the easiest paths, so it’s best to trust their judgment. I followed the northern, right hand trail on the sandstone bench, above the narrow streamcut arroyo through which the creek wove in and out of the reeds and willows. Up here I found three series of petroglyphs, all depicting bighorn sheep. The most impressive was etched on a smooth sandstone wall coated in black desert varnish. Maybe 15-20 feet long, the panel—almost a mural—showed 20 sheep being led, in the upstream direction, by four men. Two were in the front, one in the middle of the pack, one at the end. A large square carving of a flag of some sort trailed the whole panel. Each figure was drawn maybe 6 inches by 4, and some of the sheep were embellished with blankets or other tack. There were no cows or horses shown, just bighorn sheep. The other panels were less impressive, showing fewer figures, but conveyed the same idea: this is a livestock trail. The Anasazi used it, later the Navajos, and even white ranchers of the past 100 years. The trails are clear and quite useful, even without livestock to lead.

I did not go as far as the reported narrows, but did see something else of note. Far up the canyon, there is a white “bathtub ring” as seen on the main body of the lake. But this is well above the high water mark of Lake Powell. How is this possible?

In 1987, a large landslide brought down a huge sandstone slab face, reducing it to rocky rubble. The remote slide dammed the canyon, forming a fairly substantial lake behind it, fed by the constant little stream. Because of the threat of dam failure, the canyon was put off limits to campers. But by the mid-1990s, seasonal floods and erosion finally broke through the rocky dam, releasing all the water at once, returning the canyon to its former self.

It must have been a substantial lake. The high water mark must have been 25 feet over the present streambed. It is unclear if anyone was injured or killed when the dam broke, and the local literature sheds no light on this question. Just evidence of a geologic drama played out for an audience of no one.


August 7, 2010
Lake Elevation: 3637’


Llewellyn Gulch snakes its way through the upper reaches of the Kayenta Formation, resulting in a series of tightly compacted crumbly pink shelves, layered densely, framing a narrow—maybe 100-foot wide—channel. Where it meets the Navajo Sandstone above, particularly on the inside bend of turns in the canyon, there are flatter expanses of brush-covered sand, a result of both the erosion of the Navajo, and the naturally crumbly Kayenta. Our boat is moored on the northern bank, against such a beach. From the back of the deck, where I write, I’m facing east, down canyon. The sky there is no longer rosy, but now more a slate gray, the result of a layer of early morning stratus floating slowly northward. The scene is grand, of course, because of the vertical Navajo Sandstone that frames it all, which here in Llewellyn, is stepped back just a bit by the erodable Kayenta below. This allows for a slightly more open view of what’s around, a little less claustrophobic. It is much like the scenery around mile marker 22 in the Paria Canyon.

Upstream, the dark mauve wall of the Straight Cliffs is distant, providing a backdrop to the head of the canyon somewhere below. It is possible, if one chooses to go that way, to emerge on the bench above, and find the Hole-in-the-Rock Road snaking along the base of the Straight Cliffs. From there, it’s a simple matter of paralleling the cliffs straight to the town of Escalante, maybe 60 miles away. It is the nearest town to this place I’m sitting. Page may be about the same. We are far from anywhere, of course, and that’s the point.

Far from any town, but not our nearest neighbors. Just over the rise, behind a low dune, there are three tents pitched, served by a modest little boat pulled ashore. We can’t see them from here, but any effort to retrieve our anchors up on a small hill will bring them into view. But they have been quiet, and the illusion of distance and peace is maintained. A few other tents are scattered upstream from them, along the best stretch of beachy shore in this canyon, maybe 2 miles from the main channel. No other houseboats are docked here.

Yesterday, when we arrived about 3 PM, a park ranger’s small Boston whaler was parked next to our site, with its twin 225 HP engines, the kind that could outrun pretty much anything but a peregrine falcon or a determined drug smuggler. No sign of the occupants. Should we look inside? Play with the radio? No, I’ll just keep floating in this little finger of the lake, with my hat pulled low to stay out of the sun. Soon enough, a few voices wafted from the bench above, and three identically clad figures in khaki green emerged, engaged in casual conversation. Khawer had speculated there had been some sort of incident—a crime, maybe—to investigate, perhaps involving some sort of crazed escapee to the wilderness. To me, it sounded more like they were concerned where they’d be getting their next beer. One of them put away a large and expensive looking video camera, while the others climbed aboard. The engine started, and the boat slowly backed out, as Khawer and I gave a quick wave, and Ben a “hello”. They barely responded, clearly unconcerned about our presence, or in all likelihood that of any criminal.

Russ and I, along with Christopher, wandered up canyon from where they came, looking for what might have attracted them. Nothing obvious, though farther around the bend, a landslide of fairly recent origin might have been something they were investigating. But nothing sinister, catastrophic, or unusual stood out. Maybe they were just on a break, between looking for lost hikers caught somewhere behind Rainbow Bridge.

Before we steamed south, Scott, Russ and I took a short trek up Llewellyn Gulch. We couldn’t go much farther in the boat from where we camped, but a good sandy trail on the right led the way. Llewellyn, while framed by high walls, is actually quite wide, full of sand dunes and Kayenta shelves. It is easy to stay above the flowing stream, but not always above the thickets of tamarisk that line the water. It does become easier once the lake gives way, and the scene soon opens up. But in our careful search of the vertical walls on the right, we came across a nice panel of petroglyphs at eye level, the most beautiful of which depicted four rams in a small diamond formation. Each measured perhaps 4 inches long, with curly horns, facing left. But there were others: more sheep (one with measles), a few human-like figures, random etchings, and on a nearby table-like rock, what appeared to be a snake slithering across Darth Vader’s personal ship. In an earlier cave higher on the wall, there was a small structure, maybe three feet square, and two feet high, which seemed to be a storage container of sorts. Wood intermixed with mud to form a lid. It may be more modern than the Anasazi, but not of very recent vintage in any case. Llewellyn, with its many protected caves, big expanses of sandy hills for possible cultivation, running water, and easy access, would be an obvious site for human habitation. The evidence on the walls support this.
 

Attachments

  • 11-09-07 Llewellyn camp 7 3655.JPG
    11-09-07 Llewellyn camp 7 3655.JPG
    462.2 KB · Views: 125
  • 10-08-06 Llewellyn hike 1 3637.jpg
    10-08-06 Llewellyn hike 1 3637.jpg
    522.1 KB · Views: 121
  • 10-08-06 Llewellyn hike 3 3637.jpg
    10-08-06 Llewellyn hike 3 3637.jpg
    662.9 KB · Views: 120
  • 10-08-06 Llewellyn hike 6 3637.jpg
    10-08-06 Llewellyn hike 6 3637.jpg
    386.1 KB · Views: 121
  • 10-08-06 Llewellyn hike 9 petro 3637.jpg
    10-08-06 Llewellyn hike 9 petro 3637.jpg
    459.4 KB · Views: 122
  • 10-08-06 Llewellyn hike 7 petro 3637.jpg
    10-08-06 Llewellyn hike 7 petro 3637.jpg
    581.7 KB · Views: 120
  • 10-08-06 Llewellyn hike 5 3637.jpg
    10-08-06 Llewellyn hike 5 3637.jpg
    464.9 KB · Views: 121
  • 11-09-07 Llewellyn landing 1 3655.JPG
    11-09-07 Llewellyn landing 1 3655.JPG
    462.9 KB · Views: 122
Last edited:
thanks for sharing, I am still hoping for a book of these adventures of Powell. You definitely have a talent for putting pen to paper.
Thanks, Meatwagon! I’m actually working on putting it all together as part of a bigger Powell project... But for now, I’ll roll out some bits and pieces from time to time...
 
Thanks, Meatwagon! I’m actually working on putting it all together as part of a bigger Powell project... But for now, I’ll roll out some bits and pieces from time to time...
You inspire me and have a hankerin to write down my first lake run ending in darkness as a marine mechanic where I came back to Wahweap in the dark from the back of Rock Creek. Scary and wonderful. Thanks JFR.
 
I guess I'd earned my wings to work on the houseboat dock at Wahweap. With my background as a plumber and being an enthusiastic hotrodder I was accepted into the fold of marine mechanics at Wahweap houseboat rentals. Jobs are not easy to come by in Page and I was thankful to find one on the dock. I've always loved electricity and my life long knowledge of plumbing put me into a groove of house systems with a bonus of mechanics. Now I just had to adapt to an on the water job. In 1987 a fortune teller customer of mine told me that I will probably die on the water but I had already almost drowned on Provo River from being pinned between a railroad trestle piling and a 12 man raft that wrapped around it. I was caught under the water with the raft squeezing the life out of me. That was the day I learned how strong I was. I figured my drowning days were behind me and besides, I'm not much into fortune tellers. Eventually my worth allowed me to go on lake runs to find and repair houseboats. I loved it. Someone letting me pilot a 300 hp enclosed cabin boat was a dream come true. Well it started out that way. I had a senior mechanic ask me if I wanted to go on a run to the back of Rock Creek for a generator repair and of course I jumped at the opportunity. I'd never been past West Canyon. We hauled butt up to Rock Creek arriving at the mouth around 3 pm and started looking for the boat, an old 50' boatel that was designated a Captain. That is the same boat that everyone is having trouble with the steel pontoons. I digress. We looked everwhere for that boat and finally found it in a cove we didn't know existed.. The folks were so nice, we dedicated ourselves to the repair of the Onan4000. The Onan had different ideas. We had just about everything a person could think of for this repair but everytime it started it would only run for about 5 minutes. Not enough time to load up our tools so we just kept trying. Started getting dark but I was so green I didn't have a care. Finally, way to late, we threw in the towel. The customer was fine with us bringing a replacement gen in the morning so we loaded up. We got about half way out of Rock Creek and it was pitch black and I got to experience Lake Powell in the dark. Not good. The first thing that I realized was we had to travel at idle speed cause we didn't want to tangle with a wall. Then I learned that a 1,000,000 lumen flashlight cast a fog like thing over the water unless I held it below the gunnel. So here I was holding the flaslight below the gunnel all the way out from mid Rock Creek. Probably took an hour and a half to make it out, I have never been so happy to see a lit mm buoy in my life. We started bookin it back to the dock, connecting the lit dots. I was so happy to be out of Rock Creek that for several minutes I just chilled but then noticed a lightening storm in the distance. I don't think I have ever been grabbed so hard. I figured the storm was somewhere around Lee's Ferry . We had just passed Padre Butte and I was just absorbing the lightening when I glanced to my left and saw one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. I was looking at the water and observed the heavens. The Big Dipper and all its surroundings were reflecting on the water as one. There was not a single ripple on the water. Here we were, boating along at 50 mph and the stars were just travelling along our side. That was the time that Lake Powell became a part of me.
 
I guess I'd earned my wings to work on the houseboat dock at Wahweap. With my background as a plumber and being an enthusiastic hotrodder I was accepted into the fold of marine mechanics at Wahweap houseboat rentals. Jobs are not easy to come by in Page and I was thankful to find one on the dock. I've always loved electricity and my life long knowledge of plumbing put me into a groove of house systems with a bonus of mechanics. Now I just had to adapt to an on the water job. In 1987 a fortune teller customer of mine told me that I will probably die on the water but I had already almost drowned on Provo River from being pinned between a railroad trestle piling and a 12 man raft that wrapped around it. I was caught under the water with the raft squeezing the life out of me. That was the day I learned how strong I was. I figured my drowning days were behind me and besides, I'm not much into fortune tellers. Eventually my worth allowed me to go on lake runs to find and repair houseboats. I loved it. Someone letting me pilot a 300 hp enclosed cabin boat was a dream come true. Well it started out that way. I had a senior mechanic ask me if I wanted to go on a run to the back of Rock Creek for a generator repair and of course I jumped at the opportunity. I'd never been past West Canyon. We hauled butt up to Rock Creek arriving at the mouth around 3 pm and started looking for the boat, an old 50' boatel that was designated a Captain. That is the same boat that everyone is having trouble with the steel pontoons. I digress. We looked everwhere for that boat and finally found it in a cove we didn't know existed.. The folks were so nice, we dedicated ourselves to the repair of the Onan4000. The Onan had different ideas. We had just about everything a person could think of for this repair but everytime it started it would only run for about 5 minutes. Not enough time to load up our tools so we just kept trying. Started getting dark but I was so green I didn't have a care. Finally, way to late, we threw in the towel. The customer was fine with us bringing a replacement gen in the morning so we loaded up. We got about half way out of Rock Creek and it was pitch black and I got to experience Lake Powell in the dark. Not good. The first thing that I realized was we had to travel at idle speed cause we didn't want to tangle with a wall. Then I learned that a 1,000,000 lumen flashlight cast a fog like thing over the water unless I held it below the gunnel. So here I was holding the flaslight below the gunnel all the way out from mid Rock Creek. Probably took an hour and a half to make it out, I have never been so happy to see a lit mm buoy in my life. We started bookin it back to the dock, connecting the lit dots. I was so happy to be out of Rock Creek that for several minutes I just chilled but then noticed a lightening storm in the distance. I don't think I have ever been grabbed so hard. I figured the storm was somewhere around Lee's Ferry . We had just passed Padre Butte and I was just absorbing the lightening when I glanced to my left and saw one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. I was looking at the water and observed the heavens. The Big Dipper and all its surroundings were reflecting on the water as one. There was not a single ripple on the water. Here we were, boating along at 50 mph and the stars were just travelling along our side. That was the time that Lake Powell became a part of me.
That story has it all—fortune tellers, near death experiences, resiliency, redemption and vision. Great! Sounds like a Bruce Springsteen song is in there somewhere...
 
Status
Not open for further replies.
Back
Top