Running on Empty - JFR’s trip report, Sept 11-15, 2022

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JFRCalifornia

Keeper of San Juan Secrets
Running on Empty

Lake Powell
September 11-15, 2022


It’s a tricky proposition visiting Lake Powell in 2022. On the one hand, if you believe all the dire reports of its demise, you might think the lake isn’t even there anymore. But of course it is, and actually at historically low water—as it is this year—it’s arguably a more dramatic place than ever. In a canyon where the walls once might have reached 150 feet above the lake, now they are over 300. Side canyons have re-emerged from the depths, and although that means a longer hike to wherever you might be going, you’re seeing things that haven’t been exposed in decades.

On the other hand, if the lake sinks much lower, it might not be possible to even launch a boat. Of course, reassurances from the Park Service and even the Bureau of Reclamation would tell you that’s not going to happen, but there’s been a lot of things they’ve said that weren’t going to happen but that have. For now, it’s best to ignore the noise, enjoy what’s there in any way that you can, and take advantage of the opportunities that might present themselves.

And there are definitely opportunities.

Before the trip, it was an internal debate in my head about which marina to leave from. Wahweap? Logistically the simple and obvious choice coming from California, but once on the lake, a more problematic set of challenges. You’d have to squeeze past Antelope Point, then run the gauntlet of the Maytag Straits, at which point you’d find yourself in a sea of boats in a shrunken Padre Bay. And then you’d be hard pressed to get too far past Rock Creek without a lot of gas in reserve because Dangling Rope is still out of commission. Just to get to that point would take a good part of a potentially not-so-enjoyable day.

And so the clear choice for me was to leave from Bullfrog. A much longer drive, yes, but a much greater reward once on the lake. Arriving at the rental dock before 8 AM on a Sunday morning a week after Labor Day is a lot like arriving at church before the doors open. There’s just nobody there. A few dock workers stroll past, headed nowhere without any real urgency. The store isn’t open and apparently won’t be until Wednesday, which is going to cause a problem, because it means I have to drive back to the gas station up the hill to get ice. But on the upside, I’m first in line (there is no line) to check out the 23-foot pontoon boat, with the administrative task on the other side of the desk falling to a nice young lady from Turkey who is going home in a couple of days. There’s a small mix-up where for some reason they only have me down for three nights (I reserved four), but that’s easily remedied simply by asking for the fourth night, which was granted without a hitch.

Upon inspection, the boat itself is kind of a mess. It already looks worn out, even though it can’t be more than 10 years old. But beyond that, it’s not even clean, and there’s hazards on the deck, like old fishhooks. The young woman from Texas going through the checkout procedure apologies, genuinely feels bad, but I tell her it’s no problem as long as we can figure out some sort of discount. Although sympathetic, she punts on that concept, and suggests I talk to her manager. I tell her I will.

Her manager—a big friendly Navajo woman—is amenable to a solution, and after a short conference with her manager behind some door (it feels like I’m buying a car), she comes back and says they’re willing to comp the gas. At $7.80 a gallon, I’ll take that deal.

And so I’m off.


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Sunday, September 11

It’s a mix of sun and clouds with an uncertain forecast ahead, which is sort of a microcosm for Lake Powell itself these days, as it struggles to stay right at 3530. Leaving Bullfrog Bay is something like following the channel markers in a wide river, but as long as you do, you’re not going to rip out the hull on a submerged shoal. A right turn at Halls Crossing, and after the lake swings left past Lost Eden, you’ve left most of the boats behind. Already I’m liking the decision to leave from Bullfrog.

This pontoon boat is slow. Slower than ones I’ve rented in the past anyway. The promised maximum speed of 25 mph feels more like 15, maybe 20 with a tailwind, but you’re screaming the motor to do that. I throttle back to save gas, since I’m in no hurry. By late morning, the entrance to Annies Canyon comes into view, which is a sharp right just past a prominent point that dives into the lake at about a 45 degree angle. Seems nobody’s in there this morning, and after a quick look up the left and middle forks, I spot at least one decent possible campsite, maybe two. I’ll keep those in mind for later in the trip, but for now, one of them makes a great shady place for lunch and a swim. On the way back at the end of the trip in a few, I’ll remember to check the righthand fork, the one that at high water has one of the best alcove camps on the lake.

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Steaming south in the underpowered pontoon past the Rincon, it’s remarkable to see how much the water has retreated from the abandoned meander that circumnavigates the big butte in the middle. High shelves have emerged on either side, turning what was once a bay with multiple beaches and inlets into more of a wide river channel, with an obvious sandy beach still at the southwest end of the Rincon. Not nearly as many places to camp as in the past, but on the other hand, it’s a pretty compelling sight to see something that looks more like the river it once was.

A few miles farther down at Bowns Canyon, I hang a right, just to see if it’s still possible to get to the end and climb out of the canyon via the old Bennett’s Oil Field trail. It is. And it’s not that hard. From the lake it looks like a steep climb up a rocky slope, and it is to a point, but along the way a trail emerges, and soon you’re overlooking the watery end of Bowns from high above. I’m wondering if the pond with a small waterfall I remembered from years ago—a place much more attractive when the water is flowing in Bowns—is accessible, and more to the point, whether it’s still there at all. After traversing the slickrock bench for a few minutes with views to Navajo Mountain and beyond, and then looking down into Bowns farther upstream, it’s clearly accessible. But since there is no water flowing, there is no waterfall. After a short hike, I turn around. I’ll make a note to return in the future right after a monsoon storm. Somewhere down in the canyon, I see a boat trolling, Led Zeppelin jumping out of the speakers.

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It’s been dry for the past few days, but the forecast is sketchy. Dry today, but possible rain on Monday night through Wednesday morning. Hard to say how much or exactly where, but I’m thinking ahead to possible campsites that might be able to deal with this.

The goal for the night is the Escalante, somewhere up there, where I’m sure I’ll find some sort of camp that works for the forecast. Things are a bit different in the Escalante than in the past. First, the floating bathroom outside the canyon is practically shoved to the opposite shore like an afterthought, but it still works. And then once you make the right turn into the Escalante at mile marker 68, it’s a narrower entrance at lower levels, with some old spots high and dry, others emerging. There are some unexpectedly nice beach options around to the left not too far in, and for now none are taken—I’m actually kind of surprised by that. But farther ahead the houseboats appear, a few choice sites here and there, with the obvious one being the huge low water beach on the left between Clear Creek and Davis Gulch just upstream of the Black Trail. I’m going to shoot right past that one, which already has a couple of flotillas that must have set up shop days ago. Good for them, nice spot.

If I strike out looking for a prime spot, I might go back to one of the earlier open sites I spotted, but first I’ll take a look in Davis. It might not have anything, but who knows? Less than a mile in on the left, there’s three large alcoves. Maybe one of these would work. Bingo. The second one is perfect. A small beach that could take a boat like this 23-footer, a flat site (or two) on shore big enough for a small tent, looks perfect. It’s a deep cave, maybe 150 feet in from the edge of the overhang and a roof almost 80 feet high, an awesome shelter from any wind, rain or sun. Or for that matter, the full moon, which is out this week. This will work just fine. The only downside is that the freeze-dried pork pad Thai that night was not that great.

No rain that night, just dead calm and surprisingly warm, no need for a sleeping bag in the tent.

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Monday, September 12

Today I planned to spend all day in the Escalante, in one canyon or another. There’s a lot to see here in a pretty small area, which is why I often focus on this part of the lake. Still, I was a little concerned about the gas situation. I might have come only about 35-40 miles from Bullfrog, but already the tank was showing about half full. I counted on better mileage than that from past experience. These pontoon boats normally get about 2 mpg, but apparently not this one, which shouldn’t have surprised me given its overall shabby maintenance profile. They hold 55 gallons, so I was counting on an outside range of about 110 miles, call it a safe range of 90. But if the tank was really half empty already, that meant I was getting closer to 1.5 mpg, and that meant a possible change of plans. Yes, these gauges are notoriously inaccurate, but without another way to check the fuel level (there’s no yardstick measurement you can do as on a houseboat), do I trust what I see on the gauge? Or do I trust my experience? I have 20 gallons in reserve in cans that I’ll add as I need it, and for now, I won’t change my plan, which is ultimately to get as far south as Cathedral and Driftwood canyons, south of Rainbow Bridge.

But as I say, today is all about the Escalante. First stop: Fiftymile Canyon and Gregory Bridge. Past one houseboat moored precariously at an unlikely site on the left in Fiftymile, and there it is, Gregory Bridge, about a mile in. Not obvious from a distance as it rises flat and wide at the bottom of the chunky righthand wall, as you glide toward it, you see the gentle arch, and as you approach even closer, you realize it’s got about 20 feet of clearance in the middle. Unlike last year at this time, when it only cleared about 3 feet, it’s now very easy to get to the other side, where yet another boat is moored in the middle of the channel, probably part of a group that has an outstanding beach on the right just beyond the bridge. I glide on past, and see a couple of stand up paddle boarders. They probably own that great boat. But forget them, my goal is to get to the end and hike up the canyon.

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It’s an easy landing, no logs, no deep mud. Just ease up on the right, walk along the rocky edge, and soon enough you’re in the little stream in the center of the canyon. With each bend ahead, you can imagine the boats winding up the canyon in the past, but now it almost seems they’ve never been here. About a half mile in, I remember a submerged boulder in past years of higher water that just might tear the bottom off a boat at a sharp left turn in the canyon, especially when the lake is at about 3615. But now it’s just another big boulder along a stream, harmless and dry. After a time the canyon narrows, hooking a big left around what was once a great boating campsite, a bench perched a shelf on the left, under a great alcove. Now it’s clear that when I had that camp in 2019, the waterway might have been about 6 feet deep right here. Not anymore.

The best narrows up ahead are short but sweet, almost overhanging like a corridor with a nearly enclosed roof, perhaps 150 feet above. But sedimentation has created deep pools downstream of the narrows where there once were none, and so it’s a bit of a challenge to get through without slogging through what at times is waist deep water. But a small effort does the trick, and soon enough, nearing midday, it’s time to return to the boat.

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Normally I’d say I’m surprised how few people visit these side canyons, but today I’m surprised when I actually see a couple coming the other way as I head back. They’re the ones who were on the paddleboards, and with that killer camp just upstream of Gregory Bridge. A quick pleasant passing hello and its back to the quiet and the canyon wrens.

It’s about 3 miles in the boat from Gregory Bridge to Clear Creek, which is where Cathedral in the Desert stands. I’m expecting flotillas of boats there, and I’m not disappointed. Or maybe I am. Actually just two boats, nice Bayliners sort of moored in the muddy end of the lake, full of every kind of human you can imagine, plus questionable taste in music. It’s fair to say that music quality on Lake Powell typically has an inverse relationship to the volume at which it is played. Fortunately, these folks were headed out as I arrived. A soft landing on the left and an easy 5-10 minute walk, and around that last bend, there stands the Cathedral. It looks a lot like it did a year ago, scoured of much of the silt build up deposited over the years, the only difference being the extended length of the walk to reach the place compared to last year. The cold pool and falls in the Cathedral provide a ritual cleansing of sorts, but I have to say almost as impressive is a very cool architectural bas relief of some mythical city somebody carved into the harder sand face opposite the Cathedral. Very impressive, although in truth it will be long gone in the next flood, a passing curiosity, while the Cathedral will still stand.

For one final stop today, it’s a boat trip to the end of Davis Gulch, which actually isn’t far past my camp. Can’t be more than a mile in from the Escalante, and you run up to mudflats. Here it’s best to land to the right, but it’s easy to get through the muddy interface and on with the canyon, where a stream flows. In general now that Davis has been exposed for a while, the grasses on either side of the stream have grown tall, and in some places impassable, so it’s best to follow the stream itself, which cuts an easy (but narrow) path through some of the more dense sections. Soon you do emerge however, and into wider easy walking. It’s about 30 minutes or so to reach LaGorce Arch on foot, and I will say it does feel more impressive approaching on foot rather than in a boat. A wrap-around walk to the other side, a nice spot up in the alcove at a bend for lunch, and that’s all I need. Hard to beat this experience. It’s worth it just sitting here and soaking it in, which is what I do.

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A return to camp gets me thinking that this is the only plausible campsite in Davis Gulch right now. Normally at higher water there are several good ones, even great ones, especially in the vicinity of LaGorce Arch. Not so this year, although it’s very true that if the lake were just a few feet higher, there would be no beach here in this alcove at all, and add 100 feet, and the alcove would be completely underwater, invisible to passing boats. Just goes to show that change brings both lament and opportunity. If you focus on the latter, you’ll be fine.

Tuesday, September 13

The clouds from yesterday afternoon turned into rain overnight. But that didn’t matter to me, tucked about 200 feet deep into this huge overhanging alcove. In the morning, the showers persisted, visible splashing on the broken surface of the lake beyond the alcove, while I considered the only real important question: which is better—oatmeal? or freeze-dried scrambled eggs? Who knows? I jumped in the water and swam out to the rain. That pushed me toward the eggs. Conceptually I wanted an early start south, maybe as far as Oak Bay for a camp. But the combination of rain, an uncertain forecast, and the nagging concern about gas forced a change of plans. I added 15 gallons to the tank, but that just nudged it barely above half. That can’t be right. Or can it? Well, let’s test out this theory.

Time to get going.

It’s out to the main channel, headed south. At Hole in the Rock, just two miles down from the Escalante mouth, there’s now a nice (and pretty big) beach, perfect for landing several boats, or even large enough to make a good sized camp. Not sure that’s such a great idea if flooding from up over the cleft happens, but a nice place to begin a hike to the top. It’s easy enough to find the trail through the rock jumble on the right, and then up past the blasted stairs cut into the stone by the Hoskannini Mining Company two decades after the San Juan (Hole in the Rock) expedition of 1879-80. But this is where the experience was different from the past. Before, it was a steep but straightforward climb to the top. Now it’s equally steep, but in places erosion has taken out some of the better footholds in some of the trickier spots. It’s actually now quite sketchy in a couple of spots, making it easy to slip and fall, and requires a little bit of rock climbing skill here and there. So I was wary of all that, and near the top, decided enough was enough, took some photos, then returned to the boat.

What I really wanted to see anyway was right across the lake—the historic inscriptions at Register Rock from 1879-80. That is, if they could be found. I had seen some of them in 2003 when the lake first dropped to near 3600 for the first time, but over the years growing brush obscured them, as did the rising lake. But now, with the lake way down, a lot of that water-fed brush died and has since gone, re-exposing the rock faces where inscriptions might still be found.

And there, without too much difficulty, I found them again! They seem to be more eroded than before, now more exposed to the elements and human intervention. In some places, a lot of modern graffiti makes it difficult to pick out historic inscriptions. But there was a clear deeply etched “Jan 1880”, and an “E.L. Lyman”, plus another Lyman, both of whom were documented members of the San Juan Expedition. There was an “E.Z.Taylor” (that would be Edmond Taylor, I looked it up later). There may be others, and I’m sure there are, but erosion and years of being submerged in the lake have taken their toll. Still, it’s exciting to see anything. From the spot of those inscriptions, you can turn around and look straight across at Hole in the Rock. In that moment you sense the accomplishment these early pioneers must have felt making it to this point. It’s incredible to think that no lives were lost in that winter river crossing. But no time to celebrate—it was still quite a journey ahead through canyons and streams before they finally encountered a good spot along the San Juan to settle, where they founded Bluff.
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Cathedral Canyon and Oak Bay were now off the table because of lack of fuel, I thought it might still be plausible to just go a few more miles south and see what was up Llewellyn Gulch. At high water, this pretty canyon at mile marker 63 is full of good campsites, and it’s possible to hike quite a ways in an open setting between two vertical walls well set back from one another. Today, there are no campsites at all, unless you want to risk parking at the end of the drainage, which is generally a bad idea. But on a sunny day, parking there to hike for a couple of hours seems safe enough, and once again, there were no significant obstacles to landing the boat—no logs, thick brush, or deep mud. But hiking was almost immediately impeded by a giant boulder jam not far from the end of the lake. It might have been possible to work around this, but given the late time and general lack of desire to bushwhack while squeezing between boulders, I thought a beer sounded a whole lot better.

Time to return to camp.

But first a quick look up Ribbon Canyon, now with an exceptionally easy landing at the end, where a hike would certainly have been possible. But in the strong shadeless sun of the early afternoon, that didn’t seem too attractive at the moment, but I’ll note that it would have made a nice walk in the late afternoon or early morning. Next time. Always next time.

On the way back to camp in Davis Gulch, I thought it was worth a diversion into a place that I almost always ignore—Indian Creek, the first canyon on the left in the Escalante, less than a mile from the main channel. It’s easy to overlook because when the lake is up, it’s just a half-mile long steep and watery bowl free of any campsites or hiking potential. But at low water, this place becomes a hidden gem. There’s an easy landing at left among some protruding cottonwood branches, where you still might have a quarter mile walk ahead. A small springfed stream leads the way, and in less than 10 minutes, you find yourself in one of the more impressive alcoves on the entire lake, almost completely surrounding you as you stand among the grasses by one of two ponds in the middle of the alcove. The walls are wet with green ferns and moss, dripping down their faces, forming little streams and pools and the bottom. A great silt dune stands on the left (south) side of the huge vault, no doubt deposited over the years into the lake from storms bringing it all over the edge, and settling at once was the bottom of Lake Powell. I’m guessing the dune is only at the left because spring/stream erosion has moved it all away on the right side. However it got there, what a place to sit and contemplate! For me, it’s every bit as impressive as the Cathedral in the Desert, just one canyon away. It lacks the immediate drama and waterfall of the Cathedral, but otherwise as a silent sanctuary in the desert it is just as good. The canyon wrens seem to agree, and as you crane your neck to imagine what’s at the top of the bowl over 500 feet above you, the realization hits that there’s no need to be anywhere else right now. And yet, nobody is here.

And if the lake rises again, it will all disappear to be rediscovered on another day.

Back at camp in the late afternoon, a few sprinkles begin, and I decide that freeze-dried chicken pad Thai is much better than the pork version.

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Wednesday, September 14

Another rainy morning, this time a little more persistent than yesterday, made me wonder whether there would be any of those famous ephemeral waterfalls that sometimes turn Glen Canyon into an unlikely visual spectacle. Imagine seeing dozens of waterfalls lined up along a mile-long cliff face, all over 300 feet high, and tumbling frothy brown. But the rain subsided just a bit, enough to make me believe that wasn’t going to happen. Not today, anyway.

Into the mid-morning clouds, I took a brief journey up the unnamed canyon opposite the entrance to Davis, the one that Alan Silverstein calls “Dougs Finger”. I like the name “Cat Canyon” better, because as you approach it from the downstream side, a huge rock monolith on the right entrance in the shape of a cat’s head announces the canyon. Of course I’ve never seen a cat up there, except the one imagined in the rocks, and yet Cat Canyon it is for me. It’s a small hidden gem at low lake levels, something like Indian Creek. The canyon is short to begin with, ending in a huge alcove bowl. Normally there’s water all the way to the end, and certainly above 3610 this is the case. Not now. At 3530, you get about halfway, then walk. In just 10 minutes, you follow a beautiful springfed steam to the end, more dramatic without water in it. Lots of little ponds and small cascades along the way, with reflections of the sky, grasses, birds, lizards. A very nice, peaceful sidebar to any journey in the Escalante.

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Time to start heading back toward Bullfrog, camping somewhere along the way. Any thought of returning to Cathedral in the Desert or any other side canyon on the way has become questionable because of the fickle gas gauge, but I’m thinking it would be good to get into Iceberg Canyon to camp, and maybe hike up to the stranded lake in one of the upper right side canyons. The wind was with me on the long straight 5-mile run between Bowns Canyon and the Rincon, which might have helped, and then it was a question of what to do next. It was still only about 1 or so, and I’d been eyeing the sloping Waterpocket Fold across from the Rincon from the boat. Looked to me like it was just begging to be hiked to the top, considering the afternoon had mostly cleared, and temperatures were still only in the low 80s. So I eased the boat just past the entrance to Iceberg, then landed it on the left (west) side of the channel in a small cove at the toe of the slope up to the south. Gas gauge read pretty much empty to maybe a quarter if I was revving it up to 4000+ RPM, but I’d deal with that problem later.

The hike to the top seems straightforward from the lake, since it just looks like a simple slope, maybe rising at 20 degrees or so. But it’s not quite that simple, since there are a lot of incised drainages near the lake. The trick is to stay to the right, always right, get around the heads of those drainages, and your life becomes much easier. You’ll also spot a few huge cairns the size of rock quarries that reinforce that message. Stay RIGHT. And yet your mind says “go LEFT” because that’s where the lake is. Eventually you have to, but here’s my advice: resist the temptation until the last minute, and your straight and steady uphill walk in the sun becomes much more pleasant.

Eventually, you work the puzzle out and get to the cliff opposite the Rincon. From there it’s an impressive view of the Rincon, but also Navajo Mountain more or less right behind it in the distance. But mostly, from here you can see the effects of lower water. Normally it’s a big bay at the Rincon. Not now: it has returned to looking like a river. Still, from up here, the appearance of a lake or river makes no difference—it is spectacular either way. Very few boats pass in either direction. Chewing on a few cashews up here, a glance to the right reveals some ominous storm clouds downstream on the lake to the southwest. The top of a cliff is no place to get caught in a lightning storm, that much I know, so maybe it’s time to head back down. And in about 45 minutes, I’m there, back at the boat.

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The wind is really picking up now and threatening rain. And so I’m faced with a dilemma. Do I head north, toward Bullfrog, and look for a camp among the coves between Annies and Slick Rock Canyon? That’s the safer play for the gas situation, but none of those coves were that well-protected from a storm. Or do I head backwards into Iceberg, eating up a few miles of gas I don’t have, but likely to find a protected site? And maybe a good hike for tomorrow?

I head into Iceberg as the wind whips the bimini cover on the pontoon boat.

The good news is that the low lake levels have really shortened the canyon, so there’s only so much gas I can use. Once was maybe 3 or 4 miles might now be closer to 2. Not too many good campsites in this very tall and steep canyon, and the ones that are there have been predictably taken by houseboats. Hopefully this isn’t going to be a dry run… Wait. There on the left, tucked under a big overhanging arch, there’s the site. Just a tiny little beach, but a nice nook in the rock perfect for a small tent. And that’s where I make a beeline before anyone else can.

From there, two houseboats are visible a bit farther up the canyon, which looks like it might not be navigable much farther owing to the skeletons of cottonwoods emerging in that direction, and for that matter, right here too. But this spot will work great—perfect protection from the rain and wind, and even from the sun if needed, but here against the wall, this spot is in the shade for the duration.

It’s been a long day, feeling bit exhausted, and after getting the tent in place, just flopped in the water to consider the best way out of this gas crisis. Do I just run back toward Bullfrog on hope and fumes, then if I run out of gas, add my last 5 gallons in reserve, which should be enough to get me at least to another boat to beg? I’m only about 22 miles from Bullfrog—I might make it. And if I get within 10 miles, that last 5 gallons in reserve should be enough to roll into the marina with nothing left…

Or is there another solution?

Hmm. I’ll leave it for tomorrow.

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Thursday, September 15

Last day on the lake already, which is the problem when you go for less than a week. It all just goes too fast: too much to see, too little time. But Iceberg Canyon is never a bad place to be, and at low water, the height of the walls is even more impressive. While it’s true that there are many fewer spots in this long canyon, it’s mostly because the water just does not extend nearly as far.

But my immediate problem remains what to do about the gas. For the moment, I’ll content myself with some early morning photos and a sunrise swim. Time to pack up, and maybe catch a good hike past the end of the lake, ideally to the stranded “lake” above one of the last forks on the right. Start the motor, and that needle is clinging to the E. So in that moment, I swallow my pride and resolve to do what I hate to do: beg. More like ask, I suppose, but let’s see how this goes. Headed to the end of the canyon, not far away, I troll past the first houseboat on the right. There’s a man out back wearing a Colorado t-shirt, fishing with his son, who’s maybe in his late teens, hard to tell from a distance. I roll up and say hi, outline my situation, then ask: “do you have any gas to spare?” I hate to ask.

But he immediately says “sure I do, how much do you need?” What a nice guy! It’s always amazing to me how helpful and friendly most people on the lake are, that they’ll drop whatever plan they have to help someone else. I’m beyond grateful, offer to pay him for whatever he pumps, but he won’t have it. “Pay it forward to someone else.”

He’s got a toy tank in his timeshare houseboat, and so the pumping is easy, but hard to tell how much is actually being pumped since there’s no meter. I figure I only need about 5 gallons, 10 at most. After a couple of minutes, I tell him to stop, and how much I appreciate any of this. We get to talking, find out his name is Chris, that his family is from the Denver area. I have a sister in Boulder. They’ve had this great spot for the last few days, but they’re going home soon too. We trade stories about different low water insights, lament the situation at Bullfrog, and he seems pretty knowledgeable about the lake in general. I offer him a beer (probably warm), but he says he’s got plenty.

It’s a grateful parting, and I won’t forget that encounter. From there it’s a short ride to the end among the cottonwood skeletons, where I park the boat as far to the end as I can and make a landing on the right. Here you’ve got to hug the shore for a bit, then work your way past a muddy side canyon, but soon enough, you’re in hiking paradise. Iceberg Canyon at low water is a great hike, a stream down the middle, blue herons and other birds greeting you on the way, along with the abandoned Pepsi and Miller Lite cans from decades ago. I pick up a few. Iceberg seems to have an unusual volume of archaeological beverage containers.

In this canyon as elsewhere with running water, lots of silt is stacked up along the shore, and this perennial stream as small as it is has cut right through it. The silt might be 10 feet high along the sides at first, toward where the stream meets the lake, but eventually it subsides, and soon enough the canyon is all shadows and light, returned to its former self, framed by the magnificent walls that define Iceberg Canyon. Except for the white ring on some of the walls, it’s hard to tell there was ever a lake here at all.

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I remember the way to get to that remnant lake. At higher water, it’s easy enough to take a boat right up one of the last forks on the right, the one I call the Canyon of the Crescent Moon because of a prominent erosive feature on the northwest wall that looks just like a crescent moon. Unmistakable. But now at low water, things are tricky. The canyon entrance is clogged with high grasses, growing on the silt bar that sits at the mouth. But it’s possible to slog through that on a faint trail, and hopefully beyond. But there in the clearing, you see the obstacle. The silt deposited at the end of the side canyon has created a dam that formed another new lake. Probably not that deep, but deep enough where it would mean a long muddy swim to get beyond it. And that just wasn’t in the cards, given the time constraints of the day, and the fact it was probably more than a mile back to the boat. And so it was that a newly dammed lake of perched water prevented access to another older dammed lake, which is one of the ironies of dams and lakes everywhere.

Carefully winding back in the boat through through dead cottonwoods in Iceberg, I decided to stop by the Colorado houseboat that provided the gas, just to thank them one more time. Chris was still out back enjoying the late morning when I pulled up. He greeted me with a friendly wave. After another grateful thank you, I had to ask: are you on WaynesWords? And he said he was—he goes by the handle @WinnsHawkII, which I recognized—what a great encounter! When I told him I’m JFRCalifornia, well, then it suddenly became like we were old friends. “Dude, your stories are legendary”, he said, although I reminded him not to believe everything you read or hear. We talked about the lake some more, different non-lake things too, almost like we had already known each other for a long time. That’s what WaynesWords can do! Anyway, I wish we could have spent more time just chatting or sharing a beer, but I had to go—the boat was due back at Bullfrog soon. Once again I thanked him for the gas—what a super generous guy! And since he wouldn’t take cash, I told him that if he needs any help or insights in the future, just ask. It’s the best I could do.

People like Chris really reaffirm my faith in the innate generosity of people in general, and more specifically the community of people who appreciate Lake Powell and those who share that appreciation. You’re never really in a bad situation as long as you’re able to connect with others, and here Chris did something for me that I won’t forget. But I wasn’t out of the woods yet, since I wasn’t exactly sure how much gas he pumped, so who knows if I’d make it back to Bullfrog, which by my reckoning was a shade over 20 miles away. But at least the gauge now read a quarter, which was a big improvement.

With a little gas in the tank, I thought it was safe to take a couple of small chances, and eased back into Annies Canyon. Hardly a boat in sight anywhere on the main channel, which was a little surprising this close to Bullfrog, and none at all in Annies. I had already explored the south and middle forks on the first day of the trip, so now let’s see what’s up the north fork. At higher levels, there’s an awesome overhanging alcove at the end with a small beach. As the lake drops, that beach becomes inaccessible, but there’s still a nice rocky slope to moor to. But now, with the lake at 3530, nobody’s getting anywhere closer than a quarter mile to the end. In fact, a forest of drowned cottonwoods along with mudflats ahead makes going too far a bit hazardous, so it’s a cursory reconnaissance from the boat instead and a quick turnaround.

Next up was Lake Canyon. Now here’s a place that’s stingy with campsites even with higher water, so I’m not sure what there might be now. The boat winds into the shallow-walled and relatively narrow canyon, and it’s mostly just rock on either side. Surprisingly, a houseboat was up ahead, surging forward, apparently looking for a good campsite. While it’s possible there’s one up there, I’m inclined to think no, and if not, I hope the boat does not opt to moor right on the canyon floor at the end of the drainage. Lake Canyon is a long canyon, and it’s entirely possible that a faraway storm, unnoticed at Lake Powell, could still send angry waters through Lake Canyon.

I turned the boat around, now back to the main channel. But on the way out I couldn’t help noticing what seemed to be a very cool little cave beach on the south wall of the canyon near the entrance, perfect for hiding a small boat on a hot day. It was a shallow squeeze, but it’s possible to get in there if your boat is small enough (so noted). Out of curiosity on the way out, I pulled into the north fork of the canyon, a shallow but even narrower passage. It’s hike time. Not much of a hike, as it turns out, a cool little semi-slot.

It’s getting on past noon now, and the boat needs to be to the fuel dock anytime before 3. There’s time, but not much, so why not stop at Devil’s Potty, with its famous arch in the sky (I’m guessing it’s about 60 feet up in the air now), and the fact that it disappears when the lake is somewhere north of 3600. But now, there’s a real beach, and the giant window that makes the arch sits at least 50-100 feet inland. But the beach, while inviting as a lunch stop, is too unprotected from wind and waves to use as a houseboat site. That won’t necessarily stop anyone, but it might slow a few people down a bit.

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But now the clock’s winding down, and it’s really time to skedaddle back to Bullfrog, having played out nearly every canyon in the area. And so with all this low water, you’ve got to ask yourself—what seems most out of place right now? Is it the emerging beach in the middle section of the Escalante? Or is it this: the old Dangling Rope Marina fuel dock and one of the main buildings floating near Halls Crossing? It’s not operational, and it’s almost lost among the other buildings at Halls, but there it sits, abandoned and lonely. At least it’s still in the water. The rest of Dangling Rope is perched precariously in a yucca field on the east shore of dwindling Bullfrog Bay, high and dry, slowly falling apart. Will it ever return to where it was? Will it be rebuilt elsewhere? When these questions are met with silence or indifference as they seem to be these days, you already have your answer. This is the kind of fate that awaits the complacent, a warning sign for what might lay ahead in the future.

For now, however, boats still come in and out of Bullfrog, and somewhere in the 3 o’clock hour, I bring this pontoon into the fuel dock for a final reckoning. It took 46 gallons, meaning 9 were left in the tank. That tells me whatever Chris supplied back in Iceberg was critical. And the $360 it took to fill the tank? Well, as I said at the beginning, that one’s on the house. For that I can thank Aramark’s lax maintenance and cleaning procedures before the boat went out, and management’s willingness to “make it right.” A silver lining, I suppose.

In the bathroom back at Defiance House Lodge that night, there’s a sticker on the toilet from Aramark that reads, “we have a passionate commitment to sustainability.” Now that might be true for toilets, but it doesn’t really look that way for the boats and marinas they operate. Or the rest of their operations at Glen Canyon National Recreation Area. Maybe they’re just waiting to see how all this plays out, as the lake drops and with it their fortunes. We live in uncertain times. But look through any window and the lake is still here, just waiting to be rediscovered. You just have to open your eyes. And find a way to get free gas.

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What a great trip, photos, and interesting report JFR! I've been considering maybe trying to do a pontoon boat trip one of these years. I am glad you got back without too much trouble. Thank goodness for Chris from Colorado. I'm heading up there next week to take a scenic flight over the Lake.
 
Thanks for all the great feedback everyone. Much appreciated. Definitely like learning a new lake in places, which is kind of exciting. And with no Dangling Rope, anywhere south of the Escalante you literally have to yourself. I did not see a single boat, moving or camped, once I passed that point…

I’ll post a few more photos soon…
 
I started reading this last night in bed but stopped midway. It left me with the most pleasant dreams of exploring the lake! Thank you for that. We will be down in a couple weeks and your report gives us a few places we may want to explore. The only issue is that we will be returning to Halls every night so there will be a lot of transit in between. Sounds like another magical trip for you though and the Powell community is generally pretty great.
 
Great write up! Thanks for taking the time to share your trip. I know the feeling of the fuel devil on your shoulder while covering the lake without DR. I took my family up to RB in June on my 25’ tritoon and took only 10 gallons of extra fuel with me. I had a friend and his family in their boat on the journey with extra fuel so felt safe leaving AP with 10 gallons. My boat has a 58 gallon fuel cell. We left from AP with a full tank (mm8 I believe) to RB at mm49. My boat is new with a 300hp Merc outboard. We cruised at 35-38mph all the way up. Like you my eye was always on the fuel gauge which in my case is very accurate. I know it’s accurate because I’ve run it out of gas twice by accident in the year and half I’ve owned the boat…haha…but I had SeaTow close by to save me on each occasion and bring me fuel. The good thing about running out of gas twice is I know the accuracy of my fuel gauge for future adventures. Anyway I was able to get from AP to RB on a single full tank of gas with a little left over. Assuming i went 90 miles round trip I was burning about 1.6mpg. I probably could have got to 2mpg if I backed off the throttle but was trying to make good time as this was a day trip from AP. DR would have provided great peace of mind but on the other hand we hardly saw another boat beyond Padre/Last Chance. This picture was us under power heading north toward RB that day with what I believe is DR up and over on the other side of the shoreline in this pic. It was a great day.9E864957-61E4-4305-B29E-2E7840E5CBB8.jpeg
 
That’s so cool you found those inscriptions. Have you read the book/novel “Undaunted”?

I like when you said…

“it’s best to ignore the noise, enjoy what’s there in any way that you can, and take advantage of the opportunities that might present themselves.”

Hard to say it any better than that!
 
Great Report and as usal great writing JFR. I would have love to meet you while over there. we arrived at bullfrog Thursday September 8. we launched early on Friday september 9, camp 4 night at hole in the rock, and return on Tuesday September 13.
may be next year.
 
JFR, is the giant water cave that you camped in, by chance, the famous Bechan Cave?

I've read about the dung of Columbian Mammoths and Giant Ground Sloths being found in Bechan, and I've always wondered how difficult getting to it would be. I find myself wondering how different the region's vegetation was 12,000 years ago to be able to support such megafauna.



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